Last Dance with my Dad
My cell phone rang and I picked it up to see who was calling. The name that popped up was "Mom and Dad". I had not changed the name to just "Dad" even though my mother had passed away in August of 2012. It was now May 19, 2013 but my mother is still with me and I wasn't going to ever change the name on my phone.
"Hello!"
"Nancy!"
"Yes, Daddy, how are you?"
And he began to ask me if I wanted to go to a party that was going to be held at the CCC the next night.
"Let me think about it," I said.
"O.K. Call me tomorrow."
And he hung up.
He never said goodbye on the phone. Just finished what he was going to say and then pressed the disconnect button. When I was younger it used to bother me that I didn't hear a 'goodbye' or 'talk to you soon', but I came to realize that it was just his way and the action didn't have any meaning behind it except that he didn't like to talk on the phone. He'd rather talk in person. I call him our family's 'social butterfly'. He is most happy in a room full of people flitting from person to person even though he is claustrophobic. And he can be at the front of a crowded room giving a speech and be as happy as a lark.
When I put the phone down, I realized I didn't know what kind of a party it was supposed to be and wondered if I had anything in my 'depressed closet' that I could wear that wouldn't be outdated and inappropriate.
I slept on it.
When I woke up I had my usual cup of coffee and then opened my closet, much like opening a refrigerator in hopes that something would present itself, like Cinderella's dress . . . all sewn up while I had slept, hanging face forward in my closet . . . the perfect thing . . . awaiting my gasp of surprise. Perfect! But that didn't happen and I began to take one dress out after another, hanging them on this knob and that knob, then putting them on one at a time. I did the mirror dance in the hallway. I turned this way and that. Hmmm. Which one? The question remained, "What kind of a party was it really?" That would help if I knew.
I finally called my father and my sister-who-lives-with-him-since-he-broke-his-hip answered the phone. I asked her if she knew what kind of party we would be going to and if she could read the invitation or something. She said it was a cocktail party with drinks first and that a mariachi band would be playing.
Oh well. No cocktail dress had presented itself in my closet overnight, twirling its pretty sassy skirt in front of my face in anticipation of a night out to be seen and admired.
"Oh, I really like your dress!" someone would exclaim.
I finally called him and my sister answered, "I'll hand you to Dad", and he and I talked and I said I'd pick him up around 7 and we could leave at 7:15. It started at 7:30.
I went back to the mirror and all the things that I had pulled out of my closet. I ended up putting on a black skirt with a black top I had just bought at Target. It had layers and sleeves and went past my hips, making the skirt look like it was connected and therefore gave the impression of a black dress. As my sister said, "just accessorize", which I did by wearing these cute black dressy flip flops that had black bows with rhinestones in the center of them at the meeting of the thongs. They looked good with my red-painted toenails. The weather forecast said it might rain and these could get wet and it wouldn't matter.
But in the mirror, my freshly washed hair of the night before didn't look like it was happy to go anywhere. It was too limp. I had been thinking about getting it cut recently and this party gave me the impetus to do so. Now.
I redressed and drove to the place where I always show up, spur-of-the-moment, to see if anyone was free to cut my hair straight across. It always worked. Only this time as I drove there, I kept praying that the one person I really wanted would be free and voila, he was, for the next thirty minutes.
"Would that be enough time for you to cut my hair straight across but with some layers too?"
"Yes".
Great!
He even had time to wash my hair and style it. He was quick and precise and had the image in his head and cut away. When he was finished I was pleased and walked out of the store with my hair bouncing. I felt lighter and perkier. Now I would go home, eat lunch and do my nails in the same Revlon Red that was on my toes and that would complete the one color that accessorized my black outfit. My two favorite colors.
Little did I know that my black outfit would be the perfect complement to my Father's attire. He would be the beautifully colored butterfly.
I arrived at the appointed time and found him dressed and sitting in the rocking chair next to the TV watching NC State's team of women baseball players in a game. I smiled. There he was in his Lilly Pulitzer gaily flowered pink, blue, and white pants that he had bought in the '60s. He was so proud to be able to still get into them at the age of 94. He matched it with a white shirt, a soft yellow tie and a pinkish-red jacket. A handkerchief was tucked in the breast pocket. On his feet were his white shoes. Very dapper. I straightened his tie and told him I would be with the most handsome man in the room that night. My black outfit, along with myself, would fade into the background like a quiet crow (yes,crows can be quiet at times) and Dad would be the peacock with his feathers fanned out strutting amongst the grand ballroom of living statues holding drinks in one hand and enjoying shrimp, oysters and soft shelled crabs on their tiny plates in front of them on waist high tables.
I walked him out to my car and we drove to The Club and parked in a 'Reserved" parking space, hanging our handicapped sign on the rear view mirror of my car. As he had hip surgery recently, I had made up my mind to be his cane for the night and helped him out of the front seat. We got a ride in an oversized golf cart to the front door and walked up the steps into the event, walking past a young girl dressed in a Moroccan, belly dancing outfit on a Dias posing for a camera. She was a prop for the evening, along with some other young girls in outfits. Beautiful umbrellas that were made out of similar fabric with hanging jewels were placed here and there. I wanted one of those umbrellas.
