Last Call for Frank Borowiec

There’s a photo from when I was two years old of my dad dangling me by the ankles and holding me upside down. In the photo, I’m cackling wildly, and my dad is smiling wide. My memory of that day has eroded in the thirty-three years that have passed since, but in that moment, someone had the foresight to snap a picture of us before the evidence of it became lost to the universe’s senseless void forever.

I carried that photo in my pocket as I walked up the driveway of my parents’ home. The house looked the same as it did in my childhood: Overgrown weeds reached up to my ankles like ominous serpents; the gray paint on the house’s exterior had faded to a dulled white; and my dad’s black-and-yellow motorcycle sat beneath the awning’s shade, protected from sunlight—perhaps the only thing he’d kept in good condition his whole life.

I rang the doorbell. My stomach fluttered like an unexpected itch at the thought of what I would see beyond the threshold. I wanted to run back to my car, to never set foot in the house again. For a moment, I imagined catching a glimpse of my mother’s shocked face as I scurried away like a scared field mouse, running, running the way I’ve always done, back to the hobbit hole of California from which I’d spent the previous night traveling.

The front door opened then, interrupting my train of thought. My mother smiled at me and held out her arms for a long-overdue embrace. “Oh, Katrina,” she said. “You look amazing.”

I laughed nervously, the butterflies in my gut having yet to subside. I looked down at my plain blue jeans, Converse sneakers, and orange flannel shirt. “It’s nothing special, Ma,” I said.

“Please. You look great. Take the compliment.” She reached up and touched my hair. “Looks like you’ve grown this out a bit.”

“A little, yeah.”

“Come on in. I’ve been baking.”

She led me into a house that smelled of cigarette smoke and blueberry pie. Piles of unfolded laundry lay on the couches and recliners; in the kitchen, I noticed a sink full of dirty dishes. “I’m sorry about the mess,” she said. “With your father’s condition, I haven’t had much energy to clean.”

“It’s okay, Ma,” I said. “I can help you clean up.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Okay, hon. Thanks.”

She stood upright suddenly, as if just remembering why I was there. She pointed down the hallway. “He’s in his room, probably sleeping—that’s about all he does anymore—but you can visit him. He may not remember you, honey, just know that. His memory has gone downhill since the diagnosis.”

“It’s happening fast, isn’t it?” I asked.

She nodded with pursed lips, looking like she was going to cry, but she shut down the tears before they could come. “Go see him,” she said.

In my father’s bedroom, I heard an oxygen tank hissing. Dad lay in a hospital bed, the head of his bed slightly elevated. He was snoring softly. He appeared altered from the way I remembered him: His beard had grown out, and the bald spot above his forehead was surrounded by stringy, unwashed tendrils of gray hair. His muscular form had been replaced by a bony silhouette, his biceps now sagging balloons. He looked weak and frail—much different from the strong football-player physique he’d once carried.

“Hey, Dad,” I whispered. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t hear me, that he would keep sleeping, and his slack-jawed expression would be the last thing I ever saw of him. But his eyes flickered open like blinds on a window, and soon, he turned his head to look at me.

“Not sure if you remember me,” I said. “It’s Katrina.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Ka-Katrina…?”

“Your daughter.”

He appeared puzzled for a moment, trying to remember. “Daughter…”

He inhaled suddenly, a wheezing sound emanating from behind his lips. “Last call…” he whispered.

I leaned in close. “What’d you say, Dad?”

“Last call for… Frank Borowiec…”

“That’s you, Dad. That’s your name.”

“My name?”

“Yes.”

“Frank… Frank Borowiec…”

I smiled sorrowfully. “You don’t remember much anymore, do you?”

Dad’s lips fluttered like a bird’s wings as he struggled to say what was on his mind. His eyes wandered to the shadows of the bedroom. “Last call for… Frank Borowiec…”

Mom’s voice suddenly filled the empty space between our words. “He’s been saying that for days,” she said. “Probably has something to do with his bar buddies or his motorcycle crew. I don’t know, he never told me much. I just know he spent a lot of time at the bar in recent years.”

She entered the bedroom carrying a syringe half-filled with discolored liquid. “Frank?” she said to my dad. “It’s time for your medicine, dear.”

Dad’s lips spread slightly as my mother pushed the contents of the syringe into his mouth. “It’s for pain,” she explained to me. “If he doesn’t take it, the pain is too great for him to bear and he panics.”

She used a tissue to wipe slobber from his mouth and disposed of it. Mom and I stood next to him for a few minutes, unsure of what to say. Dad stared blankly at the wall across the room, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular anymore. He seemed to have forgotten we were there.

In the silence, my gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the sky was dark with heavy monsoon clouds, threatening a downpour. When the silence became too heavy, Mom and I stepped into the hallway.

“He seems tired,” I said. “Maybe I should come back another day.”

“This is just how he is now, Katrina,” Mom replied. “And it will only get worse from here. Now is as good a time to see him as any.”

“How long do you think he has?” I asked.

Mom shrugged. “The hospice nurse says he has a handful of days left, maybe. For now, he’s still drinking, but he stopped eating a couple days ago. Once he stops drinking, it’s only a matter of time.”

She placed a hand on my shoulder, then pulled me in for another hug. “You know he loves you, right? You know how proud he is of you?”

I didn’t, but I said I did to comfort her. Lying seemed easier than admitting the truth. It’s strange how we grow into adults and tell white lies to placate the people who created us, to make them feel like they did right by us, even in the times they didn’t.

“I almost forgot,” Mom said, and she disappeared into another room. A minute later, she returned carrying an old, tattered Halloween costume. “This was yours when you were little,” she said. “Power Rangers. You were obsessed with the Red Ranger. Your dad and I got a kick out of watching you wear it every day.”

