The Time Telephone

by Connie Lacy

  “Where to?” he asked, sliding behind the wheel.

  “Did the guy tell you I need to go to Barrow County and I need for you to wait for me and bring me home again?”

  “Yes. You got address?”

  Was it possible he was from Afghanistan?

  I gave him the address and he entered it into his GPS. Then he cranked the engine, started the meter and slowly backed out of the driveway. Abdul Najibullah. That’s what his permit said. If my grandmother knew what I was doing, she’d have a cow. I was a little concerned myself. But there was really no choice.

  The trip took a lot longer than it did when Grandma drove. We made two wrong turns. This was going to be one whopper of a cab fare. But it would be worth it, I hoped. My watch said 12:48 when we turned into the driveway of my great grandparents’ house. A wet breeze whipped the dogwoods and the pink petals rained down on top of the wisteria flowers, the pink mixing with the violet on a background of green, like an abstract watercolor painting that had a secret meaning.

  “Somebody live here?” the cab driver asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  Following my directions, he pulled up behind the house under the pecan tree.

  “Maybe you steal something?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at me in the rearview mirror.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he might think I was suspicious while I busy worrying about him being suspicious.

  “No. This is my family’s house. They said it was okay.”

  I’m not sure he was convinced. But as I opened the door and wrestled with my crutches, he jumped out to help me.

  “This house very old. Not safe, maybe.”

  “It’s okay,” I assured him, holding onto the door to pull myself up. “I’ve been inside several times recently.” Of course, I didn’t tell him the reason I was on crutches was that the porch had caved in last time I was here.

  He opened his umbrella to protect me from the rain.

  “How long you take?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Meter running.”

  “Right.”

  When we reached the side porch he took his umbrella and headed back for the car. I stepped onto the boards as gently as possible and stopped, listening for any cracking or groaning noises. Nothing. I moved carefully to the door and touched the cold handle. Still no vibrations. The door squeaked as I pushed it open. I tensed. After twenty seconds or so, I stepped into the bedroom with a fireplace on one end and a rusted iron bed frame on the other. Again, I stopped and listened. Every nerve in my body was on edge. I remembered the sight of the front porch crashing to the ground, how it sounded, how it felt as the ground vibrated, how the dust and dirt filled my eyes and nose and mouth. I figured if the whole house collapsed, the walls and roof might just squash me like a possum too dumb to stay out of the road.

  I limped towards the front parlor. As I passed through the foyer, the floor creaked. I held my breath as my eyes darted around the walls and ceiling. Rain was leaking through in several places. Then I saw my camera lying on the faded sofa right where I’d left it. Nothing had been removed so I guessed Aunt Libby’s movers were waiting out the rain before coming over to load the truck. I picked up my camera and draped the strap around my neck. A skittering noise caused me to turn suddenly, which really killed my ankle. A frigging rat!

  I stepped gingerly to the telephone and drew a deep breath. Picking it up in my left hand, I took another deep breath, let it out and then removed the receiver and put it to my ear.

  “What year do you wish to call, please?”

  My heart raced.

  “2013.”

  “What month and day, please?”

  “December tenth, about seven in the morning, Afghanistan time.”

  “And who do you wish to call?”

  “Abigail Jody McConnell.”

  “Calling Abigail Jody McConnell at seven in the morning on December tenth, 2013. Hold a moment please, while I connect you.”

  The voice was the same as always. Kind and patient. Like a mother’s voice should be, I thought.

  The phone rang five times.

  “Hello?”

  She sounded sleepy.

  “Mom?”

  “Hm? What?”

  “Mom, it’s me – Megan.”

  A pause. Swishing sounds. A clunk.

  “Megan?”

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s me.”

  The phone sounded muffled for a few seconds like a hand had been placed over the mouthpiece.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “No, not really. I’ve gotta talk to you.”

  I heard a man’s voice in the background.

  “Are you in trouble?” she asked.

  I tried to figure out what to say. I had to remind myself that my mother wouldn’t remember the other calls I’d made to her. This was about three months before the call I’d made when she was too busy to talk.

  “I’m depressed,” I said.

  “Depressed about what?”

  I forced my lips not to quiver. It was so wonderful just to hear her voice and talk with her. I still wasn’t sure what would come out of my mouth, but I knew I had to say something that would make her come home.

  “I’m depressed because you don’t love me.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you crazy? I love you with all my heart!”

  “Then why are you there and I’m here? Why have you abandoned me? Why won’t you be a real mother to me?”

  Then it was Mom’s turn to take a deep breath.

  “What kind of love is that?” I continued.

  “Megan, I do love you.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Another silence. Then I heard the man’s voice again, low in the background.

  “I don’t expect you to understand, sweetie…” she began.

  “Understand what? That you had a baby just so you could do a lousy report on it and then you went on your merry way, like nothing happened. Like you didn’t have a child to raise. Where were you when I had that awful case of bronchitis? When I lost my first tooth and waited for the tooth fairy to come? Where were you when I took my first step? Or when I learned how to ride a bicycle? Or when I needed to know the facts of life? Where?! In some hotel half way around the world, buddying up to the local officials and shacking up with one boyfriend after another! That’s what I understand!”

