The Time Telephone

by Connie Lacy

  I looked around my room and saw evidence of my mother everywhere. The red-kimonoed Japanese doll lamp on my nightstand. The beautiful rug, woven in Peru, hanging on the light peach wall. Mom had even chosen the paint. The Chinese scroll painting showing those delicate green mountains. The collection of post cards taped to my mirror. The Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, London Bridge, Hong Kong at night, Mount Fuji, the Pyramids, Red Square, Machu Pichu, Hawaii’s Kilauea Volcano. Where had my mother not visited? Jeez!

  My bedspread was a hand-made Japanese quilt with blue, foam-peaked waves. There were dolls from around the world sitting on my dresser, the window seat and the bookcase. An authentic, Aborigine didgeridoo hung above an African drum on one wall. A feather lei from Hawaii was draped on a corner of my mirror.

  My bedroom was like a shrine. The shrine of the globe-trotting mama – the woman who sent dolls and trinkets and musical instruments to buy my forgiveness for her absence.

  My mama is a llama, a giraffe, a zebra too.

  A buffalo-tiger-walrus-panda-dolphin-emu.

  Happy in her habitats, performing on cue.

  Doesn’t feel the urge to come back to you.

  I scribbled the lines in the notebook I kept in my nightstand, which was hand-carved from somewhere, I couldn’t remember where.

  I closed the photo albums and returned them to the shelf, then pulled my phone from the charger and found Rikki’s number. I hit “send” with dread. But I had to get this over with. My mind was racing, searching for the right words. I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful.

  Her voice sounded warm and friendly, like she was really glad I called.

  “Uh, Rikki, I had to call you tonight because I can’t make it to the mall Saturday.”

  “Can’t make it? Whaddya mean, you can’t make it? You’ve gotta make it. You’re a member of the sisterhood.”

  “I really do appreciate your introducing me to your girlfriends and everything, but…”

  “No buts.”

  “But, I’m not sure…”

  “You don’t have to be sure. Just give us a try.”

  What was I supposed to say? How in the world was I supposed to hang out with the ultra cool sisters?

  “We’re gonna have some fun,” she said. “And you could use some fun.”

  This was a lot harder than I imagined.

  “Well…”

  God, I couldn’t believe I was actually going to do it.

  “Yess! We’re on for Saturday. Noon, at the food court, by the Chick-Fil-A. Remember – wear black and white. Oh, and we invited another new sister. You know Deborah Vega?”

  “No.”

  “She just got here a couple of weeks ago. She’s nice. See ya Saturday.”

  “See ya.”

  Deborah Vega? Had Rikki and her friends really decided to create some kind of multi-ethnic sisterhood? What kind of people were they? This was not normal. Teen-age girls don’t just make friends on purpose with strangers. Definitely abnormal. Maybe this was a churchy thing. You know, the preacher tells his congregation week after week to be better people, to help the downtrodden. But no one really does that stuff, do they? Except the old people who volunteer to feed the hungry at Thanksgiving. Me and my friends at my old school would never have thought of such a thing. I couldn’t help being suspicious. Must be something in it for Rikki and her friends. Must be. But what?

  I would just have to brace myself for Saturday and see how things went. I was sure Rikki and Imani and the rest of them would lose interest soon enough, whatever their real motivation was. And pretty soon, eleventh grade would be over and we would all be seniors getting ready for college. But I didn’t want to think about that now.

  I went to my closet and scanned my less-than-spectacular wardrobe, looking for black and white. I could wear my black jeans and the long-sleeved white top Grandma got me for Christmas. It had a blue star design on the front but I was sure that would be acceptable. I realized I needed some black shoes, though. Something a little spiffier than the ones I’d worn to the funeral.

  Grandma knocked on my door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  She settled herself in the glider rocker, wearing her coral lounge pajamas and slippers, with a cup of tea. It smelled like cinnamon.

