Miss you.
I have an idea for a new show that Juana is helping me outline. It’s been almost a year and a half since I’ve been onstage, and I think that’s why I’ve been miserable.
You know I hate copyediting, and if I don’t perform anymore, my whole life will be copyediting when Ruby goes off to college. Do you see?
The women’s retreat has got me writing again.
Also, I bought a red negligee. I’ll show it to you when I get back.
Love,
Elaine
“Ag,” I said. “I did not need to read that last bit.”
“Your parents are so cute together,” Meghan said. “They’re in love.”
“They’re insane and neglectful,” I said.
“But in a cute way.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s on the seashore. She’s finding herself,” said Meghan. “She needed a break from him, but now she misses him.”
“At least they’re not getting divorced,” I said. “I thought they were probably getting divorced.”
“They’re not getting divorced if she wants to show him her red negligee.”
I shook my head to get the bad image out. “We need to find my dad,” I reminded Meghan.
“He’s probably not dead,” she said consolingly. “He’d stay alive for the negligee.”
We looked at the e-mails again. Lots of questions about container gardening, a note from Hutch about working again when he returned in December, more container gardening. Then there was one from Greg, Dad’s neurotic friend with the panic disorder, dated yesterday. He said he’d sprained his ankle in the shower and was in the “slough of despond.”
I called Greg, even though it was eight a.m. He picked up on the third ring.
“Hi. Um. Sorry to call so early. It’s Ruby, Kevin’s daughter.”
“Hello, Ruby.”
“Dad never came home last night and I’m wondering if maybe he came to visit you?”
“He’s passed out on the couch,” said Greg.
Meghan and I drove to Greg’s place. We banged on the door for ten minutes before I heard Greg shuffling behind it. “Who’s there?” he said. He’s so messed up with the panic attacks he’s afraid to open the door.
“It’s Ruby!” I called.
Greg’s voice was defensive. “I don’t receive until after noon.”
“I know you’re up. I just talked to you on the phone,” I told him.
Greg cracked the door, then walked back into the apartment without greeting us. Meghan and I followed him. He was limping.
There were stacks and stacks of old newspapers and magazines lining the walls, and huge windows filled with plants. The desk was buried under old food cartons and paper, but out of it surged a large computer monitor Greg used for writing software. In one corner was an enormous flat-screen TV. In another was a Habitrail filled with wood chips and gerbils.
“This is my friend Meghan,” I told Greg.
He flinched but held out his hand to her.
Dad was asleep in his boxer shorts on Greg’s hairy brown couch. Greg shook him awake.
“Hey, Ruby,” Dad said, groggy.
“Are you okay?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m fine. It just got late, so I crashed.” He sat up and pulled an afghan over his lap.
“You’re really okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Then I am so mad at you, Dad!” I yelled. “How could you not call? Or leave a note, or anything? I was all alone in the house! I couldn’t reach Mom. I had no idea what had happened to you! I thought you jumped off a bridge!”
“I know, I know,” he said.
“You don’t know,” I grouched. “You don’t know I thought you jumped off a bridge. You don’t know I called Mom.”
He shook his head. “I would never jump off a bridge.”
“How am I supposed to know that when you lie on the floor all the time drooling Cheeto juice like a complete madman?”
Dad smiled. “Wow, you paint a pretty picture.”
