by Becky Monson
“Shut up,” I say. “I’ve made moves, just not the first one. Plus, it’s not like I’ve got some long list of lovers in my life.”
She scrunches her nose. “Gross. Never use the word lover again in my presence.”
“Oh yay, another word to add to the list,” I say. Hannah has a long list of words she hates. Panties being the top offender. I don’t know why she tells me—it only makes me want to say them more.
“So tell me, oh wise one, how do I make Dawson my lover,” I over-accentuate the word and then give her my best smirk.
Her eyes shoot daggers at me.
“Fine, sorry. Just … tell me what to do.”
“Make a move.”
I let my shoulders slump. “Yeah. I tried that, remember? And it kind of felt like not being able to jump out of a plane.”
“Maybe this will be good practice then. If you put yourself out there for Dawson, then maybe it will make you feel more daring and you’ll be able to jump.”
“That seems a little far-fetched. And besides, what if he rejects me? That would probably set me back.”
“Maybe,” she says, lifting her shoulders briefly. “But you’ll never know unless you try.”
“I guess,” I say, and then move to stand up from the couch. “I think I’ll go sleep on it.”
“Okay,” Hannah says. “I mean, it’s only ten thirty, but you do you, Grandma.”
In my room I lie down in my bed, pull out my phone, and start texting my mom. I tell her about Dawson and what a chicken I’ve become. I ask her if she has any sound advice she can offer.
I know what she’d say if she were here. Something like Seize the day or What have you got to lose? I can hear her voice so clearly in my head. I remember what she sounds like, what her skinny fingers felt like in my hand. The smell of her auburn hair. I hope I never lose those memories.
I scroll through my phone, looking at my one-sided conversation that goes back and back. As my eyelids start to feel heavy, I make a wish that she could write me back, just once. Even so, I’m grateful I have this little piece of her still.
Chapter 5
Maggie: Hi, Mom. Today is a new day, right? I never appreciated when you used to say that. Sorry about that.
I’m feeling a little lost this morning, and a little angry if I’m being honest. Maybe I’ve entered that anger phase of my grief. I don’t know what to think. I just don’t feel like me anymore. I know I’ve told you all this before. Sorry for the repeat. But it feels like no one understands. That might be the hardest part. I feel sort of alone in all this.
I know you’d tell me I’m not alone, if you could talk to me right now. I know you’d tell me to be strong and all that. But you’re not here. And no matter how hard I try to channel your strength, it doesn’t seem to be working.
Miss you, Mom. So much.
I hit send, feeling tears sting my eyes as I toss my phone toward the end of my bed and then lie back and stare up at the textured ceiling of my bedroom. My eyes move to the part that looks like a heart, right next to the fan. My eyes go there a lot. I often wonder if someone did it on purpose. I don’t know much about texturizing a ceiling, but it seems like it was more by chance.
I never noticed it until the first night I slept in my bed after my mom died. I’d been staying at the hospital with her, and then in my old bedroom at my parents’ house after she passed. I was trying to be a comfort to my dad, but really it was more comforting for me to be there. Devon stayed with us, too, for a while.
When I finally came back to the apartment, I lay down in my bed and just stared at the ceiling, and that’s when I saw it. That perfectly shaped heart. I wondered if it was meant to be—a little token from my mom, silly as it was.
But this morning I’m feeling a little cynical. And I’m seeing it for what it probably is. Just a happy mistake from a texturizing gun … or machine … or whatever the heck they use to do that.
It all feels contrived. All this texting I’ve been doing, all these signs I’ve been seeking. It feels like she can’t hear me. I believe in heaven; I believe she’s moved on to another place where she’s whole and no longer suffering. But right now, it all feels a bit far-fetched. Maybe I am in the anger phase.
I feel my phone vibrate at the end of my bed and I sit up to grab it, wondering what Hannah needs in the next room.
But it’s not from Hannah. My screen says I have a text from … my mom.
My mom? I scream and throw the phone down on my bed, watching as it bounces a couple of times before landing facedown.
I know it’s not from her, because even as hard as I’ve wished for that to be a thing, I know it’s not a thing.
Who could it be? Someone from my family, obviously. Only one of them would have access.
My dad, maybe? He might have been missing my mom and booted up her phone. But he doesn’t know her passcode—he could never remember it. It’s my grandma’s—my mom’s mom’s—birthday, which is why my dad can never remember. But also, my dad is terrible with all dates and numbers. Anytime he’d needed to open the phone when my mom was in the hospital, he’d have me or Chelsea do it, or call one of us for the passcode if we weren’t there. He said he didn’t need any more numbers in his head. Maybe he remembered? Or figured out how to bypass it? That doesn’t sound like him.
But it must be him. And that means … oh gosh, that means he’s read my thought dumps—the texts I’ve been sending to my mom. And he thinks I need mental help, which, let’s face it, I probably do.
He’s now texted me back to tell me we need to talk. He’ll probably never look at me the same. From now on, I’ll be the daughter that texted her dead mom’s phone. This is how he will always think of me.
