Plus One

21: The origins of adamancy

21: The origins of adamancy

A phone call is by no means the worst sound to wake up to. The chirping shrill of it is a bit harsh for the morning peace, but with it comes a sort of exhilaration, of pleasure over knowing that someone wants to talk to you. Of course, it’s never fun when that assumed admirer is actually a solicitor, or someone calling to follow up on the money you owe them. But even in cases where the person on the other line is a stranger or an enemy, the call can be ended with a brief click, the phone firmly switched off before being tossed across the room. Relatives? That’s another matter.

The morning after the spontaneous dance party, at seven thirty in the morning, my dad called. He’d always gotten up early, although sometimes I found that the preference was little more than an excuse to ridicule my lazy sleeping patterns. I looked at the caller I.D. for a few seconds, considering the option of faking sleep, but quickly decided it was better now than never. I didn’t hate my dad, but talking to him tended to entail long chains of not so subtle insults at my life choices.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hello Cassandra.” He was the only one who ever called me by my full name. I yawned and threw my pillow at the ceiling. “It’s been awhile.”

“So it has. How are you?” Perhaps I was being a little bit emotionally barren, but attachment was usually wasted on my father. He had a low tolerance for affection that had only decreased with age. Even a casual “I missed you” would probably be countered with a remark about how he’d only been a few hours away the entire time. That, or some stab at my capability of living on my own.

“Oh, I’m the same as always. Work, work, work. Your sister visited recently. She’s eight months pregnant now, I think.”

“You excited to be a grandpa?”

“Not really. I hope they don’t ask me to babysit.” He’d never been one for a little white lie. I thought of my sweet, soft-spoken sister Ellie and her picturesque little life. She’d been everything I never was: not particularly bright, but focused and studious, with clear, fixed plans for a future of homemaking and happiness, no tolerance for a good party, and a despairingly absent ability to rebel against much of anything. She’d never been a pushover though—it was the one trait we truly shared. We had our own views on how life should be lived: she was passive; I was aggressive. But we were confident in our perspectives, and never let the other one forget how wrong they were.

My dad cleared his throat, “So how’s the Golden Gate treating you? I’m assuming you managed to get settled in?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. I love it here. Sometimes I miss the sun, but it’s a totally wonderful city.” I started to say ‘you’d like it here,’ but stifled the remark instead. Los Angeles was vibrant and wild, but it was remarkably deadlocked in its ways of fame-seeking and status boundaries. San Francisco was far too progressive for my father—too susceptible to change and chaos and revolutions. I went on, “I’m actually sharing an apartment with two other people. I met them on my first day and they had room for one more.” I considered lying and explaining that I’d signed some sort of contract to be a tenant, but lies were often wasted on my father, because his opinions were usually unchanging no matter which picture I painted.

“You’re living with strangers?” he asked, not hesitant to include a good dose of parental disapproval.

I sighed, “Yes, dad. They’re friends now, but I guess at the time they were strangers.”

“I’d been hoping your judgment had improved a little with age, Cassandra, but it’s your life,” he paused. I heard footsteps in the hallway, and wondered whom they belonged to. “Are they nice? The girls you live with?”