If You Get This, Call Me

The last thing my father ever texted me was a photograph of a tomato.

It was sitting on his kitchen counter, red and slightly misshapen, next to a quarter for scale.

Look at the size of this thing.

That was three months ago.

I never responded.

We hadn't spoken properly in almost three years, although he continued sending me things. He sent pictures of vegetables from his garden, articles about cars I couldn't afford, and occasional reminders that my registration was about to expire.

He never mentioned our last argument.

Neither did I.

At 9:17 on a Tuesday morning, my phone went black while I was reading an email from a prospective employer.

I pressed the power button.

Nothing.

I held it down.

Still nothing.

"Piece of shit."

Across the office, my coworker Sarah was shaking her phone.

"Is yours working?"

"No."

"Mine just died."

"Congratulations. We can both be unemployed now."

She didn't laugh.

By 9:30, everyone in the office had gathered around a computer, watching news coverage of what appeared to be a worldwide technological failure.

Every smartphone had stopped working at exactly the same time.

Nobody knew why.

Our manager suggested that everyone remain calm, which was particularly irritating coming from a man who'd spent the previous ten minutes yelling at his phone.

I went back to my desk.

The email I'd been reading was still open on my computer. A small engineering firm wanted to schedule an interview.

It was the first promising response I'd received in months.

I read it twice, then opened a reply.

Before I could type anything, Sarah appeared beside my desk.

"There's someone on the office phone asking for you."

"Who?"

"Some woman. She said she's calling from your dad's work."

I stared at her.

"Why?"

"I don't know. She sounded pretty upset."

The woman introduced herself as Linda.

She worked with my father at a hardware store about forty minutes outside the city.

"Your dad was in an accident," she said.

I straightened in my chair.

"What kind of accident?"

"He was driving to work. Someone came in here looking for his emergency contact information."

"Is he okay?"

There was a pause.

"We don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"They took him in an ambulance. We're trying to find out where."

"Which hospital?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out."

I pressed the receiver against my ear.

"Did you call his cell?"

"Nobody's cell is working, honey."

"Right."

I looked at the photograph of the tomato still pinned to the bulletin board above my desk.

I'd printed it shortly after he'd sent it, intending to show Sarah how ridiculous my father was.

Instead, it had stayed there.

"Can you call me when you find out?" I asked.

"Of course."

I gave her the office number.

Then I hung up.

For a few seconds, I sat there staring at the telephone.

Sarah approached cautiously.

"Everything okay?"

"My dad was in an accident."

"Oh my God. Is he okay?"

"I don't know."

She waited.

I stood up, grabbed my keys, and left.

Traffic had stopped moving three blocks from the office.

Cars were backed up through intersections. Drivers leaned on their horns, apparently believing that enough noise might convince the vehicles ahead of them to disappear.

I switched on the radio.

A reporter was explaining that the smartphone failure had disrupted transportation networks, emergency communications, and electronic payment systems.

"Authorities are urging residents to avoid unnecessary travel."

"Fantastic," I muttered.

The car ahead of me moved six inches.

I followed.

Twenty minutes later, I'd traveled less than a mile.

I called the office from a gas station payphone, one of the few still standing in the city.

Sarah answered.

"Any news?"

"Nothing yet. Linda called back, but she still doesn't know which hospital."

"Okay."

"Are you driving?"

"Trying to."

"Maybe you should come back. The roads are getting worse."

"I can't."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Hey," she said. "I'm sure he's okay."

I wanted to believe her.

Instead, I hung up and returned to my car.

The last time I'd seen my father, we'd been standing in his kitchen.

He'd invited me over for dinner, which usually meant he'd cooked enough food for a family of six and expected me to take the leftovers home.

We'd been arguing about my decision to leave my engineering job.

He thought I was making a mistake.

I thought he was incapable of understanding that I was miserable.

"You can't just quit every time something gets difficult," he'd said.

"I didn't quit because it was difficult."

"Then why?"

"Because I hated it."

He'd shaken his head.

"Everybody hates their job sometimes."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

I remember raising my voice.

I remember telling him that he'd spent his entire life working at a hardware store and had no idea what I was talking about.

That was the part I wished I could take back.

He'd gone quiet.

Then he'd picked up the plates and carried them to the sink.

"You're right," he'd said.

I hadn't known what to do with that.

