I don't understand you

I've been trying to call my father all day. The decision about whether I will take a final exam early, or not, falls precariously into his hands. He may come to New York to visit his dying mother, he told me.

My grandmother has been dying for the past seven years. So far, she's survived two heart attacks and lung cancer. She's on an oxygen machine, and she'd continued to smoke cigarettes while on the oxygen machine, because apparently she forgot cigarettes were the reason she needed oxygen in the first place. She turned 80 on December 1, and I wanted to scream into the phone: HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, WOMAN? But because she's my grandmother and I respect the elderly, I merely expressed happiness over her birthday, amazement that she was only 80, and enthusiasm that she was feeling "all right." "All right" is fabulous, terrific even, if anyone manages to survive what this woman has survived.

If my father does come visit, it should be barely a problem to swing into Brooklyn from Long Island and pick me and all my stuff up. IF. IF. My father is the biggest flaker in the history of the universe, and that is not a title I bestow lightly. If he ever tries to make plans with me, I always have back up plans because I know he is not going to follow through. The man is the reason that I have not only a Plan B, but I have a Plan C, a Plan D, a Plan E, and, in some cases, Plans all the way until Z.

I would like to think that he'll be able to come get me. I tried bribing him with coffee, a cheek smooch (I never like giving him those), and even singing him a song. I don't know his reaction to those bribes yet, because I poured those promises into a voicemail, and have not heard back from him all day. He finally did call back, some minutes ago, but I think his phone is possessed because all I heard was a lot of white noise and what seemed like the sound of people walking.

I have finals this week, but I have to buy Christmas presents today if I want them to have the slightest chance of coming on time, and I've been shopping SnapFish and Amazon. I needed to know if my brother wants the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or if he's already read them, and I tried calling my dad again.

This time, he picked up and called me sweetie.

Sweetie.

Sweetie??

"We're eating, sweetie. Let me call you right back," he said.

"You didn't call me back all day," I accused.

"We were busy, sweetie. We're eating now. I'll call you back soon," he said.

I demand to talk to my brother, who is, however, also busy, with food in his mouth. My dad promises he'll call right back, and I, disgruntled, let them finish their meal in peace.

Sweetie.

Really? ... Really?

There's only one reason he'd call me "sweetie." That reason is his bizarre girlfriend, who is, as my older sister said, "quite alright if you don't have to see her or talk to her." He has a carefully sculpted image to upkeep, I suppose, as we all do, in some way or another.