“Daniel? Daniel, I’m sorry. I know it’s late, I’m so sorry for the time difference. Darling, I need to tell you something.”

My mother is panicked and dramatic, my propensity for reading her moods not diminished over the telephone. I sit up in bed, back against the headboard, my free hand rubbing at my eyes as I try to ready myself for whatever dramatics she has. Did the maid eat her melba toast again? Has her manicurist finally reached a level of incompetency that requires dismissal? Her telephone calls are trivial at best, but I entertain them regardless.

“It’s fine in the morning, mother. I have the day off. I’m picking dad up at the airport at noon for the premiere. What do you want?”

She exhales heavily on the other line, but it doesn’t sound like it normally does. Immediately, I’m aware that something is wrong. Not just wrong in the sense that my mother is vapid and petty, but wrong enough for her to be deeply upset. It sounds as if she’s been crying and like a true Vanderlaar, my mother rarely, if ever, cries.

“Daniel, your father isn’t coming.” At this point, she’s lost all control and sobs into my ear. I say nothing, allowing her time to compose herself. It takes only a few seconds, but it feels like minutes, hours, days. Finally, she chokes out the words and with each syllable, I feel my heart drop into my stomach. Nausea accompanies it.

“Daniel, your father had a heart attack this morning. He… he’s gone, Daniel.”

Grief is an emotion I am not unfamiliar with but have been blessed to avoid quite well, so the immediate sickness that washes over me is something I’m not quite sure how to handle. “Are you okay?” I nod, forgetting that my mother can’t see me, before forcing out a very tight, “yes, but I need to go.” Without another word, I hang up the phone.

With ease, I navigate to the text messages and scroll until I find my father’s name. He’s listed as Christopher, never something more affectionate, and I cringe at the thoughtlessness of that. I read briefly over our conversation from days prior, my last-minute invitation to the Los Angeles premiere of Batman Begins, only a day away, spelled out so plainly. And my father’s respond, so kind, so out of character – “I’ll be there. I’m very proud of you, son.”

Returning the phone to my nightstand, the words play over in my head, my father’s voice ringing in my ears. I’m not sure how long it takes, but the nausea subsides and I gradually return to laying, each extremity feeling more numb that I could have guessed.

I am unsure of what else to do, so I go back to bed, the words still replaying, following by my own, stinging and reminding me that once again, my father has lied to me.