I need to take a breath—take a moment. If I really think about it, nothing here points to my dad. He’s not very tech savvy, and he really is so terrible at remembering numbers. It’s possible that it’s not him.
Which means, even worse … it’s Devon. Or Chelsea. Oh, please don’t let it be Chelsea. Anyone but her. I take it back. I hope it’s my dad.
I feel sick to my stomach as I reach for the phone. I need to know. I have so much damage control to do. So much explaining.
I pick up the phone, put in my passcode, and click on my texting app. The one that now has a little “1” in the corner, notifying me that I have a message.
I puff air out my mouth and click on my mom’s name, highlighted at the top.
Mom: Hey there. So, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I just recently changed my number, and this is the number they gave me.
What? I look down at my phone, and then up at my white farmhouse-style dresser across the room, and then down at my phone again. I quickly text back.
Maggie: This must be a mistake. This number belongs to my mom.
It belonged to my mom, I guess. But it’s still hers. My dad told me he kept the number. I asked him to keep it for a while, and he said he would. It’s only been three months since she passed. He didn’t cancel her line, did he? Surely this must wrong.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Mom: I figured that, but I just got a new phone and a new number, and this is the number they assigned me.
I swallow, feeling confused. My brain suddenly feels like it’s waterlogged.
My phone vibrates again.
Mom: I’m really sorry about your mom, by the way.
I put a hand to my chest, my breaths coming in rapid succession. How can this be? This must be a mistake. How could this person have my mom’s number? And if my dad did, by some awful chance, cancel her account at some point, wouldn’t my texts start coming back to me as undeliverable? I’m so confused.
I pick up the phone and text back.
Maggie: I think there’s been some kind of mistake. This number shouldn’t have been given out.
I look up again at my dresser. My mom’s dark wood jewelry box is sitting on the top. We all got to take something after she died. Something to have that was hers
. I chose the jewelry box because she’s had it since I was young. It’s scratched and well used, but every time I look at it, it reminds me of her. It’s also where my necklace, the one with her initial, currently hangs.
I take a few cleansing breaths, using the jewelry box as a focal point. There’s clearly been a mistake.
I pull up my dad’s number and call him.
“Magpie,” he says when he answers.
“Did you end Mom’s phone contract?” I begin with no preamble. I don’t have time for small talk.
There’s silence on the end of the line.
“Dad?”
“I’m here,” he says.
“Did you get rid of Mom’s phone number?” I ask again, with an unmistakable accusatory note in my voice.
“I did,” he says on a breath. “It … it was a waste, Mags. There was no reason to keep it.”
“Dad!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I asked you to keep it.” I feel tears prick my eyes.
“Why did you want to keep it so badly?”
There’s too much to explain and, honestly, I don’t want to tell him right now. I may never want to tell him.
“It’s … nothing. When?”
“When?”
“When did you get rid of it?”
Silence again.
“Dad?”
“Um …” I can see him in my head, rubbing his chin the way he does when he’s been caught.
“Dad?”
“About three months ago,” he says.
I let out a gasp, throwing my phone on my bed again.
I can hear him saying my name, his voice sounding tiny and far away.
Damage control. Must do damage control.
I pick my phone back up and hear him say, “How did you find out?”
“I called it. To hear her voicemail.” The lie rolls off my tongue.
I hadn’t actually done that yet, because hearing her voice felt like too much. I have a bunch of her voice mails saved for a rainy day but haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to any.
My dad takes a breath. “Oh, Magpie,” he says, his voice cracking just slightly.
“I don’t understand why you got rid of her number,” I say, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice.
“I didn’t understand why you wanted to keep it, honestly. She couldn’t take it with her. Seemed … kinda silly.”
I exhale slowly, a single tear falling down my cheek. I focus again on the jewelry box.
I know it didn’t make sense, even when I asked for him to keep the phone. But it felt too soon to get rid of it. It felt so final. Chelsea and Devon agreed with me. At least I thought they did. Now that I think of it, it could have been only me petitioning to keep the phone.
“It’s … I just …” I stammer over my words, not sure what to say.
“It’s just a phone, Mags.”
I know this; I know it’s just a phone. But it was her phone. My mom’s. And now it’s not. No one really understands.
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s just a phone.”
I tell my dad that I love him and that I’ll see him at work. I hang up and lie back dramatically on my pillow. After a bit, I pick up my phone and text the question I really need an answer to.
Maggie: How long have you had this number?
Mom: …
I wait, watching the three dots stare at me. They appear and then disappear, only to reappear again.
I stare up at the ceiling while I await the answer. After a minute of this, my phone vibrates in my hand and I look down at the screen.
Mom: For about two weeks now
“TWO WEEKS?” I screech and cover my mouth with the hand not holding my phone.
Two weeks is a long time and a lot of texts. At least one a day. And maybe sometimes more, depending on how I was feeling at the time.
I think about all the things I could have talked about in the past two weeks. It’s so much my addled brain can’t even narrow it down right now.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Mom: I’m so sorry. I should have told you before. I just felt bad. You seemed like you needed to vent.
I was definitely venting. What the hell did I tell this person?
