Conversations With Dead People - Halloween 2008.
"Well, you've certainly got your mother's flair for drama."
Cal turns, and stares. "Dad?"
Reed Chandler smiles, a smile that Cal remembers more from pictures than from life. It's been almost twenty years since his father's death, and the drug use didn't do Cal much good, either. Memories fade.
"Come here, you idiot," Dad says, holding out his arms. He still has that same way of softening the word; it never stung coming from him the way it did from Mother or Uncle Grahame. The difference is, he doesn't mean it.
Cal hugs his father tight. "I've missed you," he whispers. They hold each other in silence for a moment, then Cal leans back to look at him. Dad doesn't look all that much older than him, he realizes. But then, if he goes by age at time of death, they're only ten years apart.
"Are you in Milliways now?" he asks. Dad shakes his head.
"Come on now, Cal. Remember where you are."
"Oh," Cal says. "Right." He's in his room, motionless on his bed as he has been for nearly a month. Awaiting instructions. It's quiet and still and he never ever has to think.
"Now what did you go and do that for?" Dad steps back and looks at him sternly. "You've got it good in Milliways, Cal. You're out of politics, you're getting laid, and you haven't got Violet or the gimp up your ass every time you turn around. I can't say I understand the thing with Sam, but neither do you and I don't think he does either. Maybe it's not all sunshine and roses, but nothing is and your death is a hell of a lot better than your life was."
Cal is silent for a long moment, caught between mortification that his father seems to know every detail of his existence (ohgodeverydetail) and simple indignation. "I just want to decide things for myself," he says finally. It sounds weak here, in this nowhere place where it's strangely difficult to remember how much everything hurt.
That, too. He wanted that too.
"Who doesn't?" Dad says. "That's all anyone wants, when you get right down to it. But most people don't try to kill themselves twice over it. You always did live too much in your own head. I used to wonder sometimes what the hell you would do if you ever met up with the real world."
"Guess we found out," Cal says hollowly.
"I guess we did. Cal, look at me." He puts his hand on Cal's shoulder. "In the end, you didn't do half bad. People like Gliardi succeed because everyone's afraid to tell them to go fuck themselves. My father was. I was. Grahame was. But you, Cal." He smiles. "You got sick of his shit and told him to go fuck himself. Good for you. Now here's your reward, and listen closely because I hate cryptic bullshit and I'm only saying this once: There's a doctor on the way, and he's going to wake you up."
Cal turns, and stares. "Dad?"
Reed Chandler smiles, a smile that Cal remembers more from pictures than from life. It's been almost twenty years since his father's death, and the drug use didn't do Cal much good, either. Memories fade.
"Come here, you idiot," Dad says, holding out his arms. He still has that same way of softening the word; it never stung coming from him the way it did from Mother or Uncle Grahame. The difference is, he doesn't mean it.
Cal hugs his father tight. "I've missed you," he whispers. They hold each other in silence for a moment, then Cal leans back to look at him. Dad doesn't look all that much older than him, he realizes. But then, if he goes by age at time of death, they're only ten years apart.
"Are you in Milliways now?" he asks. Dad shakes his head.
"Come on now, Cal. Remember where you are."
"Oh," Cal says. "Right." He's in his room, motionless on his bed as he has been for nearly a month. Awaiting instructions. It's quiet and still and he never ever has to think.
"Now what did you go and do that for?" Dad steps back and looks at him sternly. "You've got it good in Milliways, Cal. You're out of politics, you're getting laid, and you haven't got Violet or the gimp up your ass every time you turn around. I can't say I understand the thing with Sam, but neither do you and I don't think he does either. Maybe it's not all sunshine and roses, but nothing is and your death is a hell of a lot better than your life was."
Cal is silent for a long moment, caught between mortification that his father seems to know every detail of his existence (ohgodeverydetail) and simple indignation. "I just want to decide things for myself," he says finally. It sounds weak here, in this nowhere place where it's strangely difficult to remember how much everything hurt.
That, too. He wanted that too.
"Who doesn't?" Dad says. "That's all anyone wants, when you get right down to it. But most people don't try to kill themselves twice over it. You always did live too much in your own head. I used to wonder sometimes what the hell you would do if you ever met up with the real world."
"Guess we found out," Cal says hollowly.
"I guess we did. Cal, look at me." He puts his hand on Cal's shoulder. "In the end, you didn't do half bad. People like Gliardi succeed because everyone's afraid to tell them to go fuck themselves. My father was. I was. Grahame was. But you, Cal." He smiles. "You got sick of his shit and told him to go fuck himself. Good for you. Now here's your reward, and listen closely because I hate cryptic bullshit and I'm only saying this once: There's a doctor on the way, and he's going to wake you up."