  “My eyes are tired from working on that puzzle,” she said. “But I’m making some progress. Carl keeps asking me if I’ve put it together yet, so I decided to get it over with. I told him if he really likes me like he says he does, he won’t do this to me again. He thinks I’m kidding, of course. But a thousand pieces? Get real.”

  “Tell him to come over and give you a hand.”

  “Good idea.”

  I plopped down on the bed and turned my bedside lamp on.

  “Are you gonna marry him?”

  “I’m mulling it over. Are you enjoying Jane Eyre?”

  I glanced at the book on my night table.

  “It’s starting to get more interesting.”

  Rikki’s comment had encouraged me to keep reading when I was about to give up.

  “It’s always been one of my favorites,” she said. “I was hoping it wouldn’t seem too antiquated for you.”

  There was something about Grandma’s eagerness that took me back to when I was a little girl and she would read me bedtime stories. I remembered now how much I loved that ritual. And she was really good at making books come alive. When she read Dr. Seuss, it was better than seeing a movie. She read me tons of books. Every night until I was seven, I think. That’s when Mom came home for a visit and said I was old enough to read myself a bedtime story. Which was true.

  Mom bought me a stack of little chapter books – some Magic Tree House books and some other ones. She wrote “To Megan – Love always, Mommy” inside the front cover of each one. But it wasn’t the same as sitting next to Grandma on the bed every night, hearing her voice and looking at those magical pictures.

  “I kind of like Jane,” I said. “She seems very strong.”

  Grandma sipped her tea and rocked.

  “Actually, parts of it are kind of scary,” I said, fluffing my pillow against the headboard. “Oh, Grandma, I need to go to Macy’s tomorrow so I can buy some black shoes.”

  “I thought you just bought a pair. And don’t you have some black ones?”

  “Well, I want to get a spring and summer pair. And could we go to the old house on Sunday instead of Saturday? Rikki asked me to meet her and some other girls Saturday to have lunch and do some shopping. That’s why I need the shoes. We’re all supposed to wear black and white.”

  I was sure any sign of potential friendship would be enough to change our plans.

  “Sure. I’ll call Libby and reschedule.”

  With that, she was satisfied and we said our good nights.

  As she closed the door I opened the novel to the Niagara Falls bookmark Mom bought me at a tourist shop by Horseshoe Falls. I read the chapter where the mysterious, laughing woman kept hidden on the third floor starts a fire in Mr. Rochester’s bedroom. It was a frightening scene, full of foreboding.

  I turned off my lamp and tried to go to sleep. But I was jumpy. My room no longer felt like the safe place it had before. The design on the Peruvian rug seemed to crawl onto the wall. The stuffed giraffe on the window seat appeared to turn its head. Eventually, I fell asleep with the lamp on.

  But it didn’t do any good. My sleep was fitful. I woke up twice searching for flames. And then just after three a.m. I sat straight up in bed and let out a terrible shriek.

  My grandmother appeared barefoot, in the doorway, in her long, yellow nightgown.

  “Megan?”

  I squinted into the light from the hallway.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she said, sitting down next to me. “I think you had a bad dream.”

  But it was much more than just a bad dream. It was a horrible nightmare. I remembered it vividly. I had been at the mall with Rikki and her friends. We were all wearing black pants an
d white tops with black shoes. We went into a camera store and found Kieran looking at cameras. Standing next to him was my mother. She was dressed the reverse of us – in white pants and black sweater and white shoes. A small lapel mic was attached to her sweater and she was holding a reporter’s notebook and a pen. She spoke to me in a sing-song, talking-to-a-baby tone: “Would you like to take my picture?” I held my camera up and looked through the viewfinder. But in the viewfinder my mother looked like a jigsaw puzzle with squiggly lines running everywhere on her body. And she was holding that old-fashioned telephone rather than her reporter’s notebook and pen. She was saying: “Hello? Hello? Hello?” into the phone. I snapped a picture and my mother exploded. All the tiny jigsaw pieces flew out in every direction, but they moved in slow motion so I could still see her face as her features spread farther and farther apart, until finally, the pieces fell to the floor. The carpet was littered with tiny red puzzle pieces. My clothes had changed to red. The old telephone lay on the red-spattered carpet. And from it I could hear my mother’s voice saying “Toodle-oo! Toodle-oo!”

