At dinner David says, “Oh, now I remember what that other phone message was. It was your doctor’s office.”
“Yeah?” I say.
He chews his spaghetti and swallows. It is very good spaghetti, and it cost us $7.96 because it is Restaurant Spaghetti. Quite affordable, really, for Restaurant Spaghetti, and worth every cent, because the girls are liking this new restaurant. We have never dared take them here before, because it is dark inside and there are roaring fireplaces to fall into and winged upholstered chairs to throw up on.
I press him to remember the message. “What did the doctor’s office say?”
He pauses and glances heavenward, unintentionally. “They said…ummm…I think just to call them at a certain number.”
I look into my Restaurant Salad. A dark trickle of balsamic vinegar snakes its way down a leaf of baby spinach. “They didn’t say anything else? Didn’t say why?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He looks chagrined. “I’m sorry I don’t remember what else they said.”
“They didn’t say my tests were okay?” I have always worried about tests of all varieties.
“Oh. You had that thing–”
“Yeah–”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says reassuringly. “They were probably just calling to tell you that.”
“Usually no news is good news. I don’t like vague news. Were they vague?”
He considers this carefully. His face takes on the familiar pained look I have learned to identify as his there are no right answers in this lifetime expression. “They were…they sounded…you know…I’m sure it’s fine.”
We finish our Restaurant Food. I try not to wince when the bill comes. He gallantly whisks it away from me, saying, “You know, this really wasn’t that much more expensive than the diner.” (Note: It was more expensive than the diner, but tonight, we wanted very much to be a Carefree Family Who Goes to Restaurants.)
We go home. He picks up the phone and holds it a safe distance from me. He knows I break into hives if I accidently brush up against it.
“Do you want me to check the messages?”
I nod.
He plays our messages on speakerphone. I can feel internal hives popping out all over my spleen.
There it is: the one from the doctor’s office. “Hi. This is a message for Jennifer Mattern. Ah…[hesitation, several very long moments pass] Jennifer, please call the office at 555-DEAD, extension D-I-E.”
“Ooh, that sounds bad,” I say. “Play it again, Sam.”
“It doesn’t sound bad.”
“Play it again. Listen to how she hesitates. That’s not good.”
He indulges me and plays the message again. “Hi. This is a message for Jennifer Mattern. Ah…[hesitation, several very long moments pass] Jennifer, please call the office at 555-REALLY-REALLY-DEAD, extension U-R-TOAST.”
“It sounds fine,” he says. “Just routine.”
“Death is routine. It happens every day. This is worse. This is BAD DEATH. This is BAD MOON ON THE RISE. Her tone said it all. Did you hear how long she held that pause? The dread in her voice? The faint stutter as she remembers that I have a husband and two small children and an elderly dog and a moose dog with separation anxiety? Did you hear that?”
He hangs up the phone. “You’re fiiiiine.”
“She was vague. Supervague. Extra-sharply-cuttingly vague.”
Sophie runs into the room, a pants-less town messenger. “HANNAH MADE A POOPIE ON THE POTTY. IT’S A REALLY BIG ONE.”
“Will you wipe?” I ask him. “I am going to sit here and ponder my waning mortality for a moment.”
He is eager to take me up on the offer. They exit.
I risk hives (Yes I’ll have my Death with Hives on top, please! Thank you!) and pick up the phone. I dial the number that the Grim Reaperess R.N. left. The answering service person picks up, because it’s off-hours.
“Hi…I got a message…I thought…is there any way I could leave a message for a certain mailbox?”
She sounds like she’s just inhaled a lot of pot and doesn’t want to let it go. “I…can’t…do that. Can’t…access. The system.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll phone the Death Star in the morning.”
I don’t say that but I think it. I laugh in the face of Death! I think of Star Wars cinematography in the face of Death!
Then I think some more about Death. Death! Death! I try to think of some good death poems. All I can come up with on the spot is, Do not go gently into the good night!
I think about this Do not go gently stuff. When that poet guy said, “Do not go gently into the good night,” he surely did not mean, Throw the empty hand soap dispenser at the wall again and worry more about money and generally continue being a whining sad shrewish ungrateful escapist pessimistic neurotic balding human being.
I must work on this. At the very least I need to fill up the soap dispenser and come up with a good Death Code Word to supply the doctor’s office with. I think my insurance pays for Death Code Words.
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