by Connie Lacy
“Yeah, she always says ‘toodle-oo’ before she hangs up. Ever since I was a little girl. That’s how she says good-bye every time she calls me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. How many people do you know who say toodle-oo?”
“Zero.”
“And Pap asked me why I had to call her Jody. He said her name was Abigail. And she talked about playing kickball and Double Dog Dare. She used to tell me about all the games she played on the farm as a kid. No one else would know all that stuff.”
“So you want to call her again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’re you waiting for? No time like the present.”
I looked at him and then at the house.
“I’ll keep your grandmother occupied,” he said.
So while Grandma and Kieran took a tour of the yard I was once again calling my mother. But this time, I chose the year she was my age. Maybe we could communicate better that way.
I was nervous as I put the receiver to my ear.
“What year do you wish to call?”
It was the same sweet voice.
“1983.”
“1983,” the operator repeated. “And the month and day?”
“Middle of June.”
“And the name of the person you…”
“Abigail Jody McConnell.”
“Calling Abigail Jody McConnell in June of 1983. Please hold a moment while I connect you.”
“Thank you.”
There was a brief pause and then loud ringing. A double ring, like before. Once again, it rang and rang. This time I was thankful I had to wait.
“Hello.”
It was a woman’s voice. A very familiar woman’s voice. I was confused. It sounded like Grandma – my own grandmother who was walking around the house with Kieran at this very moment. There was panic in my gut and I almost hung up. But then it occurred to me that my grandmother wouldn’t recognize my voice back in 1983. That was long before I was born.
“Hello?” the woman said again, a little louder.
“Uh, yes. May I speak with Abby, please?”
Would my voice somehow sound familiar to her?
“Just a moment.”
There was a clunk. Then footsteps and a loud creaking noise. Then Grandma’s voice.
“Abby! Telephone!”
This was too freaky. I waited, hoping this time my mother would want to talk with me. I heard voices in the background. Finally, a door slammed and there were loud footsteps. Then her strong voice in my ear.
“Yes, no, maybe so.”
“Hello? Is this Abby?” I said.
There was a disgusted sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I must’ve goofed again.
“Who is this?” she asked, full of annoyance.
“It’s… Megan.”
Silence.
“You don’t know me… yet,” I said.
“If I don’t know you… yet… then why are you calling me?”
“That’s a good question,” I said, laughing a small, nervous laugh. “I’m calling because… I’m actually your… I mean, because you’re my…”
“Oh, spit it out already!”
“You are Abby, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Name’s Jody! You’ve got ten seconds. Then, I’m hangin’ up.”
“Right,” I said, craning my neck to see out the window. I just knew Grandma and Kieran would walk in on me any second now.
But what should I say to make her want to be more of a homebody? To make her not want to see the world as a TV reporter? Should I pretend to be an old war correspondent bitter about not having a family life? Pretend to be a long lost aunt calling to tell her a career as a doctor or a chef would be rewarding and exciting? But if there’s one thing I’m not good at, it’s acting.
“Okay, here goes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m your daughter and I’m calling you from the future on a time telephone.”
A long silence. Then a great big belly laugh.
“Oh, I see. Of course! I should’ve recognized your voice. How stupid of me.”
“I know it sounds weird, but it’s true,” I pleaded. “I’m seventeen years old. I’m standing in this old house that belonged to Pap and Granny. I’m talking on the telephone in the front parlor.”
More loud laughter. I imagined her throwing her head back, her dishwater blonde hair in that early eighties shag I’d seen pictures of, with cut-off jeans and a tight tank top.
“Good one, Suzie. Very funny. You oughta be on Saturday Night Live.”
She continued laughing.
“Calling from the future on a time telephone. My daughter! Where are you, anyway? I thought you were at the beach this week.”
“This isn’t Suzie. It’s Megan. And I really am your daughter.”
“Okay, okay. You get an “A” for creativity. Why don’t you write this up as a short story for Mr. Garner’s class?”
“But, Mom… I mean…”
She hooted with laughter.
“Nice touch! Wow! But how many times have I told you I’m not gonna have any kids? I don’t like kids. And I sure as pig poop don’t want to be tied down with any ankle-biters.”
I felt like I’d been slapped in the face.
“Then, don’t ever have any children! If you don’t want to be tied down with them, make sure you never, never, never get pregnant!” Of course, I realized if she took that suggestion I wouldn’t exist.
“Bravo! Bravo! You get the Academy Award for best actress in a dramatic role.”
I was letting her push my buttons and I had to stop.
“But, I really am your daughter. And I’m calling you to try to save you.”
“Save me? Mm-hmm.”
“I’m serious. I don’t want you to die.”
My throat was dry and tight.
“Listen, it was a good joke, but enough’s enough already. You wanna come over?”
“I want you not to leave me,” I whispered. “You always leave me behind.”
Silence.
“And then you get yourself killed.”
I couldn’t help it. I was all choked up. I sniffed, trying not to let my nose run.