  ~Nine~

  The Facelift

  “Megan! Wait up!”

  It was Kieran jogging behind me to catch up. This was one afternoon I really didn’t want any company.

  “I’ve got the pictures,” he called out, waving a black envelope above his head.

  He was grinning like an idiot. I tried my best to smile but it was hard because my head hurt and I wished I had sunglasses on.

  “You feeling okay?” he said.

  “Just tired.”

  “Wait’ll you get a load of these pictures. That’ll give you some energy,” he said. “You took some awesome shots. I had them print doubles. Here’s your set.”

  He handed me the envelope and snapped his fingers to make me hurry up and open it. A part of me wanted to tell him to get lost and take the dumb pictures with him. I couldn’t get back to sleep after that creepy dream. So I’d been miserable all day, nodding off in class, wishing I’d just stayed home and slept. I hadn’t even gone to the cafeteria for lunch because I was in no mood to play little sister to Rikki and her band of merry girlfriends. I sneaked off campus, walked a few blocks to the QT and got a Snickers and a Coke. And now, here was Kieran practically wagging his tail with glee, expecting me to gush about some pictures.

  “Whaddya think?” he said.

  “Gimme a minute.”

  I opened the envelope. On top was the picture of me that Kieran had taken by the tree in front of my house. God. My eyes revealed way too much. I was afraid he could read my mind – all the thoughts I’d had about him yesterday.

  “A splendiferous photo, if I do say so myself,” he said, grinning big time.

  I flipped to the next shot – a picture of Kieran by the oak tree, flapping his lips a mile a minute. Then another one of him leaning against the tree looking more mature than he ever did in real life. It was the best picture I had ever taken, with Kieran’s help, of course. It was good enough to be in a magazine – an ad for men’s cologne or something. I wanted to study it more but felt self-conscious with him standing beside me. I continued through the stack of photos. In spite of my headache and my foul mood, I had to admit I was excited and proud of my pictures. Like I felt when I’d molded a poem to my satisfaction.

  “I’d say you’re a natural,” he said.

  A smile slipped to the surface. Then I turned to the last picture. The one Kieran had taken of me on the swing.

  “The clouds do look pretty,” I said.

  “Yep, real pretty,” he said, standing so close that our shoulders touched.

  My ears warmed up like they’d been wrapped in foil and roasted on the grill. Did Kieran see what I saw, I wondered. The camera seemed to pry right into my soul. Or was it my imagination? But the look in my eyes sitting in that swing. A picture is worth a thousand words. I’d heard that all my life. I stuffed the prints back in the envelope and slid it into the side pocket of my backpack.

  “Thanks, I like ‘em a lot.”

  He beamed as he stepped back out of my space.

  “Man, I think they’re outstanding!” he said. “A stellar debut, Miss McConnell.”

  “I’m thinking I might buy myself a better camera.”

  “Brilliant. We can find some info on the internet. You know, like which ones Consumer Reports recommends.”

  For the rest of our walk home, he talked about cameras, lenses, tripods, lighting and great photographers, like Ansel Adams and some guy whose name started with an “S” and ended with a “Z.” And how pictures are used in newspapers, magazines and on the internet. He went on and on. It was fascinating stuff, but by the time he turned down his street, I had to admit I was relieved. My head was pounding and all I wanted to do was flop on my bed and take a snooze.

  When I walked through the back door the first thing I spied was the space puzzle. Those vivid images from my dream returned with a vengeance. I could see my jigsaw mother slowly flying apart, like an animation of the universe expanding after the big bang. And then all those puzzle pieces falling to the floor, blood red.

