“Hi, daddy! Call me when you land! I’ve got something I want to tell you – to you, not in a message.” I smiled. “Oh, and Marie’s being bad.” And just as quickly my smile vanished.
“Erica, that’s enough.” Eleanor took back the phone. “She’s excited about her game.”
In the background I could hear Erica chime back in. “Mom, don’t tell him!”
“I won’t. Sorry, Nelson, she’s really excited and she was hoping maybe you had already landed. I couldn’t convince her to wait. You should really call when you land. It would be great if you could say goodnight to your daughters before I put them to bed. And don’t worry about Marie. She made a scene at the restaurant after Erica’s game. Nothing serious. She just knocked over her plate and got upset. Anyway, please don’t worry. Everything’s fine. Call us. Love you.”
“I love you, too.” I knew that she couldn’t hear me. She would probably laugh at me if she knew I talked back to her over voicemail. Not in a malicious way, but still. I could be a bit of a sap, sometimes.
I stared once more at the phone. There were still four more voicemails, but they did not seem as important as they had earlier. My calm slowly eased back into place. My family was safe.
I looked at the discarded furniture by my feet. As always, I had let my imagination run wild, and now what did I have to show for it? A broken nightstand, a cracked lamp, a bruised head, and a cut knuckle. I groaned. That furniture would be coming out of my paycheck. How was I going to explain that one?
I grabbed another small bottle of bourbon from the mini-fridge and downed a quick swig. After the stress of the night, I deserved it. Everything would be okay. I knew that then, and I could finally take a moment to breathe before returning to the messages waiting on my phone.
As the alcohol eased its way into my system, my nerves loosened ever so slightly. It happened pretty fast, though whether that easing of tension actually came from the alcohol or from a placebo effect I could not say. What I did know was that Dr. Smith wouldn’t have approved of this particular medication method. He had referred me to something different altogether, but still this worked… a little bit.
I returned to the bathroom for another tap water chaser. That downed, I dabbed at my hand with a hotel towel. As I did, I couldn’t help but to wonder if the hotel would charge for the bloody towel as well. In the end it didn’t matter. I wrapped the cloth around my hand, filled another drinking glass from the sink, and began ruffling through my carry-on.
I pulled out a top layer consisting of a neatly folded business jacket and a pair of slacks, and tossed them on the bed, followed by a stack of relevant folders and paperwork, finally revealing my critical toiletry bag. This held all of my medications, deodorant, and other toiletry items that didn’t violate carry-on policy. I yanked it out from its careful pocket within the meticulous packing, tore open the zipper, and rummaged through the bag until at last I had it: my prescription bottle of Lorazepam. I immediately popped two pills, ignoring the half tablet dosage that the psychiatrist had recommended. I drank them down with the tap water and waited for the calm that was surely coming. Within an hour that fuzzy feeling would take over, and the anxiety would wash away. I’d be calling my family soon, and I needed to be certain that they wouldn’t sense the irrational panic that had stolen away most of my night.
As I waited for the pills to take effect, I left the bathroom, stepped over the discarded furniture, and walked to the curtained window. I didn’t bother pulling back the translucent fabric, but simply stared out through that thin veil into the Carolina night. My hotel was located on the edge of Charlotte, far enough out from the city that the trees still dominated any view. For a moment I closed my eyes and the dim shapes of the parking lot below were replaced with the still waters of the lake at Durant Nature Park. As I squinted, the flat surface of the lot surrounded by the silhouette of the woods allowed for the image to seem almost real, the pavement shifting to the still waters and the curb to its banks, as if I had returned to that place of calm. Again, the nothingness came and slowly I regained some measure of peace.
I turned away from the window and hopped onto the bed. Pushing aside the discarded pile from my carry-on, I reached over the edge of the mattress and grabbed my phone from the floor. The time had come to listen to the next message. I clicked the play button and waited.
Nothing.
I checked the screen to make sure that I had actually pressed play. I had. The play bar revealed the message to be ten seconds in. Total message length read to be 1:01. I pressed my ear back to the phone and continued to wait.
Still nothing.
I focused, straining to make out any sound.
Perhaps the hum of some machinery. The car maybe. The steady in and out of distant breathing. I couldn’t be sure what I heard. I stopped the message and clicked over to the next.
Again, silence greeted me. This time, as I listened, however, I could begin to make out the background chatter. A rumbling noise stopped, replaced by a dull beeping, then the unmistakable sound of a car door opening and gently shutting. A moment later I could just make out a light crunching noise, although what it was I could not say at the time. That crunching continued a minute more, then, finally, the message ended.
Eleanor had pocket-dialed me before, and obviously these messages came from misdials, but still something bothered me about the calls. I couldn’t name what it was out right, but something about them tugged at my nerves – a shock I’m sure, all things considered. Yet even knowing my own inclination to overreact, I couldn’t shake that feeling of unease.
The anxiety bubbled up again. Two shots of bourbon and two pills of Lorazepam and my damned nerves still held sway. Mine reigned the king of anxiety disorders. Not just king, but Lord and Emperor. All other disorders should bow before it, the unconquerable, unquenchable, unstoppable Anxiety with a capital A.
