April 12
The phone jolted to life with a tentative ring, then burst into a relentless, shrill trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the room like broken glass. I shut my eyes. It was herher name lifted straight from romance novels, Eleanor. Wed only met a couple of times, and in a moment of foolishness and fleeting weakness wed exchanged numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately no one had called me. It felt as if the world had erased me from its contact list, leaving me alone with that insistent melody and my own thoughts.
I slammed my forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the nagging tone. Part of me wanted to hurl the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement until nothing but shards of glass and plastic remained. If I couldnt mend my life, at least I could destroy the thing that tethered it to the outside world.
But the phone kept ringing.
I slipped out of bed and walked toward the sound. The device seemed to sense my approach, ringing even louder, as if daring me. Come on, answer! it seemed to say. Instinct, old as any animals, pushed my hand to the receiver.
Hello?
Its me! chirped a bright, carefree voice that cut through the air with its lightness. Why did it take you so long?
Im busy, I muttered.
And why did you come over then? Eleanor asked, and I imagined a sly smile tugging at her lips.
Because my nerves arent made of steel! I growled, almost roaring. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are getting on my nerves!
I just feel youre at home that youre not alright.
What else do you feel? a venomous mockery slipped out of me.
You were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! I snorted.
I wanted to slam the handset down, curse with the filthiest invectives. Those three weeks of daily calls had landed on the bleakest point of my life, when nothing seemed worth doing: work, idleness, eating, drinkingall felt pointless. All I wanted was to vanish, to evaporate, to cease being just another grain in the indifferent grind of existence.
Listen, my voice finally fell, flat and weary, what do you want from me? What do you want?
A brief pause hung in the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop deciding for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I can feel it!
Then stop feeling! Who do you think you are, some saint or saviour for lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats, and leave me alone. Got it? Stay away.
The silence on the other end thickened, heavy, before a couple of short beeps signalled shed hung up.
Right, brilliant, a thought flickered, she barges in where shes not wanted.
That day, no one called. The next day, still nothing. Eleanor didnt call the following day, nor the week after.
The quiet Id craved began to press on my ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. There was no salvation in it, only loneliness. In the evenings I caught myself staring at the phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope grew inside me: maybe now maybe any second
I stopped going out at night, fearing Id miss a possible call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, get angry forever. The word forever terrified me more than the stray dogs barking from the corner, as if they could sniff my vulnerability.
Later a new compulsion appeareda need to vent, to pour out the black, sticky mass that had accumulated inside. But to whom? My neighbour? He lived a simple world of a salary, footie, and womena happy chap.
So I started talking to myself out loud. In the empty flat my voice sounded hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? I asked my reflection in the dark window.
You drove her awaycrudely, without ceremony.
But she called every day! Persistently! So she must have cared, right?
You told her she wasnt needed. You brushed away a hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
I argued, proved, cursed at myself, until finally my inner voicea version of mewon. It forced me to admit the simple, chilling truth: those calls were a lifeline, a gulp of air for a drowning man, proof that I still mattered to someone, that I wasnt a ghost.
Eleanor didnt call.
I would sit in the evenings, stare at the phone, a silent scream building within. Please call I whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
I collapsed onto the bed well past midnight, never seeing the miracle. I slipped into a restless, nervous sleep, and thought I heard that relentless ring again.
I jolted awake. It wasnt a dream. The phone rang, truly, the same insistent, alive tone. I snatched the handset.
Hello? My voice trembled.
Hi, said the familiar, almost forgotten voice. Did you call me?
I closed my eyes. A smile spread across my facefirst in weeksa bitter, weary, yet oddly relieving smile.
Yes, I exhaled. I think I called.
There was a pause, not the heavy, reproachful one of before, but a living, taut pause, like a stretched string, free of battle. I could hear her quiet, even breathing, and my own heart thudding unevenly.
I I stumbled, searching for words that wouldnt be excuses or fresh barbs. Just words. Truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, she replied, softly yet firmly, without any triumph. I was miserable too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first any more. Thats your decision now.
I pictured her, perhaps also holding a phone, battling the urge to dial my number. The image struck me as oddly moving.
Sorry, I breathed, the hardest word, scorching my throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For being such a jerk.
Its accepted, came a light, forgiving smile in her tone. Though yes, I nearly broke the kettle out of frustration.
I laughed involuntarily, short, relieved. That domestic, absurd detail snapped me back into reality.
Is he okay? I asked, suddenly serious.
Hes fine. Ill treasure him like the apple of my eye.
We fell silent again, but now the silence was shared. We listened together.
Stephen her voice grew serious again. Whats happening? Really.
Before, that question would have sparked fury. Now it only brought a strange weakness and a yearning to finally speak out.
Everything, I said slowly, sliding down onto the carpet, leaning against the sofa. Work turned into hell. Debts piling up like a snowball. I feel Im teetering on a precipice, about to fall. A complete emptiness, as if Ive burnt out from the inside. I want nothingno work, no food, no one.
I talked at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts as a doctor would note a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone listened. No interruptions, no advice, no pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When I fell silent, all that remained in the line was breathing.
Thank you, Eleanor finally said. What did you say?
Now you understand why I was off my rocker? I muttered with a bitter grin.
I do. But that doesnt excuse rudeness, she replied, her tone firm again. At least now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do with it? I asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window for at least five minutes. Fresh air is essential for the brain, and you seem to be short on it.
I rose from the carpet obediently.
Im going, I reported.
Good. While you do that, Ill be on the other end of the line. Afterwards well sort out work, debts, this abyss youre in.
There was no pity, no babytalk in her voicejust confidence, solid as a rock, a strength Id been lacking.
I shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, set the kettle on, wrestled with a stuck window, and let in cool, rainscented air from the street. Those small steps felt like the first forward moves toward living again.
And I realised this was only the beginninga long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting someday. But for the first time in ages I didnt feel isolated in my crumbling fortress. Someone was reaching a hand from the outside, and I was finally ready to take it.
