"We're not able to make it to the phone. Please leave your name and telephone number. We'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you." *Beep*
I called my mom Monday afternoon. She wasn't home. So I got to hear my dad's voice as he spoke the above phrase. After I left my message asking my mother if she was OK, his voice was still in my head.
"If you scratch my back I'll scratch yours," my father would always coax her and me.
The three of us would usually be sitting in the living room watching the evening news or a movie - my mother rustling around the day's newspaper and my father twiddling his thumbs.
She was pretty good about carrying out his nightly request. When he leaned against her chair and she crisscrossed red marks along his strong, slightly tanned skin, his knees would go weak.
I laughed at him.
"You're pathetic, dad," I'd joke.
I've never been much for getting my back scratched and therefore usually refused him. But I would cave on certain occasions like his birthday, Father's Day, days he was sick.
I considered such moments twice this week: Monday, Jan. 11 - my father's birthday, Thursday, Jan. 14 - the three-year reunion of his death.
That last week came in waves:
He was in the hospital the day of his birthday. He was speaking and partially coherent but undoubtedly in pain. I don't remember what I brought him as a gift. But I do remember what I gave him.
"Would you scratch my back, sweetie," he asked. The nurse had moved him out of bed and into a chair to get his blood circulating. "Of course dad," I replied. His skin was like translucent ivory tissue paper beneath my fingernails.
Over the next three days his conditioned worsened. And then there was "no hope for recovery," I think someone said ... or maybe it was just me. When my mother and I took him off life support, my hand was underneath his shoulder. He couldn't talk then. Or hear probably. But, I ran my nails along his back anyways. Just in case. So he knew I was there.
The quilt my Aunt Bonnie made me last spring - created from patches of my father's old dress and flannel work shirts, ties and jeans - hangs on my bedroom wall in Queens. Most days, I don't reflect on it.
But on Monday and Thursday, I spent time each day running my hand over the patches and thought about the many times he "scratched my back":
In high school, the only way I'd retain information for tests was to make flashcards. My dad would test me for hours until I memorized every one.
My dad taught me how to drive and took me for my road test. When there was something wrong with my car he'd fix it. My gas tank and window washer fluid would always be full even if I hadn't been home in months. He drove out undetected to inspect the car.
He'd write me an email a few times per week, "Hey there sweetie pie," to see how things were going. He'd always sign it, "Your loving papa xoxo." Even though I deleted most, I kept the last two he sent me. They are tacked on my bedroom wall.
A few weeks before his death, my laptop had crashed - all of my final papers for college were gone. He took off from work to run me around to computer stores until someone could salvage something. A few days later, I flushed my phone down the toilet ( ... yea, I don't know) and again he drove me to the store to find me a new one.
When I got overly stressed or angry - like the night before we drove him to the hospital - he'd find reasons for me to be relaxed and stay positive. My dad's optimism in the goodness of people and events - of life - made me strong.
Every so often, I find myself calling my mother's house even when I know she is not home. It's silly, but every time his voice speaks at me I can't help but want to say, "I'll scratch yours."
Sarah T. Schwab is a Sunday OBSERVER contributor. Send comments to editorial@observertoday.com