"Wrong number" I said.
My father watched me. "I don't think your mother is going to call." His eyes held me, his tone was slow and deliberate. "Don't bet on seeing her back east again."
"Why not?" I questioned.
He took a deep breath. "A hunch," he whispered.
"A Hunch! What do you mean a hunch?" I demanded.
"Relax James," He held up an open hand. "Don't get excited."
"I'm not excited!"
"The morning she left, she didn't say a word - not a single word - from the time we woke until she boarded her flight."
"So?" I asked.
"Don't you find that weird?"
"I don't know," I shrugged.
"I sat with her a few minutes at the gate before I got up and walked away. I'd call her bluff, she'd have say something; right?"
I nodded.
"She didn't say a word, not a word. I found a nook and watched her. She stared straight ahead. When it was time, she boarded without looking back."
"Wupty do, " I cried.
He walked out of the kitchen and returned holding a postcard. "This came in the mail this morning." He handed it to me. It was a typical view of San Francisco; a cable car climbed towards the picture taker. Alcatraz loomed in the Bay.
"Read the back," he said.
In my mother's handwriting it read: "I'll be longer than expected."
"She forgot my birthday," I whispered.
"Yeah that to. There's more," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked; confused.
"Doesn't anything look suspicious to you?"
"Besides forgetting my birthday?" I obsessed.
"Look at the postmark," he instructed.
"Santa Monica? "The trail is in Pleasanton, isn't it?"
"It is," he answered.
"Why would she send a postcard of San Francisco from Santa Monica? What is she doing in Santa Monica?" I questioned.
"Your guess is as good as mine." he ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I don't think she'll be coming back."
"What are we going to do?" I asked.
"I can tell you what I've done. I've canceled our credit cards. I'm not paying for your mother's trysts." A week later he showed me another postcard. This one of the famous Hollywood sign, also postmarked Santa Monica. On the back she scribbled "Rot in hell, prick!" To which my father said, "Your mother is such a fair weather Catholic."