Chris Dodds
Fourth missed call from the same unknown number. No message. My wrist complains when I flip the phone onto its face on my desk. I rub the joint, which makes my other wrist ache.
***
Three again today, between others marked SPAM. No message. It reminds me to order a bottle of ibuprofen. The big one I found in the cabinet expired five years ago.
***
A message. White noise, crackled breath, then an old man’s slurring. “Hello. This is…” Then scratching. Then click. I recognize the voice but pretend I don’t.
***
A week later. “Hello. This is your dad. Working on something I need your help with. I’ll try again later.” First time I’ve heard from him in two years. I stare at the number and run my thumb up and down the side of my phone’s rubber cover.
I sigh. Tap. It only rings once.
“Hey. It’s me. Returning your call.”
“Oh. Thank you. This is your dad. Birthdays and their city of birth?” His voice is wet and the words stumble over each other.
“What?”
“I’m working on a will. I need birthdays and cities of birth.”
I tell him, “March,” before it clicks together. “Do you mean for the grandkids?”
“Yeah, the kids.”
I repeat the dates for each twice. He spells out their names to confirm. One of their names is mostly right. I can’t remember if he’s met both. Probably?
“Nice weather we’ve been having this week, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah. How have you been?”
“Oh, pretty good. I’m retired now. Had to quit work after the stroke. Been using a cane. I just sold my car. Been riding the bus to the VA and Walmart.”
“Wait, what? When did you have a stroke?”
“Year and a half ago, abouts. Just been taking care of the house plants. Got lots of plants.”
“Are you OK now?” I pull my phone away from my ear and look at the time. We’ve only been talking for four minutes. I roll my neck. My shoulders don’t unlock.
“Oh yeah. Been using a cane. Just sold my car. Been riding the bus to the VA and Walmart. Been working on a will. You know I’m 70 now?”
“Well, I figured you were around there. You need anything?”
“Nope. I’m doing OK.”
“Ah. Well.” The silence drags and I sink into it. I didn’t know the little town where he lives even had a bus.
“How’s the kids? Bet they’re growing like weeds?”
“Yep. Just chugging along.”
“That’s good. That’s good.”
My feet tap without rhythm. “OK, it was good to hear from you. I was out running errands when you called. Got to head back to the house now.” I’m sitting in my car in the driveway.
I save the number to his contact before sliding the phone into my pocket. His entry has six other numbers listed.
***
Ten minutes later, I’m in my office and he’s calling again. I let it go to voicemail. The transcription bubbles slowly across the screen.
Hey. This is your dad. I’m working on a will. Wanted to check if you would be my power of attorney.
I turn the phone over and drag my mouse through web pages, not really reading.
***
More messages, but the number changes. Every couple of days for a month. The room dims when the screen blinks off after each notification. I eventually answer.
“Hey. Did you get a new number?”
“This is your dad.” His voice twists up at the end like he’s asking.
“Yep. Did you get a new number?”
“Oh, yeah, I had to let my other phone go. This is a free, government phone.” The last part is quiet and garbled. “You’re my beneficiary. You and your sister. I’m making a will.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I’ve got some term life insurance. Three policies. Think it’s about $25,000. Need to add them up though. Should be enough for a funeral. I want my body donated to science. They’ll cremate it when they’re done.”
I don’t say anything. He keeps going. Circles back. I pull off my glasses and rub my eyes until they’re sore.
“It’s about $25,000. Should be enough to pay for everything. I’m putting my will together. Everything is on the kitchen table. I’m in good health though.”
“Is someone helping you with the will? What’s got you working on it?” How many chairs does he have at his table?
“Oh, no. Just doing it myself. I’m getting up there you know. I’m 70 now. I’m doing well though. Healthy.”
“Everything OK from the stroke?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good now. Just walk with a cane a little. Got rid of my car. Been riding the bus.”
I let him circle a few more times before saying goodbye. After the call ends, I realize he didn’t ask about power of attorney and am certain he’s already written down my name.
Was that goodbye, goodbye?
I ask the kids if they want to go outside and play. My little girl sits in my lap on the swing. We kick and throw our heads back to look at the sky.
#
Chris Dodds lives in Oklahoma City. His debut, Necessary Cuts, won Miami University Press’ 2026 Novella Prize. His work has appeared in Marrow Magazine and BULL. Find him at chrisdodds.net.