Yesterday afternoon he had been sitting on my couch complaining that my television was too complicated.
Someone had been asking what would happen if he died at home.
Harold promised to get the call information from the funeral home.
Dad thanked him.
Then he called his attorney.
This time, no speaker.
He walked into the living room and spoke quietly for almost ten minutes.
When he came back, he looked older.
Not frightened.
Just deeply tired.
“What?” I asked.
He sat down.
“Vanessa called him yesterday too.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she ask?”
“Whether a beneficiary could access estate property before probate if there was an emergency.”
I stared at him.
“She told your attorney you were dead?”
“No.”
Dad looked toward the window.
“She said I was unreachable and there might be a medical situation.”
“Why didn’t he call you?”
“He did.”
Dad pulled his cell phone from his robe pocket.
There was no missed call.
That was when I remembered something.
The previous afternoon, Dad’s phone had stopped receiving calls for almost two hours.
He had complained about the service.
