by Connie Lacy
I could see it clearly in my mind.
“Is the apple tree still there?” Kieran asked.
“I doubt it,” she said.
She slowed the car and turned onto a smaller road. The pavement was rough and loud under the tires. I refused to look out the window as we passed the cemetery. Then we pulled into the rutted, gravel driveway.
“Wow,” Kieran said. “The house looks so cool leaning to the left like that. Don’t tell me – your parents were Democrats.”
We all chuckled.
She parked under the big pecan tree. It was still nippy and the sky was as blue as it gets in Georgia. And it was quiet here in the country – different from Atlanta. No traffic noise. No airplanes roaring overhead. No beeping trucks backing up. No sirens blaring. Just a little breeze whispering through the branches above us. And, way off in the distance, I thought I heard the sound of children’s voices.
I imagined my mother as a little girl playing in this yard. Kickball, softball, jump rope, tag, hide and seek. All the games I’d heard her talk about. I had tramped through the woods behind the farm that led down to the creek. She had showed me the fort she built with her cousins and friends. What a magical childhood, I always thought, wishing I could’ve grown up like that.
Kieran pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a quick picture of me and Grandma beside the farmhouse. So he did keep something in those huge pockets.
“Great shot,” he said.
“Just don’t post it anywhere, please,” Grandma said.
“No way,” he replied. “So where was that apple tree?”
“Over there,” Grandma said, pointing across the back yard. “But it’s gone now.”
“Wish I could’ve seen it,” he said.
“It was a long time ago,” she said.
The mood was quiet. No longer the warm nostalgia of the car.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, anxious to get going.
I led the way to the screened porch. Grandma took her time examining each knick-knack, pot and glass. She stopped when she got to the dentures in the jar.
“Daddy’s teeth! They’re still here! He got mad one night at supper when he was, oh, in his seventies. He said ‘I can’t eat with these dad-blasted things, Mama! They hurt my mouth.’ And she said ‘what’re you gonna eat? Mashed bananas?’ And he said ‘why not? I like mashed bananas.’ And he took his choppers out right then and there – that’s what he called them – he took them out and plunked them in this jar. They sat on the sideboard by the table for a month. Mama kept thinking he’d be ashamed of the way he looked. But he was so funny. He said ‘that’s what old men are good for – slurpin’ their coffee real loud and gummin’ their bananas.’”
I saw Grandma’s mouth quiver slightly but the corners were turned up in a smile.
“I wish I could’ve met your father,” Kieran said. “Sounds like a real character.”
“Oh, he was,” she said. “He was, indeed. He’s been gone for twenty years and I still miss him every day.”
I’d never thought of that.
Tucked in a corner of her mind,
Daddy lives on through time
She loves him still
Always will
Father, protector and guide.
I jotted it down in my poem book.
Grandma and Kieran followed me into the kitchen. She wanted to tell us about everything. But my mind was on the telephone. So while she regaled him with stories about making homemade ice cream and stuff like that, I slipped away as casually as possible and made my way to the front parlor.
The candlestick telephone – and that’s what it was called, I Googled it – was sitting right where I’d left it. I crossed the room and stood beside it, wondering if it would ring again. But it was silent. I could hear Grandma and Kieran talking and laughing in the kitchen at the back of the house.
I couldn’t help but wonder: what if it was real? What if I could actually call my mother in the past? That would mean I could warn her, save her. If I could talk with her, maybe I could tell her not to leave me. I could feel the tears welling up. Okay, so it was crazy. It was far-fetched. But sometimes things that seem ridiculously far-fetched actually do come to pass, don’t they? Like the submarine and the helicopter. I felt like my lungs were about to burst and realized I was holding my breath.
It couldn’t hurt to give it a try. In fact, if there was even the most infinitesimal chance that it was real, I was obligated to try. To ignore that possibility would be unforgivable. And if it was a prank that someone was playing on me, so what! I reached out with my left hand, grasping the cold, faded, black metal base and then picked up the receiver with my right hand and put it to my ear. My hands were trembling as I waited to hear that voice. But there was nothing.
Then I remembered watching a very old movie with Grandma and I did what the lady in the movie did: I jiggled it. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a click and the woman’s voice in my ear.
“What year do you wish to call, please?” It was the same sweet voice I’d heard before.
I was suddenly struck dumb. Didn’t know what to say. Hadn’t thought about what year to call my mother.
“What year do you wish to call?” the woman’s voice said again, but she sounded so patient, not at all in a hurry.
“I…”
What should I say?
I stared across the room to the picture of my mother as a little girl with her mom and dad – my grandparents. Maybe I should call her when she was still very young, maybe try to influence her not to become a foreign correspondent. My mind was racing. What if I really could talk to her in the past? What if somehow I could convince her not to go off and leave me behind and get herself killed?
“Uh…”
Think! What age might be good to make some kind of impression? Before she was a teenager, maybe? When she was still a kid who might actually listen to someone? I closed my eyes.
