vox populi

III. Late Night Calls

It was only a few hours after midnight when my cell phone rang. I looked at it grudgingly and saw several missed calls and texts. However, it wasn't the phone call that woke me up. It was my grandmother, who sounded like she was having another of her attacks again.

She wasn't though, she was just being melodramatic.

"Something has happened to your father," she said as she pointed at her phone. It seems they texted her too.

Something always happens to that man, I thought as I snuggled under the covers. The phone rang again. This time, I picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Jang?"

It was my childhood friend, I knew that instantly since no one else would call me that.

"Yeah?"

"Can you go back, now?" she asked, obviously trying to keep calm.

Everyone was going overboard, again.

"Why?" I asked.

"Your father was shot."

Those words brought me back about a decade back in time. I was standing behind the wall, woken by the sudden arrival of people, hushed voices I could no longer remember. I could see them reflected on the TV screen; my father, assisted by several of his friends, slumped on the sofa with his forehead cracked open, bleeding all over the place.

What now, I thought in annoyance, sitting up to clear my head.

The last time we spoke, he asked me if I had seen my brother, the runaway, who has, unsurprisingly, run away again. I asked if he'd stolen something again. And, surprisingly, instead of the exasperated silence, I was told that not every thing is about money.

Distracted, I didn't notice when the phone changed hands. This time, it was Tin's mother.

"We can't contact your mother or your brother. Can you go back? We're taking him to the hospital now, but..."

I tuned out. Great. My vacation, gone, just like that.

"Ok," I replied, nodding to whatever my grandmother was saying as I pulled on some pants, pulled my hair into a bun and headed outside to fetch my uncle as my grandmother asked me to.

I walked slowly at first, until my footsteps started to quicken, until for some reason, I was already running.

On my way, I got another text. This one from the runaway brother. I stopped, read the text again, and resumed walking, slowly like I did at first.

Once I got to my uncle's house, I knocked three times and tried my best to ignore the dogs barking at me. I knocked again until the a light came on inside.

"What is it?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.

I waved at him to come closer, since we were a good five feet apart. He took a step forward, and I motioned for him to come closer, closer, closer, until we were face to face. I went on my toes and whispered in his ear, "Dad's dead."

I hung back, message delivered, and waited for him to confirm reception.

"Ok," he said, and went back inside. "Come in first."

I sat down and watched them break down, he and his wife, my cousins. They all cried asking what happaned. Why? How? I didn't have answers, so I kept quiet.

On the bus back to my hometown, sitting beside a complete stranger since I wanted to avoid sitting beside my uncle and answering questions, the tears started coming, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't screw my eyes shut.

And here I thought as long as I don't say it out  loud, it wouldn't be real.

I remembered something, an encounter with our parish minister.

"You're Arthurs daughter, arent' you?" he asked with that benevolent smile on his face.

I nodded mutely, not really wanting to open my mouth in fear of saying something out of turn.

"He says you hate him."

But I didn't, not really. Of course, I didn't. How could I? All I wanted was to be the subject of those late night phone calls for once. But no more. Not ever. Never again.