I'd expected him to yell.

Instead, he'd started washing dishes.

I left without saying goodbye.

For the next three years, we communicated through birthdays, holidays, and the occasional photograph of a vegetable.

At noon, I reached the first hospital.

The emergency department was crowded.

A woman stood at the reception desk arguing with a nurse.

"My husband was supposed to pick up our daughter two hours ago!"

"Ma'am, I understand, but I can't help you locate him unless he's a patient here."

"How am I supposed to know that?"

The nurse looked exhausted.

I waited until the woman stepped away.

"I'm looking for my father," I said.

The nurse pulled a notepad toward her.

"Name?"

"Michael Bennett."

She checked the hospital's computer system.

"Date of birth?"

I told her.

She typed for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I don't see him listed."

"Could he be here and just not in the system yet?"

"It's possible. We're dealing with a lot right now."

"Can you check?"

She looked at the line forming behind me.

"I can ask someone, but I can't promise anything."

I waited forty minutes.

Eventually, she returned.

Nobody had seen him.

She suggested two other hospitals.

I thanked her and left.

At the second hospital, a security guard wouldn't let me through the emergency department doors.

"I just need to find out if my dad's here."

"Then you need to speak with reception."

"I already did."

"Then you need to wait."

"I've been waiting."

"So has everybody else."

I looked past him.

A paramedic was pushing an elderly man through the hallway. A woman sat in a wheelchair holding a bloody towel against her forehead.

Somewhere behind the doors, someone was crying.

I suddenly felt embarrassed.

The guard wasn't being cruel.

He was doing his job.

"I'm sorry," I said.

His expression softened.

"What's your father's name?"

"Michael Bennett."

He thought for a moment.

"Don't recognize it. But I haven't been here all morning."

"Okay."

"Try County General. They've been taking a lot of accident patients."

I thanked him.

Outside, I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel.

My father was sixty-three.

He had high blood pressure and a bad knee.

He also had a habit of refusing to see a doctor unless something was practically falling off.

I imagined him lying in a hospital bed, annoyed that someone had cut his shirt off.

Then I imagined him not being annoyed.

Not saying anything at all.

I started the car.

By four o'clock, the city had become almost unrecognizable.

Traffic lights still worked, but some intersections were gridlocked. People stood outside businesses trying to reach family members. Police officers directed traffic while drivers shouted questions through their windows.

I'd stopped at a third hospital along the way. The receptionist had checked their records, but there was still no sign of my father.

At a red light, I watched a man climb out of his car and ask a stranger for directions.

The stranger pulled a folded map from his glove compartment.

They leaned over it together.

I thought about how strange that would have seemed yesterday.

Then the light turned green.

The man was still studying the map when someone behind him started honking.

For a moment, I almost laughed.

My father would have found it hilarious.

He loved pointing out how helpless people had become without technology.

Whenever I used GPS to get to his house, he'd say, "You know I've lived in the same place for twenty years, right?"

I would tell him that I knew.

Then I'd follow the directions anyway.

County General was the fourth hospital.

I parked illegally near the ambulance entrance and ran inside.

The receptionist took my father's name and date of birth.

She typed.

Stopped.

Typed again.

"Are you his son?"

"Yes."

"Can you wait here for a moment?"

My stomach tightened.

"Is he here?"

"Just one moment."

She disappeared through a door.

I stood there watching the clock above the reception desk.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

When she returned, a doctor was with her.

"Are you Daniel Bennett?"

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Harris. Your father was brought in earlier today."

"Is he okay?"

The doctor hesitated.

"He suffered significant injuries in the accident. We've been treating him since he arrived."

"But he's alive?"

"Yes."

I felt my knees weaken.

"Can I see him?"

"He's being monitored closely, but we can arrange that."

I followed her down a hallway.

She explained that he'd suffered several broken ribs, a fractured leg, and a head injury.

I nodded at everything.

I understood almost none of it.

Then she stopped outside a room.

"He's awake," she said. "But he's very tired."

I pushed the door open.

My father looked smaller than I remembered.

He was lying in a hospital bed with a bandage across his forehead and bruising along one side of his face.

His left leg was elevated.

For a moment, I didn't move.

Then he opened his eyes.

"Daniel?"

"Hey, Dad."

He looked confused.

"What are you doing here?"

I laughed once, although nothing was funny.