We walked down the hall into the room where the shrimp were on ice and the people from The Cypress (an expensive retirement home) had just arrived in their retirement village white bus. All fifteen of them. Dad knew almost everyone and we began to say hello as we made our way to the drinks table. Daddy got one drink for the night. I got ice water. When I asked politely for only a glass of water, the older, black waiter looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, "Would you like some ice?" I looked him straight back in the eye and said, "Yes, thank you." He filled the glass with ice, poured water from a glass pitcher into it and handed it to me, and said, "You are so nice". I nodded and smiled back.
I could tell that he really meant it. He was the one that was nice. I began to feel comfortable in an uncomfortable situation. The Club was not my scene even though I was brought up going there, eating Sunday lunches while still in my Sunday dress, swimming in the pool, and watching Dad play golf. It was always too hoity-toity for me, but Dad loved every inch of it.
I turned around and Daddy and I made our way through the newly crowded room to a table outside on the loggia which overlooked the lush green golf course. A breeze had cropped up. We found a table with a friend we knew, and we were asked to sit down which we did. Folks came up to Dad and shook his hand and talked, and I sat and enjoyed seeing the huge smile on his face. He was in his element. It wasn't my element, but it was clearly his, and I marveled at the transformation on his face. He looked like he was 74, not 94. His smile went down to his white shoe-covered toes.
Daddy had eaten his soft-shelled crabs and mine along with plenty of shrimp and oysters. He loves seafood. I had grabbed some cantaloupe slices, pineapple, grilled zucchini, and some carved beef to go along with some cheese and a roll. Finally, the band was heard through the french doors and I could tell they were good. Daddy said we should go and check it out which we did, walking through the ever-increasing crowd of people to the dance floor which was the only clear spot in the whole place.
We stood on the fringe and Daddy's feet and body began to move with the music, and when his lips pursed like they do when he is beginning to do his dance, I knew I was in for it. I was already holding his hand, and he guided us out onto the dance floor moving his feet in little, smooth steps. I matched his steps, and we began to move in unison. Daddy in his wild outfit and me as a side note. He forgot about his hip and I did too. I wished my mother was there to dance with him but she was in my heart so I pictured her there with Daddy on the dance floor. I was her proxy for the moment. She loved to dance too.
I can still picture her, when I was a child sitting on her bed upstairs, watching her get ready to go out to a party with Dad. She'd put her girdle on under her pretty dresses and turn to the side, with her hand over her stomach, looking in the mirror attached to her dresser, seeing the results of the struggle. Then the shoes on her small feet at the end of her shapely legs. She always looked beautiful to me.
Dad and I inched more out onto the floor, the only ones dancing in the cleared space surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, and it didn't matter because it was only me holding hands with my Dad, and I was delighted. No one else was dancing with their Dad and I was sad for a moment thinking of lost moments that were not captured as other daughters looked on with thier Dads who should be grabbing their daughter's hands and twirling them on the floor like my Dad was doing with me. Only he was the one twirling as my hand flowed around his back as he turned, to face me again reaching for my hand. I thought about how many times he must have done that same motion with my mother. How sweet.
And then the music slowed and he stayed on the floor and we were again the only ones out there, slow dancing this time, at the CCC, my left arm around Daddy's back and my right hand in his left as we rocked back and forth, turning slowly. Was he thinking of mom?
We stopped after those two dances and someone wanted to dance with Dad so he did, for a moment, and I looked on waiting to catch him if he got off balance because she didn't know he had fallen and had hip surgery and had recovered. But I was still his cane for the night, and I wasn't far away from his sleeve.
Afterward, we walked through another crowded room that was even tighter with people and decided to immediately head back out to the loud band. Dad looked at his watch and said he was ready to go, and we walked out across the vacant dance floor arm in arm, back down the hall to the front door where it was opened for us. Down the front steps and out to the car. The clouds were gathering themselves together for a rain so my grand flip-flops never got wet. I drove Dad back to his condo and we sat and talked about the night. I helped him get his white dancing shoes off his tired feet, and he took off his jacket to hang up in his closet. He came back into the den and sat in his lounge chair and sighed. He still had on his colorful pants and white shirt. After a moment he said he'd like to visit mom more, and I said I had planned on going out to see her the next day. He said he'd like to go with me. I said okay. He said if he got back in the car to practice driving, he would be able to see her more often. I told him I go once a week, and he said he'd like to go any time I do. I said okay.
I knew he had thought of mom tonight and missed her too.
When my sister and her husband (who were living with Dad at the moment to help him) came back from eating dinner, I stayed a moment longer to hear Dad tell them about his night and then I left. I drove home, glad I had a night out with my Dad, that included cocktails, a view of a manicured golf course, dressing up, seeing his face break out in a huge smile as he talked with friends he has had for a very long time, seeing him enjoy the camaraderie, holding his hand and dancing two dances with him alone in a crowd, watching him turn back the time and be younger with his smile and his dancing, pursed lips. As I drove down the road to my house, I looked up at the sky and said, "I love you, mom. Wish you were here."
Thanks for the memory, Dad.
Little did I know that it would be his last twirl on a dance floor and that I would be the one to hold his hand
(c)nancy 5.19.2013