She handed me the silky cloth, which was riddled with holes and faded from frequent wash cycles. I grinned. “I can’t believe you kept this.”

“It’s yours to have now. I’ve carried it with me long enough.” She smiled. “You sure were a handsome boy, weren’t you?”

She caught herself, waved her arms as if in admission of guilt. “I’m sorry. That was before… well…”

“Before I transitioned, Ma. You can say it.”

“Yeah.” She nodded sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s hard getting used to something like this.”

Mom sighed. “I know your father has been… well, stubborn about it. He’s always been that way, even from the first day we met. But he loves you, hon. Don’t forget that.”

“Okay.”

“And,” she continued, “I think he could use a reminder that you love him, too. So… take all the time you need with him, okay?”

I nodded, and Mom excused herself to the kitchen once again.

I walked back into Dad’s room, found him resting with his eyes closed. I took out the photo of me as a young boy, my fair hair falling toward the earth beneath my red, smiling face as Dad held me upside down. Gently, I situated the photo between my father’s fingers. Then I backed away from his bed, trying not to disturb him.

I caught a glimpse of the backyard through his window. A gentle rain pattered on piles of firewood that lay at the far corner of the yard. The old shed at the back looked more dilapidated than ever; one of its windows was shattered and the roof sagged, threatening to cave in. The family dog, Milo, was halfway in his dog house and sleeping, looking just as ancient and haggard as my father.

I’d spent most of my childhood in that backyard, riding bikes, tending to the garden, pulling weeds and raking leaves—activities Dad believed were quintessential to building my character and making me into a man. I never told him that the backyard was where I first felt like a girl stuck in a boy’s body. I never told him that while he was at work one day, I first kissed a boy behind the shed; or that I’d snuck into Mom’s room for an entire summer and tried on her dresses and shoes, and I liked the feeling I got when I looked in the mirror and saw the real me smiling back; or that I’ve spent my whole life battling the urge to hide my true self in the closet, all so I can placate every face that reminds me of my father’s.

I never told him a lot of things.

“Curtis…”

My dad’s voice pierced through my thoughts, his tone uneasy and weak. I turned around and found him concentrating on the photo I’d put in his hand.

“Curtis…” he whispered again.

I approached his side of the bed. “You remember?” I asked.

His expression appeared dazed, and he repeated what I said: “Remember…”

He pressed a trembling finger to the photo. For only the second time that day, my father looked me in the eyes, as if searching for answers only I could provide.

“What do you remember, Dad?” I asked.

“Last… Last call…”

I shifted the photo so he could see it better and pointed at it. “That’s you and Curtis. He was your only son, back when he was a little boy.”

“S-S-Son…”

“Yes. What do you remember about him?”

“S-S-S-” Dad licked his lips, stumbling over the word. “Last call for… L-Last call…”

I exhaled quietly, looking down at my hands which were now folded in my lap. “He’s all grown up now. He looks a lot different, though. You probably wouldn’t recognize him anymore. He went through some changes—his voice is different and his hair is longer, and he doesn’t look like the man you thought he’d be.”

I pursed my lips, feeling old resentments building at that last phrase: He doesn’t look like the man you thought he’d be.

I couldn’t bring myself to mention the last time Dad and I had talked two Christmases ago—about the final words we’d exchanged, venomous and angry. I never told him it was the worst Christmas of my life, that I’d gone home in tears, vowing never to speak to the old man again. It was the first time he’d seen the real me, dressed in a skirt and a matching red blouse, with long hair and fancy shoes and a renewed sense of love for myself in my new identity. In the years after that Christmas and dozens of therapy sessions, I would come to remember details of our last conversation—how it started, how it proceeded, and most of all how it ended.

That hippie-dippy California culture is getting to your head, son. You think just because you read the liberal newspapers and come strutting into my house looking like a queer that you’ve got a right to call yourself a woman? I didn’t go through the trouble of raising a son just so he can force me to call him my daughter.

I remembered every word of the conversation, having rehashed it in therapy more than once in a failed attempt to gain answers and clarity, but receiving neither. It seemed all I had inherited was a splintered soul that had been nearly squashed into oblivion. There was no love in our final exchange, no understanding for what had been versus what had come to be. A father’s words sting deeper than any other words spoken into the universe.

In some other dimension, I imagined myself sitting or standing in this room, telling Dad about all the ways he had wronged me. I envisioned him lying there in his bed, helpless against the onslaught of my fury. I was not a son but a daughter—a healthy woman who had long surpassed the shy, timid creature from the snapshot moment in the photo he held in his hands. Would he have been proud of me now, two years later? Would he have thought differently of me if I had the courage to stand up for myself?

Looking at him now, he looked helpless, like the child I’d once been. I leaned down and kissed his forehead. Then I took his hands in mine, squeezed them gently. Together, we held the photo.

I couldn’t help wondering how many “last calls” he’d heard in the bar over the last two years. I wondered if there were times when he looked at his phone, much like I did on desperate lonely nights, and considered calling me, but ordered another beer or a shot of whiskey instead. I realized I would never know the truth. He couldn’t offer me his answers, and he could no longer accept or understand mine.

Mom came into the room and sat with us. She draped the Red Ranger costume over our hands and rested her head on my shoulder. “Thank you for coming today, Katrina,” she said. “You’ll always be his little boy, but to me, you’re the best daughter a mother could ask for.”

I cried for a long time, feeling my mother hug me tightly.

After a while, my father croaked out the only words he knew how to say anymore: “Last call for… Frank Borowiec…”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said through my tears. “Last call.”