The sounds of suctioning fill the fluorescent-lit room as Stephanie uses the dental ejector tool to suck the remaining saliva, toothpaste, and blood traces from her patient’s gaped mouth. Stephanie’s father’s girlfriend, Tracy, rushes in through the doorway. “Your dad is on the roof!” she says.
Judging by the frantic look on Tracy’s face, Stephanie assumes her dad wasn’t on the roof to string holiday lights or repair broken shingles. She wipes the drool from her patient’s chin. “You’re good to go,” she says.
“And the pizza burn on the roof of my mouth?” the patient asks.
“It’ll heal on its own,” Stephanie says as she takes her rubber gloves off and darts out the door. Stephanie and Tracy scramble to the parking lot and hop into Tracy’s Ford Explorer. The car screeches out of the parking lot and onto the busy avenue. Stephanie sits in the passenger seat, gripping her knees. Between Tracy’s bright red hair and the copious amount of product emitting from it, Stephanie is surprised she doesn’t come with a “Highly Flammable” warning.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Tracy says. “I came home for my lunch break, and there he was.”
The car’s engine rumbles like a disgruntled bull. Stephanie observes the blinking orange Check Engine light on the dashboard. “Is this thing safe to drive?” she asks.
“I begged and begged him to come down,” Tracy says.
“And what did he say?” Stephanie asks.
He kept saying, “The view is nice up here.” The car makes a popping sound and fizzles to a halt. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tracy says, slamming the dashboard and stomping on the gas pedal.
“We’re about three blocks away,” Stephanie says. “We’ll have to get there on foot.”
“Can we really just leave the car here?” Tracy asks.
“Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere else,” Stephanie says.
They get out of the car, slam the doors shut, and run as fast as they can, Stephanie still in her dental scrubs and Tracy’s red hair remaining steadfast in the wind.
“I hope we’re not too late,” Tracy says. She takes her high heels off and continues traversing the sidewalk in her socks.
“Getting him to come down might be the problem,” Stephanie says, picking up speed.
Stephanie, out of breath, approaches the front yard of her childhood home and sees her father standing on the roof. “Hey Dad, what are you doing up there?”
“Hey, pumpkin,” he says.
Tracy catches up to Stephanie. Stephanie uses her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “It’s time to come down, Dad. Everything is going to be okay.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to jump. I’d rather stay up here.”
The neighbors gather around. A voice shrieks out from the crowd, “What’s going on?”
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “It’s none of your business, Shannon.”
Stephanie’s father gets down on his knees and lies on his side. “I think I’m going to take a nap up here,” he says. He closes his eyes and nearly rolls off the edge of the roof. The crowd gasps.
“Dad, I’m going to need you to stay upright,” Stephanie says.
Stephanie’s father gets back to his feet and takes a deep breath. “I want to be closer to her,” he says.
“Who?” Tracy asks.
Stephanie’s father sighs. “Rita,” he says.
The neighbors retreat to their respective yards. Stephanie glances over at Tracy and sees the glow dissipate from her face. She gazes at the empty porch swing and thinks about how her father hadn’t even said her mother’s name out loud since the day she was cremated. She tries to recall the last time she was able to carry a smile, and her heart tugs on her chest. She looks up at her father as he loses himself in the sky. In this moment, Stephanie realizes her father may never come down. //
About the Author
Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Raritan Quarterly, Reed Magazine, The MacGuffin, The Coachella Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Vassar Review, FOLIO, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
About the Author