I start scrolling back through the most recent texts I’ve sent to my mom. Seeing words pop out like worst period ever, and something about my boobs, and oh my gosh—an entire text yesterday about Dawson’s butt.
And for the past two weeks I was texting all this to a stranger. There was someone on the other end.
My phone vibrates again.
Mom: So, I thought I should tell you. I’m sorry it took me so long.
I stare at the phone. I have no idea what to say back. Do I get mad and say, Yeah, you should have said something, you stalker! Or No worries! Happens to us all! But this doesn’t happen to people. And this person isn’t really a stalker, because it’s not like they searched me out … even if they were reading my texts without saying anything. My secret texts to my mom who can’t even read them.
I decide to take the high road. It’s not this person’s fault I’m having a crisis.
Maggie: Thank you for telling me. Sorry for the mix-up.
Mom: No problem
I let out a breath. Everything is fine. I’ll never see this person. It’s probably some middle-aged woman or something. Or maybe a grandma. I don’t owe them any explanations. Although I’m sure whoever it is can gather exactly what was happening.
I look down at my phone, and the three dots are back. My phone vibrates as a new text comes in.
Mom: Just FYI—from a guy’s perspective, I think you should definitely tell Dawson how you feel.
My eyes go wide. I drop my phone, pull the pillow from under my head, and scream as loudly as I can into it.
So, not a grandma. Not even a woman. A guy. A man. I’ve been texting my deepest thoughts … to a man. A stranger man.
That’s it. I need to escape. I need a plan. I’ve been living the past year like a nun—I might as well be one. Sister Maggie has a ring to it.
My phone vibrates again. I pull the pillow off my face to look at it.
Mom: I hope that wasn’t too forward. Sorry again. About your mom.
Maggie: Thank you. Can you possibly delete all the texts I sent your phone? Please?
Mom: Of course
Maggie: Thanks. I feel super weird right now that I was texting a complete stranger.
Mom: I’m Chase. Now you have a name. So, not complete strangers.
I shake my head at my phone, picturing what this guy might look like on the other end. What would a guy who reads texts from a stranger for two weeks before telling her look like? He’s probably a computer genius or something. He wears short-sleeve button-up white shirts and knows every line of Star Wars. Not the prequels or the new sequels. Only the three originals. He’s a Star Wars puritan. That’s how I will picture this Chase person.
Like that show Chuck. No … Zachary Levi is much too handsome to be on the other end of my texts.
Maggie: I’m Maggie. Thanks again for deleting the texts.
Mom: Sure thing. Take care, Maggie.
I set my phone down next to me. Well, that’s that, then.
I feel so many things right now. Embarrassed would probably be the main feeling. But I also feel a bit betrayed by my dad. Well, betrayed seems a bit extreme. How about bamboozled? Although you can’t really be bamboozled if the person doing the bamboozling had no idea he was doing it. Maybe it’s more like disappointment.
I do feel some relief that my deepest thoughts aren’t out there on someone’s phone anymore, but along with that relief comes another realization: My mom’s phone is gone. There’s no more texting her. No more writing her in secret. The tether is gone.
Tears spring to my eyes. No more texts. How am I supposed to cope now? I guess I could journal. I could pretend like I’m still texting my mom on a journaling app or something. But even as I think that, I know it won
’t be the same. When I would write a text and hit send, it felt cathartic. It felt proactive, in a way. It felt like a connection.
And now that connection is gone.
Chapter 6
“That’s hilarious,” I declare to Dawson, laughing out loud.
We’re standing in the lobby of the shop, by the check-in desk. He’s wearing navy-blue coveralls and a bright smile. It honestly deserves awards, that smile of his.
He’s been telling me about something ridiculous that Chad did, and while it was funny, it wasn’t exactly hilarious. But this is me trying to flirt. I think. I’m rusty.
It’s been two weeks since I found out I was texting a complete stranger. It’s been hard. Harder than I thought. I’ve taken to talking to my mom in my head. But it doesn’t have the same feeling.
I deleted the number from my phone so I don’t accidentally send a text to that guy again. It felt like a stab in the gut when I hit that gray circle with the x in the center and deleted her number. It’s not her number anymore. It’s Chase’s.
At least I get to keep all the texts I sent her. Not that I plan on looking at them anytime soon. I don’t want to lose them, though. Or the texts she sent me before she died. I’m not ready to look at those either.
My dad tried to talk to me about it again when I saw him at work, but I just told him it was no big deal. Even though it was. I couldn’t tell him that I’ve been spam texting some poor guy. I get a little uncomfortable chill up my spine when I think about it. So I try really hard not to.
I guess I understand why my dad didn’t tell me he canceled the number. I would have thrown a fit. I still wanted to but had to stop myself from verbalizing my anger because there would have been too many questions. So I only told him that I would have liked to have known. He apologized again, and that was that.
Well, I wish that was that. It feels like there’s another part of my life that’s missing now, and the hole in my heart that formed when my mom died feels like it will never close.
But today I woke up and decided that despite this hole in my heart, I need to get back to my life. And since I’d like to have Dawson in my life—romantically speaking—I need to make my move.