  The rain fell harder, pounding the roof like the angry beating of war drums.

  “You’ve got a right to be angry,” she said. “But I do love you. Always have. Always will.”

  Her voice was shaky.

  “It’s time for you to come home, Mom. At least until I go to college. What’s a year and a half? You could be the star domestic correspondent for a while, that’s all.”

  “Well…”

  “The least you could’ve done was give me a father so I could have two parents. But, noooooooooo! You had to go to a sperm bank! Like shopping for a pair of shoes or something. ‘I’ll take an eight, narrow, please!’”

  I heard her sniff. Still, it didn’t soften my heart.

  “You owe it to me, Mom,” I said, lowering my voice.

  “I’ll come home for Christmas.”

  “Not just for Christmas.”

  “Megan, I’m not sure…”

  “Be sure!”

  “This is an important job I…”

  “Lots of people can do your job. But nobody else can be my mother.”

  “Your grandmother does a much better job than I ever would.”

  “She’s my grandmother. Not my mother. You’re my mother.”

  “But I’m not good at that job. I don’t have the skills. I don’t know what to do when you get sick during the night. I’m not good at doing laundry and watching you play soccer. I am good at this job. Very good. I love visiting you, princess. I do love you. But this is my life.”

  My blood was boiling.

  “What if you get killed doing that job?”

 
“I suppose that’s possible. But you’d have Grandma.”

  I felt weak. I wanted to sit down. My ankle hurt like hell. The pads of the crutches hurt my armpits.

  “And besides, you wouldn’t like me if I stayed home,” she continued. “I’d be obnoxious because I’d be so unhappy. Bored. Antsy.”

  “And we wouldn’t want to be bored, now would we? You know, I wonder what the world would be like if all mothers felt like that. If they got bored being a mother, they could just split. Leave their kids with the grandparents or whoever. Go off and do their own thing. Yeah, changing diapers – nasty stuff. Tucking kids into bed – too tedious. Helping with homework – yuck. Get me out of here!”

  “Maybe I should’ve known this was coming,” she said. “But I thought everything was cool between you and me. I thought we had a great time when I visited.”

  “Yeah, like I’m your favorite niece, or something. Bringing me junk from around the world. Thinking I should brag to my friends that my mom is a foreign correspondent, like that’s some big deal.”

  Another pause. I heard what sounded like a lighter flick.

  “I’m sorry you’re so angry, Megan. I’ll come home for Christmas and we’ll talk more then. Okay?”

  Part of me wanted to hang up on her. But I just held the phone, overwhelmed with disappointment. I closed my eyes. I pictured her in a violet negligee, knees up, on a king-sized bed, holding the phone to her ear, a man standing by the window, looking out onto a narrow city street below. He would be brown-skinned with black hair, about fifteen years younger than her. That facelift had probably done wonders for her love life.

  “We’ll have a nice visit,” she said. “And we’ll talk.”

  What else could I say? Nothing worked. Not even sending her on a guilt trip. She had everything all worked out in her head. She had rationalized her behavior so that it all made sense.

  “I’ll see you at Christmas,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Okay?” she said.

  I’d have to convince her when she came home that she shouldn’t go back, that’s all.

  “Okay?” she said again.

  I wondered if I would still be standing by the time telephone when she hung up or whether I would be somewhere else entirely. But if my mother did come home at Christmas I wouldn’t know then that she was going to be killed and I wouldn’t beg her not to go back. I wouldn’t know then what I knew now. So, in that case, nothing would change. She would still be dead and I’d still be in this pitiful old ramshackle house. But if somehow she had a change of heart because of our phone conversation, maybe she might decide to stay home. Not likely, but maybe.

  “Mom…”

  “I’ll see you a few days before Christmas.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye.

  “Toodle-oo,” she said. “I love you.”

  I clutched the phone, imagining what life would be like with her at home. I’d like to eat supper with her every night, to talk about what happened that day. I’d like to introduce her to Kieran. To my new friends. But wait, Rikki might never have said a word to me if Mom hadn’t died. It was so confusing. Then I heard a click and the line went dead.

  I didn’t budge, grasping the phone tighter. I stood still, my eyes unfocused. I had the feeling I was rising up in the air, looking down on the room below, seeing myself standing motionless, statue-like, holding onto the telephone. It was like watching a movie where the camera pans upward after someone dies. My mind wandered into a poetic field.

  Stillness. Quiet. Cessation. Inertia.

  Finality. Denouement. Death.

  I was weightless, formless, hopeless.

  At last I hung the receiver on the hook and set the phone down on the table. Rain pelted the roof, the drumbeat even stronger than before. The leaks in the ceiling were like little waterfalls.

