I still recall the day the telephone line went dead. I kept dialing my mothers number, over and over, but each time a cold voice answered, The number is no longer in service. I hadnt spoken to her for two long years. My wife, Alice, had forced me to choose between her and my mother, and I had chosen Alice.
The message hit me like a damp cloth against my skin, and a cold sweat broke out beneath my white work shirt. I sat on a bench in the park, watching a gaggle of laughing teenagers drift past. I felt like a wild animal, bewildered by the world life, laughter, carefree moments none of it made any sense any longer. A letter lay on my lap. In bold block letters on the envelope was my name: George. A full stop after it, as my mother always did. She had written it in her neat, precise hand, each letter standing alone without any flourishes the sort of handwriting schoolchildren prided themselves on. The first line read: Dear George, my son. If you are reading this, I am no longer here
I choked on the words. I tried to hold back tears, but the rest of the letter would not let me.
That afternoon I went out for a bite, craving a proper fishandchip shop meal, the battered cod slathered in mushy peas and tartar sauce. As I stood at the revolving doors of the town centre, a figure seemed to step out onto the street my mother, whom I hadnt seen in two years. Her brown coat, dark wavy hair that fell just shy of her shoulders, the weary gait of a woman worn down by work and housework. She was the picture of the mother I had been haunted by for the last three months, appearing here and there in my thoughts, sometimes packing bags as if to leave, sometimes as a vague refuge I imagined I could cling to against imagined foes. She seemed distant, sad, not the steadfast protector I had once known.
Three months earlier a small, bruised creature I could not tell if it was a ferret or a rat had crept into my bedroom. It curled up against my pillow, its warm, halfhairy body a stark contrast to my revulsion, yet pity won out. I let it curl into a little ball beside my head. In the dark room I realised we had never kept rats or ferrets, and as I thought of it the animal vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. I swore I hadnt dreamed it.
Later that night, while Alice slept, I pulled up old photographs on my phone pictures of my mother and me, a family once whole. I didnt know what to think.
I lingered near the mall exit, hoping to catch up with the apparition of my mother, when a delivery driver asked the guard, Which floor is the appliances department? The guard replied, Third floor. I interjected, I work there. Whos the delivery for? Might be for me? The driver read the label on the parcel doubtfully: To George Whitaker. I handed over my passport, signed for the package, and stepped out onto the bustling street. Cars honked, chatter filled the air. I ripped open the parcel; inside was a note from my sister Lucy.
Mother died on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. You have always been a traitor to me.
12June. And today was 15September three whole months of silence.
A wave of nausea hit me, my head throbbed, and I nearly fainted, steadied only by the dusty, brick wall of the shopping centre. My mother, the woman who had given me endless love and protection, was gone. The words I am no longer your son echoed in my mind, a phrase I had shouted at her in a moment of angry pride.
I forgot about the fishandchips, the coffee, the hunger that had plagued me for hours. I could not bring myself to read the letter there; I trudged back to the park, sat down, and finally opened the envelope.
so I am no longer here. I have cancer, fourth stage. Today I felt a sudden surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say such a surge means the end is near.
George, dont blame yourself. I called your number countless times, hung up before it rang. We are both prisoners of pride. Even now, as I write, my pride wont let me pick up the phone, and you dont call. Perhaps you think of me not at all; perhaps you dont care, but you are still my son, and I cannot stop loving you.
I am sorry I never got along with Alice. I was wrong in places, and she is not an easy woman. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. I was probably a poor mother, given how easily you turned away. You have punished me enough, my son. It is enough now. Forgive me.
I would have liked, even in these last moments, to hear your voice
I wept, clenching my fist over my mouth. I had never felt unloved. My mother always found time to talk, soothe, listen, advise. She guarded my sister and me like a shewolf. When two schoolboys tried to bully me in fifth form, she caught one on the street, pressed a pocketknife to his ear and warned, Touch George again and Ill cut your ear off. She enrolled me in karate, teaching me to stand firm, to hide no weakness, only strength and, when needed, desperate courage.
I pressed the phone to my ear, imagined hearing her voice, and whispered, Im calling, Mother. Please answer. Im sorry for being such a wimp. Let this letter be a joke! The silence on the other end was as heavy as a burial vault, then the same cold words again: The number is no longer in service.
I screamed, No! I wont believe it! and dialed again, each time met with the same sterile reply.
Desperate, I called Lucy, only to be met with a shouted, Go to hell, you goat! before the line clicked dead.
I asked for leave from work and drove home. I stood on the doorstep, coat and shoes still on, my strength spent. Alice, off sick with our newborn, looked at me and asked, Why so early? Something happen, George? I could not bring the words out. Mothers dead, I finally managed. She clutched her chest, a feigned gasp that only irritated me. Did Lucy call? Whens the funeral? It happened three months ago. And no one told you? she snapped. I snapped back, Shut up! Dont speak of my family any more.
After a brief calm we agreed to travel to Lucys flat in the market town of Ashford, where our whole family had once lived. I drove like a madman, my anger flaring at everyone myself, my wife, my relatives, but most of all at Lucy. We burst into the flat, the one my mother had occupied before Lucy moved in. I slammed doors, my voice cracking.
You should have told me! You should have said Mother was ill! You filthy
I owe you nothing! It was your responsibility to keep in touch with Mother! Youre the wretch who abandoned the woman who raised you for this wench! Lucys eyes burned.
Alice tried to intervene, Lets just
No, Alice! Stay out of this! I shouted. Youre the one who left us to live in this squalid place, never cleaning, never cooking, always moaning about your postnatal blues. Youve made my mothers life a nightmare. Now you want us to stay?
I remembered how my mother had refused a wedding loan, how Alice, after the baby arrived, never left the bedroom, how she let the house fall into disarray, how my mother would slip in with the baby to soothe him, driving Alice mad. My mother had promised to swap the flat for a mortgage, then changed her mind, leaving us to scramble. The tension rose until Lucys brother, who had stayed out of family fights, finally shouted, Out! Get out of here!»
He pushed us both out, slammed the door, and left Lucy sobbing on the stairwell. Alice clutched her son, trembling. I sat on the grimy steps, tears streaking my face. She asked, Why were you silent? Why didnt you stand up for me? I could not answer.
We drove home in a heavy silence. I told Alice, A great part of this is your fault. Im also to blame, but you bear the heaviest burden. How can we live together now? She replied, The final decision was yours, not mine. Both you and Lucy are to blame. She should have told us!
The argument lasted the whole journey. Eventually I stopped returning home at all. I slept elsewhere, left messages that Alice never answered. A month passed, the only things keeping me tethered were the empty house and our little boy. I eventually returned, but I was cold, distant, the grief for my mother a constant shadow.
Now, from time to time, I still think I see my mother on the street, passing by without noticing me a phantom. Yesterday I thought I saw her on a commuter train, staring out the window as a crowd surged around her. I slipped between the passengers, heart tightening, only to realize it was another woman. The phantom remains out of reach.
Sometimes, out of habit, I dial the old number, hoping for a crackle, a faint ring from the void. The automated voice repeats, The number is no longer in service. I shout into the silence, I am your son! Mother, hear me! The line replies, Do not call this number again. Take comfort in the fact you still have a wife.
