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When I call my mother on the phone, I hope she picks up on the other end. But sometimes, I hope she does not. That’s because once I hear a certain number of rings, I know the answering machine will come on. And I get to hear my dad’s voice.
It takes me back. His voice sounds strong, sturdy and purposeful. When my dad recorded that voicemail, it was after he had fallen and badly damaged his head, almost dying from that fall.
For a time, he had lost his ability to speak. My dad had even forgotten my mom’s name, the names of his kids and their spouses. He was however able to point out his own name in a recent bridge publication. He enjoyed these quarterly publications as he was an avid player and they often write about local bridge tournaments where once he happened to finish in the top five.
But after some strenuous rehabilitation, he relearned how to speak fully and most of his memory came back. Once those traits were reawakened, one of the first tasks my dad did was to record a message on the home landline for others to hear if he or my mom did not pick up. It was a subtle, symbolic message: He is back and his voice is ready to speak once again.
A couple years following though, my dad passed away on a winter January day. He died from many complications, but the official answer our family provides is heart failure. I remember shortly after he passed, that I asked my mom to keep the voicemail unchanged. I realized that it would give me an opportunity to keep his voice in my head. It felt like an old email that I still have from a colleague who had also passed away.
There is something so simple about these basic communications that become so significant as life continues on without them. A voicemail is mundane. It is so ordinarily regular. But when the person recording that voicemail loses their voice forever, that mundaneness becomes so much more. It creates a feeling.
Plus there is something strangely comedic. Shortly after his death, if someone calling did not know my dad had died, they would assume that he would call them back. The joke is on them.
My father was a Cold War spy (or so it seems)
My dad’s voice allows me to remember him as he was. He was funny and had incredible perspective. He once said to me to pretend I am an eagle resting on the top of a tree to understand how important it is to have a wider vision instead of a narrow view of my own personal challenges. My father and I were close. We would speak daily but it was always me who called him. He never wanted to call me because he was worried that he would interrupt or bother me.
His voice keeps him close to me. I almost think that he will call me back. I don’t have any videos of him. And, anyway, I prefer the audio version of my dad. I prefer to hear instead of see.
When we would spend time together, the last thing I would want to do is take a video of him. I wanted to make sure I was present with him. There is a quiet innocence in not having videos of him on my own phone. A purity in only keeping his voice. Just the way he would like it.
The best thing about the voicemail is my dad says that he and my mom will call you right back (the word he used is “promptly”). If dead people could call back, now that would be something. But part of me keeps waiting for him to indeed call me back. Is my dad teasing me? Does he know something I don’t know? Will I at some point be able to speak to him again? Sometimes, my phone does ring and I feel this little ping of hope.
The finality of death is jarring. But the distance between death and life is not that wide. My dad’s voice will hopefully remain on the home voicemail but I do understand if my mom wants to replace him with her own voice. I just hope she does not do that anytime soon.
Nathan Stoffman lives in Toronto.
