The Muse's Undoing

I contemplate sending the call to voicemail, but wind up answering on the fourth ring. “Hey, Dick,” I say to my father.

I’m not being an asshole. It’s actually his name. He’s old. Born back in the days where Dick was an okay thing to call someone.

“Hey, Son,” he says pointedly. “Just checking in.”

“Did Matty call you?”

“We were texting. It came up. You need a drywall guy?”

“I can find one.”

“Are you still planning to hire an assistant?” he asks.

“It’s on the to-do list.”

“Why couldn’t she just get a new TV?” Dick is as baffled as I am.

“She doesn’t like learning new technology,” I say.

“I’m seventy-four years old. Even I can figure out these smart TVs these days.”

“Well, I’ll have you over when I’m setting up the new one, then.”

“When are you seeing Vaughn?” he asks, which, I suspect, is the real reason he’s calling.

“This weekend. And before you ask, I have plans with him, so you two will have to wait your turn.”

“We understand. We understand. I’m glad you’ll get a chance to reconnect with him.”

I try not to laugh. Reconnect? More like re-introduce. I’ll be lucky if my own son recognizes me when my face isn’t boxed into a phone screen.

“But if you want to stop by for dinner…”

I sigh. Loudly.

“Backing off,” he says. “What about I change the subject? You feeling good about being behind an anchor desk?”

After nine years of being an international correspondent, I’ll now be anchoring a show—in prime time, no less. Given the expense of divorce and the ever-rising cost of living in Manhattan, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, especially with the physical state my previous position left me in.

I was doing great for a while, but over the last year, arthritis has set in on my injured side, and my mobility has suffered accordingly. I’m now forced to walk with a cane, which made it increasingly difficult to work in the field.

Still, my reasons for coming home aren’t strictly related to my leg. I want to settle into the next phase of my life—be the father my son deserves, even if I couldn’t be the husband my wife wanted.

Travel, trauma, and guilt have defined the last several years of my life. While I can’t claim a soldier’s experience—I haven’t fought or killed anyone—I’ve witnessed tragedies I’ll never be able to erase from my memories. My deepest hope is that offloading what I’ve learned about the world helps. The only way I know to do that is through writing—through work. Whether it’s with an extensively researched article, an opinion piece, or the book I’m nearly done with, getting my feelings out of my head and into words feels like all I can do to piece myself back together, even if it can’t change the world.

Now, with a voice in prime time news, I’ll be able to reach more people.

“I’m looking forward to the job itself. Being recognized more often…not sure how I feel about that.” I’m an extremely private person, and I’m already recognized more often than I like. I’m not an A-list celebrity by any means, but in this town, my left-leaning network is popular. Having groceries delivered is one way I can maintain some privacy, but like Dick reminded me, having an assistant to help me manage my social media and run errands would give me the time and space to work on my writing on the days I can’t see Vaughn.

“I hope you’re still able to take some time for yourself.”

“Believe me, I plan to do that, too,” I tell him, and he does not need to know the details.

“You’ll let us know if you need anything? We’re always here if you need help with Vaughn.”

“I got it,” I tell Dick, trying not to snap with annoyance. I get that my return to town is going to severely cut into their time with their grandson since they’ve been acting as my parental proxy while I’ve been away, but they’ll need to lower their expectations, at least for the time being.

“And we’d love to have you for dinner soon,” Dick adds, as if he’s just remembering he hasn’t seen me in months.