Just Passing

25. Sunday Phone Call

It's Sunday, which means at 1:00 when the kids are asleep, I call my parents. Tiffany is organizing her closet, officially putting away any short-sleeved shirts and placing all her scarfs and heavy sweaters front and center.

I plop on the couch and pull out my cell and click to dial. My parent's number is programmed in my phone, like everything else these days, but their landline is probably the only phone number, other than my own, that I have memorized. It's the same number since my childhood.

The line rings twice before I hear my father's nasal voice answer, "Hello?"

"Hello?" I loudly repeat, exaggerating the question mark at the end. My usual schtick.

"Oh, hello Xander. How're you?" He chuckles. My greeting always seems to amuse him.

"Come on, Dad, when are you going to get a phone with caller ID?"

"This phone works perfectly fine. Why waste money buying something new?"

"Okay, okay." I laugh. "How's work?"

"Don't get me started."

"That bad? Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Okay then, how're your trains?" I ask.

My father is the kind of guy with very particular obsessions. Classic horror films. Arcane facts about the history of calculators. Model trains. And when it comes to his trains, his interest seems to be more with the creation of miniatures in precise scale, rather than the actual trains.

"I've been working on a new set, actually. A replica of Cuesta Verde." The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, I know he'll be disappointed with my response.

"What's Cuesta Verde?"

I can hear him take a deep breath into the phone's receiver. "You know, the setting of Poltergeist. The planned community? The one that turned out to be built on a graveyard?"

"Oh yeah, of course. Classic! That sounds really cool." Shit. I should've known that.

"Okay Xan, tell Tiff and the kids that I miss them. Here's your mother." He passes the phone off. Honestly, I'm surprised that our conversation lasted as long as it did. Usually we barely say hello before the phone gets shuffled into my mom's hands.

"Hey sweetie," says my mother.

"Hi Mom."

"How're the kids?"

"Crazy." I deadpan.

"Tsk tsk, you're going to miss these days. Just wait, you're going to blink your eyes and they're going to be almost forty. Seriously. How'd you get so old?"

"Stop rounding up, Mom. I'm only thirty-eight. And if you miss being around toddlers so much, why don't you come up and babysit?"

"Don't tempt her," I hear Tiffany joke, her voice carrying from the bedroom.

"Don't tempt me," my Mom says at almost the exact same time. "You know I miss those guys. Actually, I've been starting my Christmas shopping. Send me an Amazon list if you have anything particular in mind. I have some books picked out, obviously, but I know they're always changing what they're into."

"Christmas shopping already? It's barely November. I don't think we've started thinking about gifts for the kids yet."

My sentence is barely complete when Tiffany pops her head out to interject, "Tell your mom that I already have an Amazon list and I will share it with her."

"Nevermind, Mom, Tiff says there's already a list and she'll share it."

"See? Moms know. Christmas is a very important holliday. Santa's elves are already busy at the North Pole. And speaking of, he wants to know what's on your list for this year, too."

"I don't need anything. Just spend your money on the kids. Please. That'll be a big help," I plead.

"What about paints? You haven't sent us a new painting in years. Our gallery needs updating. Do you need supplies? Brushes? A new easel?" She is relentless.

"Mom, I don't paint these days because I don't have the time, not because I don't have the supplies. Somewhere. You know what I could use? A time machine. Not to time travel, but just to make more time. I could really use an extra hour or two everyday. Then maybe I can paint you something."

"Ok, I'll get right on that." I can hear her eyes roll through the phone.

"Thanks, Mom, you're the best," I say in a mock kid's voice.

"Thanks sweetie, I know." She laughs. "So, do anything fun this week?"

Should I tell her everything that's going on at work? I told them about Blake at the beginning of the year, but last week I neglected to mention what happened at his parent-teacher conference. I'm not sure why. My parents are super-allies these days.

"Work has been a little ... nuts, lately..." But for some reason my tongue stalls and I hesitate to go into details. So I don't. Instead I change the subject. "Marty and Aileen came over the other night for a bit. Oh, you are invited to Thanksgiving, by the way, but I told them you couldn't make it because you were spending the holiday with Gran."

There's a pause. Is she going to push me about work? My mom can always seem to tell when I'm holding back on her.

"Actually, we're not seeing Gran this year. She's going on a cruise with a group of her friends from the senior center. Just figured your dad and I would have a quiet meal."

"A cruise? By herself? She's in her eighties." I'm incredulous.

"Not by herself. It's a group thing." My Mom says patiently. And then, "Did Marty and Aileen really invite us? Would that be okay with you guys if we came up?"

Shit. "Oh my God, Mom, of course! The kids miss you. And I think it would blow their minds to have Thanksgiving with all four of their grandparents."

"Well, sweetie, let me talk it over with your father and maybe we'll see you in a couple of weeks!" Her excitement is palpable.

Shit.

I love my parents. I wish they lived closer. If it was up to me we'd see them as often as we see Tiffany's folks: about twice a month. We all get along and the kids go bonkers with happiness when they visit. But Thanksgiving? With Tiffany's entire family? Her parents. Probably an uncle or aunt or two. All three sisters. Plus two brother-in-laws. Four nieces. Katherine will probably bring her dog– does he count as a nephew? It's already going to be crazy without throwing my folks into the mix.

When I get off the phone Tiffany comes out of the bedroom. "Um, did I hear that I need to turn the playroom into a guest room?"

"Maybe..." my voice squeaks.

"Hmmm." Tiffany slowly shakes her head at me, and then turns around and goes back to her project, leaving me alone on the couch, wondering about what I just did.