Free I Thought You Were Dead by Pete Nelson Page A

had multiple PINs. Paul had only one personal identification number, 7285, which was his name if you dialed it on a telephone, and he used that PIN for all his various accounts. Carl’s PINs, his ATM password, his AOL password, others that Paul didn’t recognize, were listed alphabetically, including, after Citibank but before Discover, a PIN labeled “Dad’s Online Portfolio.” It was a relatively simple matter to hit the Print button and make a copy of the list. The bottomline, he’d reasoned, was that if he decided later that it was the wrong thing to do, he could always tear up the copy and undo the transgression, but if it was the right thing to do, he’d never get another chance.
    â€œHe said I was free to examine his records anytime I wanted to,” Paul explained to Stella.
    â€œThat may be what he said, but I doubt that’s what he meant,” Stella replied. “If you’re asking my opinion.”
    â€œI didn’t exactly think it through,” Paul said.
    â€œWell. You had a lot of other things on your mind,” Stella said. “With your dad in the hospital. You know that in a way, you’re lucky.”
    â€œHow am I lucky?”
    â€œNot everybody knows who their father was,” she said. He looked at her.
    â€œGerman shepherd,” Paul said. “Pretty sure.”
    â€œSo you’ve said,” she replied. “I would have liked to know more.”
    â€œI think you put your finger on it,” Paul told her. “I’m not saying I’m not lucky, but I think the hardest part was that I always had this fantasy that one day my dad and I would go fishing or something, and then we’d sit around the fire and drink fifty-year-old Macallan and have some big heart-to-heart. I know who he is, but I don’t feel like I know him. Or actually, it’s more like he doesn’t know me. And now I won’t get another chance.”
    â€œI thought your father doesn’t drink.”
    â€œIt’s just a fantasy,” Paul said.
    â€œAre you glad you went home?”
    â€œI suppose so. I couldn’t say for certain if he even knew I was there,” Paul said. “I think I went so I’d get credit for going. Like how you go to funerals because you’re afraid if you don’t, the dead guy’s ghost is going to point his bony finger at you and say, ‘Why weren’t you at my funeral?’ ”
    â€œWell, that’s just silly,” Stella said. “Of course he knew you were there. He’d know it even with his eyes closed.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œWell,” Stella said, “I know you’re there when my eyes are closed.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Stella said. “I just do. Pheromones. But I’ll bet you if I know, he’d know too. He’s your father.”
    He picked up her paw and squeezed it three times.
    â€œDo you know what that is?” he asked her.
    â€œThat’s my paw,” she said. “Are you going to tell me another word for part of a chicken?”
    â€œI mean the three squeezes,” Paul said. “It’s a secret signal my mother taught me when we were at the hospital. Three squeezes means ‘I love you.’ I guess they’ve been doing it with each other all their lives, waiting in lines in airports or sitting next to each other at weddings. They’d hold hands and give each other three squeezes. He did it in the hospital, right there while I was saying good-bye. The doctors said it could be a sign that he’s getting better.”
    Paul tried to remember the moment he’d held his father’s hand and felt it twitch. Had it twitched once? Twice? Three times perhaps? He couldn’t say.

Part 2

Spring/Summer
    Pain is the primary negative reinforcement nature uses to teach the lessons all species need to learn to survive. In a study done at UCLA and at Macquarie