The phone shivered with its first tentative ring, then burst into a relentless, endless trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the cramped bedroom like glass. Stephen shut his eyes. It was herEthel, the name that seemed to have leapt straight out of a Victorian romance. He had met her only twice, and in a moment of foolishness and fleeting weakness had swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately, no one else had. It was as if the world had erased him from its address book, leaving him alone with that intrusive melody and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the nagging tone. He wanted nothing more than to hurl the handset out the window, smash it on the pavement until only shards of glass and plastic remained. If he couldnt mend his life, perhaps he could at least break the thing that tethered him to the outside world.
But the phone kept ringing.
Stephen swung out of bed and walked toward the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing even louder, almost defiant. Come on, answer it, it seemed to challenge. He obeyed some ancient reflex and lifted the receiver.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree voice chirped, cutting through the silence with its nonchalance. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Stephen muttered.
Then why did you come over? Ethel asked, and Stephen imagined a sly smile playing on her lips.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snapped, his voice raw. Whats so hard to understand? Youre driving me mad with your calls!
I just feel youre at home and that youre not well, she said.
And what else do you feel? a venomous sarcasm dripped from his tone.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he scoffed.
He wanted to slam the handset down, curse with every filthy word he could muster. Those three weeks of daily calls had fallen on the very bottom of his life, a time when nothing seemed worth doing: no work, no idleness, no food, no drink. All he longed for was to disappear, to evaporate, to stop being a speck in the giant, indifferent meat grinder of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell flat and weary, what do you want from me? What?
A brief pause lingered on the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Dont speak for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel!
Then stop feeling! his patience snapped. Who are you to feel? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help the old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. And leave me be. Got it?
The silence in the receiver grew thick, heavy, then gave way to a couple of short beeps. She hung up.
Brilliant, Stephen thought, shes the one who barged in uninvited.
That day no one called. No one called the next. Ethel didnt ring a day, a week, or a month later.
And the silence he had so craved pressed against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It offered no rescue, only loneliness. In the evenings he found his eyes lingering on the phone, waiting. Inside a ridiculous, humiliating hope grew: maybe now just now
He even stopped going out at night, fearing he might miss a possible call. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and be hurt forever. The word forever frightened him more than the stray dogs that seemed to sniff out his vulnerability.
Soon another plague arriveda need to speak his mind, to pour out the black, sticky mass that had been building inside. But to whom? A neighbour? He lived in a simple world of wages, football and women. A happy chap.
So Stephen began talking to himself, aloud, in his empty flat, his voice sounding hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You kicked her away, roughly and without courtesy.
But she called every day! Persistently! So she must have cared, right?
You told her she wasnt needed. You brushed away a hand reaching out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, raged at himself. In the end his inner interlocutorhimselfwon. It forced him to admit a simple, chilling truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath of air for a drowning man, proof that he still existed for someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Ethel didnt call.
Evenings found Stephen staring at the phone, the silence inside compressing into a single, mute scream. Please call please he whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
He collapsed onto his bed long after midnight, never seeing the miracle hed hoped for. He drifted into a nervous, restless sleep, and thought he heard the ring again.
He snapped awake. He wasnt asleep. The phone rang, truly this timesharp, insistent, alive. He lunged for it.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hi, came the same longforgotten voice. Did you call me?
Stephen shut his eyes. A smile crept across his face, the first in weeksbitter, weary, yet profoundly relieved.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I called.
A pause followed, different from the earlier heavy, reproachful one. This one was alive, taut like a string, but without hostility. He could hear her quiet, steady breathing on the line, and his own heartbeatloud, uneven.
I, he faltered, searching for words that werent excuses or fresh barbs, just plain truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, her voice came soft but firm, without a hint of triumph. I was hurting too, but I decided I couldnt be the one to dial first. That should be your choice.
He pictured her, perhaps also clutching a phone, battling the urge to call him. The image struck him as oddly moving.
Im sorry, he breathed, the hardest word hed ever spoken, scorching his throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For being such a fool.
Accepted, she replied, a faint, forgiving smile in her tone. Though yes, I was a bit rude. I nearly broke the kettle in my frustration.
He laughed, short and relieved. The mundane, absurd detail snapped him back to reality.
Is it okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Okay. Ill treat it like a jewel now.
They fell silent again, but this silence was shared, a mutual listening.
Stephen her voice grew serious again. Whats happening? Really?
He closed his eyes. Earlier that question would have sparked rage; now it only stirred a strange weakness and the urge to finally speak out.
Everything and nothing, he said slowly, sliding onto the floor, back against the sofa. Work thats turned into hell. Debts that pile up like snowballs. Feeling like Im teetering on a cliff, ready to fall. A void inside, as if Ive burnt out. I want nothing. No one.
He spoke at length, in fragments, not crying, just stating facts as a doctor would note a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone listenedwithout interrupting, without offering platitudes or pull yourself together. Just listening.
When he fell silent, the line held only her breathing.
Thank you, Ethel finally said. For saying that.
Now you understand why I was a wreck? he asked, a bitter grin on his lips.
I do. Its no excuse for rudeness, she replied, her tone firm again. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do with it? he asked, curiosity waking.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open the window for at least five minutes. Fresh air is vital for the brain, and you seem to be starving for it.
Stephen obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, he said.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end. Then well figure out the job, the debts, that abyss youve been staring into.
Her voice held no pity, no coddlingjust solid confidence, as firm as stone. In that confidence lay the strength he had lacked.
He padded to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, set the kettle on, wrestled with a stubborn window, and let cool, rainscented air drift into the flat. He took those first small steps forwardtoward life.
And he realized it was only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he didnt feel alone in his crumbling keep. A hand was reaching in from the outside, and at last he was ready to take it.