“1975,” I blurted, remembering my mother was born in 1965.
“And what month and day?”
“Oh, I don’t care – middle of June, maybe?”
“And the name of the person you wish to call?”
“Jody McConnell.”
“Calling Jody McConnell in June, 1975.”
“It’s actually Abigail Jody McConnell,” I said.
“Calling Abigail Jody McConnell in June, 1975. Hold a moment, please, while I connect you.”
I felt like I had a bad case of stage fright, like when I stood up in front of my Social Studies class to give my report on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I wasn’t ready then and I wasn’t ready now. What would I say to my mom when she was just a ten-year-old kid? No, nine. She wouldn’t be ten until the fall. Why had I chosen nine years old? I felt like I had bugs crawling on my arms and legs.
I heard a phone ringing. It was a double ring. But it sounded more like loud buzzes. It kept ringing and ringing. This had to be bogus. Someone had seen us come in here. I could just picture it. There was a part of me that didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I pulled the receiver away from my ear and was about to hang up when a voice answered on the other end.
“Hello and whaddya want?”
It was an old man. That’s the way my great grandfather always answered the phone. Mom told me how Pap would scare her friends off answering the phone like that.
“Uh…”
“Well, speak up!” he barked.
“Pap?”
“This Peggy?” he asked.
Peggy? Peggy? That was my mother’s cousin. I had seen her at the funeral – the plump woman in the green dress with short brown hair.
“Yes, it’s me,” I lied.
“What’chu want?”
“Can I speak to… to… Jody?”
“Jody? Dangit! Why, all of a sudden, she gotta be called Jody? Tell me that! I’d like to know!”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Hold on. Gotta find ‘er.”
&
nbsp; There was a loud thunk.
“Abigail!” he bellowed. “Abigail! Telephone!”
What would I say? I tried hard to think of something. How could I make her want to do something when she grew up besides be a reporter? A reporter who wasn’t happy unless she was living some place where they didn’t speak English.
Then, before I could come up with any answers, I heard a screen door slam and footsteps. Then a scraping noise as someone picked up the phone.
“H’lo?”
I was filled with wonder. Could this really and truly be my own mother when she was a little girl? I pictured her in my mind like the photos I’d seen from her childhood – messy blonde hair pulled into a pony tail, loose strands dangling over her ears and long bangs on her forehead, a small nose and a know-it-all smile.
“Who’s there?” she said, panting into the phone. It was definitely a kid’s voice, but it had that husky quality my mother’s voice had.
“Mom?”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, uh… Jody, my name is Megan.”
“First off, the name’s Abby, though I’m not overly fond of it. Jody’s my middle name. Second off, I’m busy. I’ve got stuff to do. And I don’t know anyone by the name of Maybelle. So I’m gonna hang up now.”
“Wait!” I cried. “My name’s Megan. It’s spelled M-E-G-A-N.”
“I never even heard of a name like that, so it’s a sure sign I don’t know you.”
“Can’t you talk for just a minute?” My voice cracked.
“Why should I?”
Good question. Why, exactly, was I calling her on this, this… time telephone? What did I want to say? And why would a nine and a half year old girl want to talk with a stranger who called her out of the blue?
“Listen, I gotta go,” she said. “No offense or nothin’, but I’ve got my two best amigos over right now and they’re waitin’ for me. We’re playin’ kickball and then we’re goin’ down by the creek to play Double Dog Dare. So, adios, au revoir, sayonara, ciao and toodle-oo.”
There was a click and a buzz.
“Mom? Mom?”
I held the receiver to my ear but she was gone. Just like always. Busy. Busy with other people. I returned the ear piece to the telephone and set it back on the table. My lower lip quivered, which made me mad. I shook my head back and forth and rubbed my hands over my arms and legs, but there weren’t any bugs.
I was trying to be rational. But I knew in my heart that no neighborhood kids could’ve concocted such an elaborate and realistic scene. Pap was real. That was no kid pretending to be an old man. And I could feel it in my gut: I had actually talked with my mother when she was a little girl! The time telephone was real. She was still alive – in the past. For the first time in weeks I felt like I could breathe. Somewhere inside me it was like a door opening. A door that had been slammed shut.
I looked through the window at the trees in the yard and wondered where little Abby and her friends had played kickball.
Kick the ball and run, fast as you can. Adios.
Kick the ball and run, fast as you can. Sayonara.
Kick the ball and run, fast as you can to the creek.
I double dog dare ya. Ciao. Au revoir. Toodle-oo.
Scribbling it in my notebook, my mind returned to the telephone. I knew I had to use it again. I had to save my mother. But I wouldn’t call her when she was nine, that’s for sure. I’d be ready next time.
~Four~
A second try
“Megan!” It was Kieran calling to me as he and Grandma headed for the parlor.
I hurried to the organ and silently fingered the keys, trying to compose myself.
