thanks for the encouragement
She’d been gone only a short time. To me it seemed forever. It was at least long enough that I feared I’d forget what her voice sounded like any day. I was stubborn, and angry, even bitter.
Not him though. I thought he was naïve to still have hope. I’d given up soon after her short-lived effort died. Somehow he never did. Naivety, I thought.
He dialed. Time dragged. She answered.
My heart jumped. I pushed it back down quickly so he wouldn’t notice. Trying to be inconspicuous I studied him. He filled with excitement when he made his request of her.
I knew what she’d say. I remembered her tones, her ups and downs, and where she’d pause. I remembered the shape of her lips, even. They looked like mine, just more worn. I could see them moving. I imagined the wrinkle lines around her mouth from smiling. I saw one of her curls fall and brush against her skin when she adjusted the phone, realizing it was only him. It was all burned in my mind.
Sometimes I’d even imitate her, but worse, sometimes I’d catch myself sounding like her unintentionally and stop. I hated to hear her in me. I hated to see her in me. I’d try to shake her out of myself, forget about her.
He gripped the phone with both hands so hard that his knuckles were turning white, leaving his fingertips bright pink. I imagined him gripping her legs that way if she were here, begging her to pick him up so he could feel her hair and smell thay smell only your mom has.
I lurked, pretending to read. I ached to hear her voice. I listened as hard as I could without letting on. I strained my ears until they hurt. I wished he would loosen his grip on the receiver so the sound of her voice would pour out and fill the room.
His cheeks started to crumble. He turned his lashes down. They were sticking together in clumps from the wetness and shining. He pressed his lips together and they turned slightly downward as his chin filled with dimples like those in a golf ball. Leaning forward, his shoulders rose up, and his chin down, like he was trying to hide inside himself.
I knew that never worked.
Ok, he said in the most even voice he had. He hung up the phone and stepped down off the chair he used to reach it. Only a few years his elder, I stared at him, burning with anger and resentment at the power she’d always have.
He squeezed my waist so hard I thought my hip bones might tear through my skin. I felt him make little fists around the fabric of my shirt, stretching it. Hunching, he pressed his face into my stomach. I could feel his lungs choking out hot, moist air that dampened my skin.
I closed my eyes and my throat. Things were always trying to escape through my throat. I felt them pushing up until it hurt. I squeezed him.
Sadness soaked through. More than anything, I wished it would run out from between us, and seep into the carpet.