“Okay, Suzie, you’ve outdone yourself. I’ll nominate you for an Emmy too. And a Tony while I’m at it. Come on over, if you want. Me and Peggy and Charlie’ll be hangin’ around here somewhere. We’ll probably wander down to the fort and have a smoke. Toodles.”
The line buzzed in my ear. My mother – Jody – had hung up on me again. I swallowed hard as I returned the antique phone to the table.
~Five~
Joie de vivre
“How’d it go?” Kieran whispered, as we climbed in the car.
But then Grandma opened the back door.
“Mission accomplished,” she said, setting her briefcase on the seat next to Kieran, then closing the door.
“Not good, huh?” he said, just before Grandma opened the front door and slid in behind the wheel.
I sighed as we headed down the driveway.
“Libby and I both got married beneath that wisteria,” she said, nodding at the curtain of violet flowers cascading from the pines in the front yard. “Mama planted three vines the year they moved in.”
“It would make a nice picture with the wisteria right behind the pink dogwoods,” Kieran said.
Grandma stopped the car halfway down the driveway so she could tell us more.
“She planted one dogwood the year Libby was born and the other one the year I was born. It’s like she was planning ahead.” She chuckled. “When Libby and I got married, they carried the pump organ onto the front porch and she played for both weddings.”
I wondered what Grandma looked like on her wedding day.
“In her old age, she’d come out on the front porch in the springtime and sit in the swing and savor her work of art.”
“Yeah, it is a work of art,” Kieran said. “Do you mind if I take a picture before we go?”<
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“Not at all,” she said, putting the car in Park.
So he jumped out and used his phone to take several shots. Then we were on our way. Grandma pulled onto the road, glancing one more time at the house as she drove away.
“Wow,” he said, looking at the photos he’d snapped. “I’m gonna have to print some of these.”
“Of course, now, the wisteria vines are choking the trees to death,” she said.
She was right. The vines were like snakes squeezing the life out of those old pines.
As we drove over the rough pavement, away from the farmhouse, I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out, wondering who on earth was texting me. It was Kieran sending me a message from the back seat.
“u tlk w/her?”
“yes,” I replied.
“and?”
“later,” I texted back, staring out the window at fields and pastures and a hodgepodge of old farmhouses, newer brick homes and trailers.
“Not much I want to keep,” Grandma said.
It was like she was trying to fill the silence.
“Did you see anything you’d like to have?” she asked me.
“I don’t know.”
“A lot of neat stuff in there,” Kieran offered. “Like the ice box, the organ and that telephone.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him.
“Libby’s got a friend who owns an antique store,” Grandma said. “I’m sure she’ll take a lot of it.”
“Can I think about it before you start giving things away?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Mrs. McConnell,” Kieran piped up. “Do you suppose you’ll be coming out here again before the house is torn down?”
“I’m meeting my sister at the house next weekend so we can make some decisions.”
“Would you mind if I tag along? I’d like to take some black and white pictures before it’s demolished. It would look great in black and white.”
I didn’t know he was into photography. Of course, there was probably a lot I didn’t know about him. But maybe he was doing this for me – to make sure I got another chance to use the time telephone.
“We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Megan?” Grandma said, touching me lightly on the arm.
“Sure.”
And then it was small talk all the way back to Atlanta. I was surprised when I realized she wasn’t headed directly home. As we exited the freeway and turned onto Clairmont, I knew where we were going – Carl’s house.
Carl was Grandma’s boyfriend – or man friend – whatever. Tall and not bad looking for an old guy. He bicycled to and from work every day, so he was in good shape, although it made me wonder: did he take a shower when he got to work or did he just stink all day? He was a political science professor at Emory University and had published a couple of books.
“Carl and I are going to the garden center,” she said, pulling into the driveway. “And then do take-out and a movie for supper – either at his house or ours, not sure. Enjoyed our visit very much, Kieran!”
And she hopped out, leaving the engine running. It crossed my mind that she’d cooked up this date with Carl to give Kieran and me some time together. Of course, there had been that little warning that she might show up at any time this afternoon, just to make sure there was no hanky-panky. As if.
She waved as she trotted to the front door and then it was just the two of us. Which was kind of awkward. I got out and walked around the car to the driver’s side and Kieran moved to the front seat where I’d been sitting.
“Let me buy you lunch,” he said. “Panera Bread, maybe? Or pizza at Mellow Mushroom?”
I was trying to come up with a good excuse because, honestly, I wasn’t in the mood.
“C’mon. It’ll do you good,” he said, reading my mind. “I don’t have to be home till five to babysit my nephew.”
“You have a nephew?”
“My sister’s little boy. They live with us.”
“How old is he?”
“Two.”
“Hard to imagine you babysitting.”
I backed out slowly.
“Mellow Mushroom,” I said.
“Perfect.”
We decided it was warm enough to sit outside, but on our way through the dining room, some guys called out to him.
“Hey, Kieran! Look at you, man,” one of them said.