"What do you mean, what am I doing here?"

"Thought you were working."

"You're in the hospital."

"I noticed."

I pulled a chair toward the bed.

He watched me sit down.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Thanks."

"Have you eaten?"

I shook my head.

"Jesus Christ, Daniel."

He tried to adjust himself and winced.

"Don't move," I said.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"Well, I've been better."

I stared at him.

There were a hundred things I wanted to say.

Instead, I asked, "What happened?"

"Some idiot ran a stop sign."

"That's it?"

"That's plenty."

I looked at the bruising on his face.

He followed my gaze.

"You should see the other guy."

I laughed.

Then, without warning, I started crying.

Not loudly.

I just couldn't stop.

My father looked alarmed.

"Hey."

I wiped my face.

"Sorry."

"Daniel."

"I'm fine."

"You're doing a pretty lousy job convincing me."

I laughed through the tears.

He reached across the bed.

I took his hand.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

Eventually, he asked about my job search.

"Still looking?"

"Yeah."

"Anything promising?"

"Actually, I got an email this morning."

"From who?"

"Some engineering firm."

He smiled.

"That's good."

"Yeah."

He looked toward the window.

"I was going to call you about something."

I waited.

"There's a guy who comes into the store. Owns a small engineering company. Nice fellow. We got talking last week."

I looked at him.

"He mentioned they were hiring. I told him about you."

"Dad."

"What?"

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

He paused.

"I figured you might be interested."

I looked down at our hands.

For three years, I'd convinced myself that my father only contacted me because he wanted to criticize my decisions.

Every time his name appeared on my screen, I assumed another argument was waiting.

I'd ignored birthday messages, holiday greetings, and photographs of vegetables because responding felt like admitting he'd been right.

And all that time, he'd been asking strangers whether they knew someone who might give his son a job.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

He shrugged carefully.

"Didn't know if you'd answer."

That hurt more than I expected.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He looked at me.

"For what?"

"For what I said. That night. About your job."

He was quiet.

"I was angry," I continued. "And I said something shitty."

"Yeah," he said.

I almost smiled.

"You could pretend it wasn't that bad."

"It was pretty bad."

"Thanks."

He squeezed my hand.

"I was hard on you, too."

"You were."

"I know."

We sat together for a while.

Then he said, "For the record, I didn't love working at that store every day."

I looked up.

"But it paid the bills. And I liked the people."

"I know."

"Didn't mean you had to do the same thing."

I nodded.

"I know that now."

He closed his eyes.

I thought he was falling asleep.

Then he said, "Still think quitting without another job lined up was stupid."

I laughed so hard that I had to wipe my eyes again.

"Jesus Christ, Dad."

"What?"

"Nothing."

I stayed until visiting hours ended.

Before I left, the nurse gave me the hospital's landline number and told me when I could call for updates.

My father was already half asleep.

I leaned over and hugged him as carefully as I could.

"Love you, Dad."

He opened his eyes.

"Love you too, kid."

I started toward the door.

"Daniel?"

I turned.

"Yeah?"

"Next time, just answer the damn phone."

I smiled.

"Deal."

The next morning, I returned to work.

The smartphones were still dead.

The news was still full of speculation.

Scientists had no answers, and politicians had plenty.

Sarah looked up when I entered.

"How's your dad?"

"He's going to be okay."

She smiled.

"Good."

I sat at my desk and opened my email.

The engineering firm had sent a follow-up message.

They wanted to know whether I was available for an interview on Friday.

I typed a reply.

Then I looked at the bulletin board.

The tomato was still there.

Red, misshapen, and slightly ridiculous.

I took the photograph down and turned it over.

On the back, I wrote my father's hospital number.

For a moment, I considered throwing the picture away.

Instead, I pinned it back above my desk.

At lunchtime, I borrowed the office phone and called the hospital.

A nurse transferred me to his room.

He answered after several rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dad."

"Daniel?"

"Yeah."

"Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine."

"Something wrong with your car?"

"No."

"Need money?"

I smiled.

"No, Dad."

"Then what's going on?"

I looked at the photograph.

"Nothing. Just wanted to see how you're doing."

There was a pause.

Then he said, "Well, I'm lying in a hospital bed with a broken leg. How do you think I'm doing?"

I laughed.

He laughed too.

And for the next twenty minutes, we talked about absolutely nothing.