A Sort of Homecoming “We know what no other animal knows, that we must die.” ~ Don DeLillo, White Noise
Joelle Renstrom
Friday June 2, 2006, 12:34 PM Pacific Standard Time. I’m taking my lunch break on the Cecil Green lawn at the University of British Columbia, where I currently work and have just finished graduate school. It’s a perfect day— seventy-five degrees and sunny, the ocean lapping gently in the background, flowers flanking the lawn. The smell of cut grass. Last night, my dad was admitted into the hospital with what his doctor thought was pneumonia. He’d been uncharacteristically sick with a cold for weeks—he’d even opted out of three consecutive Sunday golf outings, which was unheard of—and antibiotics weren’t working. His being in the hospital was disconcerting, but no one seemed particularly worried. These things happened. They’d be doing a chest x-ray this morning, just to be sure. Mom was supposed to call me to let me know everything was okay. I check my watch again. It’s 3:37 in Michigan. The ring echoes in my ear and then cuts to the answering machine when I try Mom and Dad’s house the second time. Like a horse that senses a coming storm, this disquiet has me wanting to fidget and stomp. I call my mom’s cell. She picks up but doesn’t say hello. In a strange, strangled voice she says, “It’s not pneumonia.” This is the moment that divides my life into before and after.
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