“With your good-looking girlfriend,” another one added.
They were laughing and whistling. Kieran tried to be cool about it, leading me to their table.
“Megan, these dimwits are on my soccer team,” he said. “They’re athletes without any brains. So you’ll have to excuse their juvenile behavior.”
“Hey, man! Who you talkin’ about?” the tall one cried, mock angry.
“George, Elias, Mohammed and Tyler,” Kieran said, pointing at each one in turn. “And this is Megan.”
I gave a little wave and we continued on our way, as the boys hooted and laughed, calling out smart-ass comments.
“Damn, who knew the dweeb could get a girl!” one of them said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
We took a table in the sun with our backs towards the restaurant. Neither of us wanted to see his soccer buddies making faces at us through the window.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “They’re my buds, but they’re total bird brains.”
Which made me laugh. It was cute. First, that he actually had friends. Second, that he played soccer. Third, that they thought I was good-looking. Fourth, that he was embarrassed. So when he saw me laughing, he laughed too. And it felt good.
We shared a small Supreme pizza and I asked him about his team. It was comfortable eating pizza and listening to him talk about growing up playing rec soccer. He was a mid-fielder, he said, playing offense and defense. Which he said was good preparation for life. He said he wasn’t good enough to play varsity soccer at school and didn’t want to spend that much time on it anyway. And I told him I’d played soccer when I was a kid so we both had some soccer stories to share.
And, finally, he looked at me and I knew he was going to ask about my phone call. I didn’t want to talk about it. But I thought I kind of owed him an answer.
“I talked with her for just a minute,” I said, shaking my head.
“Not good, huh?”
I just sighed.
“Did you tell her the truth?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess she didn’t believe you.”
“Nope. And I don’t know why I thought she would. Why didn’t I put myself in her place? Why didn’t I try to imagine what it would be like to have some stranger call me on the phone and say all those ridiculous things?”
I wound my hair into a ponytail over my left shoulder and let it go.
“May I offer a suggestion?” he said.
I watched the cars whizzing by.
“Why don’t you call your mom, like, maybe a week before…” and he trailed off.
I stared hard at him then.
“Before she was deconstructed? Before she was blown to smithereens? Before she was discharged like a human firecracker, leaving pieces of herself on the ground like those bits of cardboard and plastic you find on the sand at Myrtle Beach the morning after some guy shoots off his bottle rockets?”
My hands were fists and my voice was too loud.
“Yeah, before she died,” he said gently, ignoring the nosy stares of a family sitting several tables over. “She’ll know who you are. And you can tell her the things you really want to tell her, you know?”
His eyes were full of sympathy.
“There is definitely a lot of stuff I want to say to my mother. Like, who does she think she is, going off like she has no responsibilities? Like, how do you just resign from being a mother?”
I knocked my glass over, pounding the table, but he caught it before it landed on the patio.
“Like, what did I do to her? Wasn’t it bad enough that I didn’t have a father to begin with
because Mom just went and got herself pregnant using a sperm bank? Jeez! Like, why did she get pregnant in the first place? Like, why would you spend the money on a brand new car if you aren’t gonna drive it? Why would you go to the beach if you’re just going to stay in your hotel room? Having a baby is important stuff, in case it never occurred to her. A baby is a human being! A person with feelings and needs. A person who cries when her mother is gone.”
I stopped. My ears were hot and I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I realized I had come close to doing just that. Now I wanted to hit ‘rewind.’ Man, why had I said all that stuff?
He leaned towards me, invading my personal space. God, was he going to hug me or something?
“Have you talked with your grandmother?”
I thought about how to answer that. No, I had not asked for a conference in her judicial chambers.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Didn’t mean to dump on you like that.”
“It wasn’t dumping.”
We hadn’t gotten our check yet but I was ready to go. So I picked up my bag and headed back through the dining room to the exit, leaving Kieran to pay our way out. I sat behind the wheel, trying to calm down as I waited for him.
He didn’t understand what Grandma was like. It was hard for me to talk with her. It didn’t seem like she was ever really interested in what I had to say. Of course, the feeling was mutual. It’s like we were from different planets or something. Different solar systems. My grandmother made sure I was clothed and fed and that I did well in school. But it was like she was my coach or something. There was little warmth. Few hugs. Not much laughter. Of course, Grandma was grieving too. But she was that way before Mom died. Like she was angry that Mom had dumped me on her doorstep or something.
Different planets, different moons,
Different life forms, different tunes.
I texted it to myself to write down later.
My mom, on the other hand, had enough warmth to heat a room in the dead of winter – when she was around, that is. She always seemed to enjoy being with me – to enjoy laughing with me about a funny movie, to enjoy shopping for clothes or going to the pool. But it was like she was in vacation mode when she was home. It was over pretty quickly and then she was itching to leave again and go back to Kabul or Tel Aviv or wherever. Maybe she had attention span deficit disorder, or whatever it was that half the kids at my school took drugs for.
