If my father wants me he lifts his little handbell or passes a message through his day nurse, Yin-lu, who goes by the name of Lynette. Otherwise he waits for me to come into his room. I used to think her name was Wynette. For the first couple of weeks that’s what I called her. One day she took a pencil out of her pocket and wrote on a piece of paper – Lynette with a heavy double line under the Lyn part. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it sounds like Wynette.’ ‘You no listen, is all.’ * I sometimes wonder how he refers to me when asking Lynette to give me a message. Does he say ‘my daughter’ or ‘the woman in the kitchen’ or simply ‘her’. I can’t imagine him using my name. And I never use his – except in my mind where I can sometimes catch myself off guard still calling him Daddy. I can’t remember my parents addressing each other by first names either. In fact, I can barely remember them addressing each other at all. I know my mother used my father’s name, but only in his absence, when on the phone maybe, or if she wanted to be part of a general husband-themed conversation – Bob says.