Why was I letting my mind wander, again? I clicked over to the next message.
More nothing. Just underneath that nothing, however, there it was: breathing. Definitely breathing this time. Wasn’t it? I couldn’t be imagining that could I? Don’t get carried away, Nelson.
A crunch. A snap. And faintly… voices. Eleanor and the girls’ voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying as their words came through muffled. More crunching, more movement, then the voices became clearer.
“…to bed. It’s late and we have a big day tomorrow.” I could hear Eleanor then. Had she taken the phone from her pocket? Was she going to realize that it was on? That she had called me?
“Good night, mom.” That voice belonged to Erica.
Then came Marie. “Night, night.” The t’s of night were barely pronounced, making it come out more “nigh, nigh.”
“Good night girls. I’ll be up in a --”
Click.
The message ended. Eleanor hadn’t noticed the phone.
I wanted to call her, but one more message remained. Did she realize that she had pocket-dialed me? Was the last call her telling me not to worry again? She would have known that this many calls would have me on edge – especially on a travel day. Of course, she would also need me to try; to try not to worry so much; to just try. It was never that simple.
For a moment I felt the smallest hint of anger begin to push out my anxiety. I was trying. I was seeing that horrible Dr. Smith, which she had recommended. I was doing his stupid breathing exercises. I was even taking those pills from the psychiatrist, though I may not have told Eleanor about them. I was trying to be better, and the thought that she felt the need to remind me to try infuriated me.
Yet in the battle between anger and anxiety, anger quickly lost. I couldn’t hold onto an anger that came from words that I had simply imagined, words that she had not actually said, not this time. Anger lost as everything always lost to my nervous disposition. In the back of my mind that feeling of nagging suspicion tugged, reminding me that something was not right. The unnamable, unknowable source of my fear still remain
ed to be uncovered. The calls felt wrong somehow, and that certainty quickly buried anger in worry.
Jesus, Nelson. Snap out of it!
I had to come to my senses. So, Eleanor had pocket-dialed me. Wasn’t that a good thing? Erica had wanted to talk to her daddy after a softball game. She must have had a good play. My wife had called from a congratulatory post-game dinner, most likely after repeated requests from our eldest. Erica could be persistent; more she could be tenacious. She knew what she wanted at all times, and at all times she went for it. She got that from her mother. So Erica had won and Elly had called me. Simple. Marie had caused a scene while Elly left her first message, and so she had to hang up. She had called back so that I wouldn’t worry. Then she had accidentally pocket-dialed a couple times as she pulled up to the house, and again as she was ushering the girls to bed. Elly had only tried to call me from the restaurant, and then once from home. Three calls, not six, and two of those calls really should only count as one, a call and a call back. Two calls weren’t an emergency. Two calls were normal – no need to panic.
Even with all the logic laid out before me, the fear still won.
Why had she called me from the home phone? Her voice, it had picked up at the end of the last pocket-dial. She must have taken her cell phone from her pocket. Why didn’t she use her cell for the last call?
Be rational. The battery died. It made sense. She’d been pocket-dialing me, and maybe not just me, maybe a lot of people. The battery simply died and she had been forced to call back from the house line. It could easily be as simple as that.
So why was I still so nervous?
I had to play the final message – the message from ‘Home.’
SEVEN
I pressed play on the final message. All my nerves, and all my worries came down to this call. In a few short moments I would have my answers; I would know for sure if everything was okay, or if, for once, my panic had been justified. I hoped to prove my madness once again. That remained the better of the two options.
“Nelson, it’s me, again.” Eleanor’s voice came through cold. Crap. She was mad.
“It’s been over two and a half hours. You should have landed over forty minutes ago at the latest.” She paused for a moment, as if she didn’t know how to continue. Finally…
“I just put the girls to bed. Call me when you snap out of it.”
The line held for a moment more. Did she have something else to say?
“Call back soon. If the girls are still awake, I know they would love to speak to you.” Click.
I did not know whether to feel relieved or worried. Eleanor had been angry, but she was okay. Beyond what was obviously going to be a small spat, I had nothing in particular to fear. Yet, Eleanor had said nothing to answer my main burning question: why the house phone? I decided to move on. Pushing the question out of mind, I began to pick apart the message itself.
She had told me that the girls would love to speak to me – not her, but the girls. Perhaps she made the exclusion deliberately, and, if so, I did deserve it. My daughters loved me, but I was never home. I spent my time on the road or crippled by my own overactive nerves. If I had to hazard a guess as to why they loved me, I wouldn’t be able to think of a thing to say. I represented the epitome of the absentee father, both physically and emotionally.
Even more, I had become an absentee husband. There always seemed to be a good reason for not being there – one thing or another that required my attention – but that did not change the facts. No matter how much I loved her, my wife had been alone for a long time. In my effort to just get by, I had abandoned my entire family, my entire reason for being. Of course my wife didn’t want to speak to me.