“There you are,” said Grandma, oblivious to my pounding heart. “You’d never know it but this used to be a lovely room. I used to sit on the sofa and listen to my mother play the organ. It had a wonderful sound. So different from modern electric organs and keyboards. And my mother – she was so talented. She could play so beautifully. She had other gifts too. She could make clothing from scratch without a pattern. She just pictured in her mind what she wanted to make and cut out the cloth and sewed it. Amazing.”
The smile I pasted on my face must’ve hidden my agitation because neither of them told me I looked like I’d seen a ghost.
But Kieran walked straight to the telephone.
“Cool,” he said. “Never seen a vintage phone like this. Might be worth something on eBay.”
“That’s the phone we had when I was a kid,” Grandma said. “They didn’t get one with a rotary dial until the fifties.”
My muscles were in knots. I think I was actually grinding my teeth. What if he picked it up? But then he bounded over to the organ and I breathed again.
“Wow! It’s a pump organ,” he said. “Do you play, Mrs. McConnell?”
“Only a little. And now I’m afraid it’s ruined. We should’ve saved it years ago. I guess Libby thought I would do it and I thought she would. And here it sits.”
She turned to me.
“Your mother liked to play it when she was little Abby McConnell.”
I jumped when I heard that name. All the years I was growing up Grandma had called my mother Jody. At least in my presence. I wondered if somehow she knew about the phone call. But I couldn’t tell from the look in her eyes.
“Does it still work?” Kieran asked, joining me at the organ and touching the keys.
“If the pedals still work,” Grandma said.
I stepped back as Kieran sat down on the stool and pushed the pedals, first one and then the other, over and over. Then he struck middle C. An old-timey tone, like a cross between a harmonica and an accordion, filled the room. He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
“Here, Mrs. McConnell, play us a tune,” he said, hopping up from the stool.
We both backed away so Grandma could sit down. She pumped air into the organ and surprised me, playing and singing a song I didn’t recognize.
“Darling, I am growing old… silver threads among the gold… shine upon my brow today… life is fading fast away.” She continued playing but stopped singing. “Reminds me of Mama and Daddy,” she said.
I blinked hard and wandered around the room, studying one picture and then another. When I came to the one of my little girl mother and a much younger Grandma and her husband, I took it from the wall and blew a layer of dust from the frame. Tucking it under my arm, I headed towards the kitchen. The organ music made me feel like I was in a movie. They always bring up sad music to get people to cry. I had to get out of there.
Too weak. Tears leak. Wet cheek. Don’t peek. I’ll freak.
I said it over and over in my mind so I wouldn’t forget.
My mother never listened to sad music. She listened to strange music. Music from other countries. Like the Australian Aborigine didgeridoo album she raved about, the Cherokee Indian flute CD she picked up at a little shop in the North Carolina mountains, and the Afghani music she loaded onto her iPhone. Everything but regular music. They should’ve played some of her music at the funeral, I thought. Anything but those old-fashioned hymns.
Strolling among the trees out back, I tried to picture where my mother played kickball. Maybe the big rock by the tree was home base.
“Your grandmother’s making some notes.”
Kieran’s voice startled me out of my reverie.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he waited for me to speak. But I didn’t really want to. So we just walked through the overgrown pasture towards the woods that led to the river.
He finally cleared his throat as if to remind me he was there.
“Did you…” he said, keeping his voice low, and trailed off.
I sighed and debated whether to tell him.
“Well,” I said. “I… made a call.”
“To?”
“To my mother.”
“You… talked?”
I nodded.
He stopped walking and stared at me. Doubt was written all over his
face. It was obvious he was trying to choose his words carefully. Or maybe he was just hoping I would blurt everything out. He swallowed and nodded his head slowly.
“Mm-hm,” he finally said. It was barely audible. “So…”
“So she didn’t believe me,” I said, just as quietly.
“Hm.”
“But the time telephone is real. I know it was her.”
“Wow,” he said, his voice very soft.
It was unlike Kieran to be this quiet. There was a part of me that wanted to paint the whole picture for him – it was so amazing. But another part wanted to keep it to myself.
“So you called her and tried to…” he said.
“Yeah, but I called when she was too young. I’ve gotta try again.”
“Mm.”
But his tone and the way he nodded his head made it perfectly clear he didn’t believe a word I was saying. He was humoring me. Which made me sigh.
“Megan…”
“No problem. Doesn’t matter. Forget it.”
And I hurried back towards the house. Who cared if he didn’t believe me? No big deal. Perfectly logical to doubt the existence of a time telephone. Fine.
He followed me, hurrying to keep up.
“Megan, I believe you. I’m just digesting it all. You know how you had to think about it when you first discovered the telephone? How you didn’t believe it, thought some kids were playing a prank on you?”
Which was true.
“Tell me more,” he said. “I’m all ears!”
I kept walking.
“Please,” he said. “What was it like? You said you knew it was her?”
So I slowed down.
“She said ‘toodle-oo,’” I explained, turning around to face him.
“Toodle-oo?”