  The room was unchanged. I looked out the window on the end of the house – the only window you could see out of now since the porch collapse. I could see the road in the distance. My grandmother said it was a dirt road until the late 70’s. She said in his old age her father had a black cocker spaniel named Inky. After Pap died, Inky would lie in the middle of the road until a car came along. When he heard it coming, he would get up and walk to the side and bark as it went by and then return to his favorite spot until another car came along. Grandma said Inky did that for years. Even when his hearing and sight were gone, he still got up and moved to the side of the road because he could feel the vibration of the car coming. But finally, he didn’t wake up one day and he was hit by a pickup truck. He was eighteen years old. They buried him by the side of the road so he’d feel at home.

  What would it be like to lie out there in the road feeling the vibrations beneath me? The road was paved now and cars drove faster. I probably wouldn’t have to lie there for long before I felt a car rumbling towards me.

  Grandma said everyone who drove down the road in the old days knew about Inky and would slow down to give him time to get up and toddle to the side. But no one would be expecting anything if I lay down on that rough blacktop. But then some poor soul would be traumatized for life. Wouldn’t want to ruin someone’s life. No, I wouldn’t want to do that.

  Christmas. I remembered Christmas when she came home. I’d been so glad to see her. She came bringing presents from Kabul. She’d talked with great animation at dinner several times about the violence. I understood now, although I hadn’t at the time, that she was making a case for the importance of her work. Like she was the anointed one – the only one who could explain the issues to America and the world.

  “Delusions of grandeur.”

  I overheard Carl say that to Grandma one evening as he helped her with the dishes.

  “Jody must think she’s the only one smart enough to do it,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Grandma said. “But I think she thrives on being close to power. She just eats it up when a president or foreign minister or ambassador calls her by her first name.”

  And now she was gone. And the bombings and killings in Afghanistan continued without her. A new reporter covered Afghanistan now. A thin man with fly-away brown hair and an English accent.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. There was a sudden snapping noise from the wall behind me. I turned around but couldn’t see anything. The house was coming down one way or another – on its own or with the help of the demolition company scheduled to come tomorrow. The time telephone might be forever disconnected. I might never get the chance to hear my mother’s voice again. I couldn’t let her die. I had to warn her.

  ~Fifteen~

  The truth

  I reached out, then hesitated, holding my hand above the time telephone. My hand was shaking. I picked it up. I had to try again. A river of water had formed on the floor of the parlor and I was standing in it.

  “What year do you wish to call?”

  “2014.”

  “The month and day, please.”

  “March twenty-sixth.”

  That was the day of the explosion.

  “At about seven in the morning, please, Afghanistan time,” I added.

  “Certainly. And the name of the person you wish to call?”

  “Abigail Jody McConnell.”

  “Calling Abigail Jody McConnell at seven a.m. on March twenty-sixth, 2014. Hold a moment, please, while I connect you.”

  My mind was racing. My mother would remember the other calls. She would be skeptical, to say the least.

  “Hello?”

  I’d woken her up.

  “Mom, this is Megan. I’ve got something important to tell you. Can you wake up?”

  “Megan?” she mumbled.

  “Yes. Are you awake?”

  “No.”

  “Wake up, Mom.”

  Heavy sighing. Then she cleared her throat.

  “Megan?”

  “Mom, something bad is going to happen today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “
A bomb.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “A bomb?”

  “Yes, a bomb. A bomb will explode in the Kabul market today while you’re getting ready for your live shot. You and your cameraman, Mitch Johnson, will be killed. And he’s got a wife and two little boys who’ll lose their father in that explosion.”

  “A bomb?”

  “Yes. I’m calling to warn you not to do your live shot there. Do you understand?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom, this is important.”

  “Is this part of your campaign to get me to come home?”

  “I’ve given up on that. You can stay in Afghanistan. You can be a foreign correspondent for the rest of your life, until you’ve had fourteen face-lifts and they finally kick you off the air. That’s fine by me. Just don’t go to the market for your live shot today. Go somewhere else. That’s all. I just don’t want you to be killed.”

  “And, pray tell, how do you know there’ll be a bomb?”

  “Well,” I said, not sure what to say. “I guess I could tell you I had a premonition. Or I could tell you I got a message from God or something. But the truth is I’m calling you on a time telephone.”

  No response. Just her breathing.

  “I’ve actually called you several times on the time telephone.”

  A skittering noise came from somewhere in the house.

  “Remember, you got a call from a girl when you were nine years old? You called me Maybelle. Said you’d never heard of the name Megan. You wouldn’t talk to me because you were too busy with your friends. Remember that?”

  “No.”

  “Remember the call you got when you were almost seventeen and you thought it was your friend, Suzie, playing a joke on you. That was me. I told you you’d get killed. You said I – I mean, Suzie – deserved an Academy Award. Remember?”

  “No.”

  “And I’ve called you since you’ve been in Kabul to beg you to come home. You remember those calls, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “All those calls were on the time telephone. It’s not a joke and it’s not a trick. You don’t have to come home. I just don’t want you to get yourself blown to smithereens!”