The phone shivered at the first tentative ring, then burst into an insistent, endless trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the room like glass. Thomas shut his eyes. It was her again the one whose name belonged in the heroines of Victorian novels Beatrice. He had met her only a couple of times, and in a moment of foolish, momentary weakness they had swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately no one had called him at all. It was as if the world had erased him from its address book, leaving him alone with that relentless melody and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead to the mattress, trying to drown out the nagging tone. He wanted to hurl the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement, reduce it to a heap of glass and plastic. If he could not repair his life, perhaps he could at least destroy the thing that tethered him to the outside world.
But the phone would not be silenced.
Thomas rose and walked toward the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing even louder, almost daring him. Come on, answer! it seemed to shout. So, obeying some ancient instinct, he lifted the receiver.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree young voice rang out, cutting through the air with its reckless lightness. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Thomas grunted.
Then why did you answer? Beatrice asked, and Thomas imagined a sly smile playing on her lips.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snapped, his voice a low growl. Whats so hard to understand? Youre pestering me with your calls!
I can feel youre at home and that youre struggling.
What else do you feel? a venomous sarcasm edged his reply.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he huffed.
He wanted to fling the handset, curse with the foulest language. Those three weeks of her daily rings had hit the bottom of his existence that bleak period when he wanted nothing: no work, no idleness, no food, no drink. All he craved was to vanish, to evaporate, to cease being a grain of sand in the indifferent grindstone of life.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell, flat and tired. What do you want from me? What?
A brief, heavy pause lingered on the line.
Nothing. I think you could use some help.
Dont decide for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I can sense it!
Then stop sensing! his patience snapped. Who are you to feel anything? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. And stay away from me. Got it?
Silence thickened in the receiver, then a few short beeps as she hung up.
Brilliant, the thought scrolled across his mind. She begged to be let in. She poked where she wasnt asked.
That day no one called again. Not the next day, not a week later. Beatrices voice faded into the vacuum.
The quiet he had longed for now pressed against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It held no salvation, only solitude. In the evenings Thomas found his gaze lingering on the handset, waiting, nurturing a ridiculous, humiliating hope: now any moment now
He stopped leaving the house after dark, terrified of missing a possible ring. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and stay offended forever. The word forever frightened him more than the stray dogs that seemed to sniff out his vulnerability from the next street.
Soon another compulsion arrived the need to speak it all out. To pour the black, sticky mass that had piled inside him onto someone. But to whom? The neighbour down the hall lived a simple life of wages, football and women a happy bloke.
So Thomas began talking to himself, aloud, in the empty flat. His voice sounded hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away, bluntly and without ceremony.
But she called every day! Relentlessly! Doesnt that mean she cared?
You told her her involvement wasnt needed. You pushed away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, raged at himself, until finally his inner voice his own self won. It forced him to admit the simple, gruesome truth: those calls were his lifeline. Like a breath for a drowning man, proof that he still existed to someone, that he was not a ghost.
Beatrice never called.
Thomas spent evenings staring at the phone, the inside of him contracting into a single mute scream. Please just call he whispered.
The phone stayed silent.
He collapsed onto the bed long after midnight, never seeing a miracle. He drifted into a restless, nervous sleep, and in it he imagined the ring once more.
He jolted awake. He hadnt been dreaming. The phone rang, truly, that persistent, living tone. He snatched the receiver.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hi, the familiar, now slightly forgotten voice said. Did you call me?
Thomas closed his eyes. A smile, weary and bitter yet somehow relieved, spread across his face the first in weeks.
Yes, he 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, without any battle in it. He heard her quiet breathing on the line and his own heart thudding unevenly.
I, he faltered, searching for words that were not excuses nor fresh barbs, just plain truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, her voice was soft, steady, without any triumph. I was miserable too, but I decided I couldnt be the one to ring first any more. That had to be your choice.
He imagined her, perhaps also clutching a phone, wrestling with the urge to dial his number. The picture struck him as oddly moving.
Sorry, he breathed, the hardest word, scorching his throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For acting like a fool.
Accepted, she replied, a light, forgiving smile in her tone. Though I nearly broke the kettle in my irritation.
He chuckled involuntarily, short and relieved. That domestic, absurd detail brought him back to reality.
Is he ok? he asked, suddenly serious.
Hes fine. Ill guard him like the apple of my eye.
They fell silent again, but now the silence was shared. They listened together.
Thomas her voice grew serious again. Whats happening? Really.
He closed his eyes. Before this, the question would have sparked rage. Now he felt a strange weakness, a desire to finally speak.
Everything. And nothing, he said, sliding down onto the floor, back against the sofa. Work has become a nightmare. Debts have snowballed like a lump of coal. I feel Im walking the edge of a precipice, about to tumble. And an emptiness as if Ive burned out inside. I want nothing. No one.
He spoke at length, in fragments, not crying but stating facts as a doctor would note a diagnosis. For the first time in months someone truly listened, without interrupting, without advice, without the usual pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When he fell silent, only breathing filled the line.
Thank you, Beatrice finally said. For saying it.
Now you understand why I was out of sorts? he replied with a bitter grin.
I do. Its no excuse for rudeness, she said firmly. But I now know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen, put the kettle on. While it boils, open the window for at least five minutes. Fresh air is necessary for the brain, and you seem to be short of it.
Thomas obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, he reported.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end of the line. Afterwards well sort out work, debts, that abyss youve been staring into.
Her voice held no pity, no coddling, just a rocksolid confidence, as firm as a stone. In that confidence lay the strength he had been lacking.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear, set the kettle, wrestled with the stiff window frame, letting in a breath of rainscented, cobblestonetinged air. He took those first small steps toward life.
And he realised it was only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. For the first time in ages he no longer felt solitary within his crumbling fortress. Someone was extending a hand from the outside, and at last he was ready to take it.