  In my room, I closed the blinds and drew the curtains. Then I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed with my clothes on. I drifted off to sleep where puzzle pieces floated through my mind, forming colorful shapes – kind of like a kaleidoscope. The colors turned into darkness and I was a little girl afraid of something, running into a room and climbing onto a big bed. My little girl self scrambled under the covers and snuggled up with someone – I wasn’t sure who it was.

  When I awoke, it was dark and I had no idea what time it was. My limbs were heavy, as though my clothes had weights sewn into them. I remembered sleeping in Grandma’s bed like it was yesterday. But it was a long time ago when I was very small. I’d get scared or have a bad dream and crawl into bed with her. She would put her arm around me and hug me close and say “it’s okay, honey.” Just like she had last night.

  But I stopped running to her room when I was, like, in first grade. Or maybe it was second. I still had nightmares but my mother told me I was a big girl and shouldn’t be climbing in bed with Grandma anymore. It was like I wouldn’t get any presents from Santa if I was a big baby or something. After that, I learned to cover my head with the blanket.

  I turned on the lamp and lay on my back gazing around my room. My eyes paused on each item my mother had given me. As I studied the Peruvian rug, I remembered how Mom had grabbed a hammer and nails as soon as she gave it to me and rushed to my room.

  “Oh, this will look fabulous in here, princess. Don’t you think?”

  Ten minutes later she had completed the “art installation,” as she called it. And if she came home for a visit and discovered that some trinket she’d sent wasn’t on display, she’d dig it out of my closet and find a good spot for it. She’d say “I bet none of your friends has an authentic, hand-made, African calabash bowl!” Which, of course, was very true since none of my friends had mothers – or fathers – who traipsed the world over, year in and year out, collecting arts and crafts from the locals, with hardly a thought about their child’s welfare. But I never pointed that out to her. And I never told her I thought my room was so full, I was beginning to feel like there wasn’t space for me.

  Of course, what I really wanted was a regular room and a regular mother. I had asked her lots of times if she could get a job in Atlanta.

  “Well, it doesn’t work that way, sweetie,” she’d say. “My job is in Tel Aviv or Manila or Baghdad. I’m a foreign correspondent. That’s what I do. That’s my profession.”

  And then she’d bustle around making plans for a little trip somewhere to see the Etowah Indian Mounds or Tallulah Gorge or something. She didn’t like to sit still for long. Which is one reason her visit last fall wasn’t exactly a prize-winner. My eyes swept across the room to the unusual turquoise urn she’d brought me from Afghanistan. It was still perched where she’d placed it on top of the bookshelf.

  That was whe
n she came home to have a facelift. God, was I excited or what? She was going to stay for six weeks – the longest she’d ever visited as far back as I could remember. Grandma warned me that she would mostly stay home and out of sight but I was totally unprepared for how bad it would suck. My grandmother also warned me I wasn’t supposed to tell a soul that Mom was having plastic surgery. Although that seemed really dim. I mean, if she had the surgery, everyone would know, right? Otherwise, why bother to pay all that money if it wasn’t going to make her look younger?

  She arrived with great fanfare in the middle of October, bringing presents, as usual.

  “Whoa! You’ve grown a foot since I saw you!” she cried as she hurried toward us at the airport terminal.

  She was gushing so much, I decided not to tell her I hadn’t grown at all since I was twelve. At five foot seven, I was an inch taller than her, and had been for several years.

  “And you’ve filled out too – in just the right places!”

  It was hard to say which was more annoying – having her talk about my breast size in public or having her talk to me like I was a baby for everyone to hear. Because people always recognized her. Everywhere we went people would stare at us and sometimes they would come up to us and say something intelligent like “aren’t you on TV?” Mother was always polite, never sarcastic.

  She hugged me and kissed my cheek like I was still five. I was thrilled to have her home – don’t get me wrong – but a part of me wanted to tell her to chill. Not to use that baby-talk stuff on me anymore. And not to bring me paintings and baskets and hand-made jewelry and rugs and dolls and clay fertility statues with bare breasts.