How had it reached this point? I had to try harder. I knew it. I had to find a way to be there for them.
I clicked off of the voicemail tab. The screen blinked the time: ‘12:13 a.m.’
Shit!
Between my stress and listening to the messages (really picking apart the messages), I had wasted over thirty minutes. Eleanor would not be happy.
I began to dial when another prompt popped onto my screen.
1 Missed Call.
Voicemail.
Another voicemail. My stomach twisted. The calls would not stop – not even long enough for me to catch up on the messages being left. A part of me wanted to toss the phone aside and to hide under the covers, to cut myself off completely from the world at large. I had grown accustomed to fighting against this instinct. Hiding came naturally to me, my normal reaction to the stress of the world. Life felt more secure that way.
Tonight, that option would not do. This was not the outside world calling. This was my wife. This was my family.
I clicked back to the voicemail tab. The new message was from Eleanor – from her cell phone. She had just called while I was listening to the last message. I pressed play.
Silence. A low intake of breath sounded from the other end of the line. Perhaps. That could have still been my imagination. I wasn’t sure.
Then there it was – that crunching noise. All very low – barely audible.
The message length read ‘1:16.’ I slid the slider over halfway through the message. Still I heard only silence and the faint sounds of the unknown.
The fear seized hold again.
Three calls had come in from Eleanor’s cell, all lasting a little over a minute, and all characterized by what could have been low breathing, and a light crunching noise. All messages had sounded garbled. Moreover, if the cell phone hadn’t died, the question of the house phone became all the more important. If Eleanor had been pocket-dialing me, then she had the phone on her person. Another call from the cell meant that it still had power, and if she had the phone and it had power, then why bother with the house phone at all?
Of course, there was another possibility. She might not have her phone at all. Could it be that she hadn’t placed the last calls from the cell phone?
I tried to shake off the thought. I knew that my imagination was getting the better of me, making way too much of this whole affair. Still, I also knew of only one way to put the matter to rest.
I stopped the playback and clicked over to my Favorites tab. Elly’s cell held the first spot in a short list of numbers, but I couldn’t press that button. That number felt wrong. I hesitated, ready to call and yet unable to do so. I flipped over to my contacts list, and tabbed down to the H’s until I found an option that I rarely used:
Home.
SIX
With the decision made, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet tangling in the sheets and dumping the bedspread half off the mattress and my pile of luggage with it. I tapped ‘Home’ and waited, hunched over with the phone tight to my ear, as on the other end of the line the ringing began.
Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello.” The greeting sounded off somehow, almost half a question and weighed down by sleep. Had I woke her? She repeated herself into the silence. "Hello?
“Hi. It’s me.” My heart raced. All was okay. Elly was fine.
“Nelson.” The sleep began to fade from her voice, but something else rose to replace it: the coldness from her message. “It’s late.”
“I know.” The words stuck in my throat, raspy and weak. Conflict had never been my forte, and I could sense her anger. No, anger wasn’t right; I sensed her disappointment, and somehow that made it worse. I pushed forward. “I just got your messages. I wanted to call back.”
“The girls are asleep. You missed them.”
“You know Erica, she’s probably still sneaking in a chapter of a book by the night-light.” A weak laugh broke through my anxiety, if only for a moment. I wished that I could be there with her now, peeking through the crack in the door and silently watching as Erica hid under her covers as the dim glow of the nightlight shone through, revealing her deception. I always remained so still as I watched, careful not to reveal myself. It felt right to let her believe that her post-bedtime
reading remained a secret.
This one thing Erica took from me and it made me oddly proud. I remembered so many nights of my father flicking off the lights after reading me that evening’s chapter, and me listening close to his retreating footsteps until, assured that I wouldn’t be found out, I’d pull the book off the shelf and read on. Usually I made it through a good three more chapters at least. The fact that he’d be back the next night rereading chapters that I had then already finished didn’t matter. Neither did the strain of reading by the weak, incandescent night-light. Those were fond memories, but the better memories were those of Erica doing the exact same thing.
“That’s going to kill her eyes, you know. You shouldn’t encourage it.”
“Reading?” I replied. “I shouldn’t encourage reading? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” Her voice cut. She didn’t care about Erica ruining her eyes in that moment, not really, yet it appeared that was to be the battleground.
What was I doing? I simply wanted to hear Elly’s voice, to feel that light airy feeling, that indescribable sensation of joy that welled up within me every time I saw her. Then, even decades after we had first fallen in love, when I spoke with her, when I saw her, I could still feel like a teenage schoolboy with a crush. That’s what I wanted then. Instead, I could sense the argument brewing, see it as if watching myself from outside my body. I wanted to shut myself up, but the words kept coming.
“Let’s put the cost of glasses, contacts, and optometrist visits aside,” Eleanor continued. “Do you really want your daughter to grow up blind?”
“That’s a slight exaggeration.” What the hell? I shook my head and ran my fingers through my thinning hair. Foot meet your old friend, mouth.
Calling Mr. Nelson Pugh Page 3
