It was many years ago that I recall the night my phone shivered with its first tentative ring, then burst into a relentless, endless trill. Again? I muttered to the empty room.
The sound cleaved the silence like a shard of glass. Samuel Harper closed his eyes. It was her again the one whose name seemed lifted straight from a romance novel, Milly. We had met only a handful of times and, in a moment of foolishness, swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately no one had phoned me. It was as if the world had erased me from its address book, leaving me alone with that insistent ringtone and my own thoughts.
I pressed my head into the mattress, trying to drown out the pestering chime. I wanted nothing more than to fling the handset out the window, smash it on the pavement until only a pile of glass and plastic remained. If I couldnt mend my life, I could at least break the thing that tethered me to the outside world.
But the phone would not be silenced.
I rose from the bed and followed the sound. The device seemed to sense my approach, ringing even louder, defiant as if to say, Come on, answer! And, obeying some ancient reflex, I lifted the receiver.
Hello?
Samuel, its me! a bright young voice sang, cutting through the air with carefree ease. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, I growled.
Then why did you come over? Milly asked, and I imagined a sly smile curving her lips.
Because my nerves arent steel! I snapped, halfhowling. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are getting on my nerves!
I just feel youre at home and that youre not well.
And what else do you feel? I replied, my tone dripping with bitter sarcasm.
You were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! I snorted.
A surge of anger made me want to smash the handset and hurl the worst curses. Those three weeks of her daily calls had landed at the very bottom of my existence, a time when I wanted nothing: no work, no idleness, no food, no drink. All I craved was to vanish, to evaporate, to stop being a grain of sand in the great, indifferent meat grinder of life.
Listen, my voice suddenly fell, flat and weary. What do you want from me? What do you want?
A short pause stretched across the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop thinking for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
Then dont feel it! My patience snapped. Who are you to feel anything? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help the old ladies cross the road, feed the stray cats. And leave me alone. Got it?
The silence in the receiver thickened, heavy, then there were a few brief beeps. She hung up.
Fine, I thought, shes the one whos barging in where she isnt wanted.
That day she did not call again. Neither the next day, nor a week later, nor a fortnight. The silence I had craved now pressed on my ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It offered no salvation, only solitude. In the evenings I found my gaze lingering on the phone, waiting, clutching a foolish, humiliating hope that she might ring any moment.
I stopped venturing out at night for fear of missing a possible call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and be hurt forever. The word forever frightened me more than the snarling stray dogs that seemed to sniff out my vulnerability.
Soon another plague arrived the need to speak out, to pour the black, sticky mass that had built up inside me onto someone. But to whom? My neighbour? He lived a simple life of wages, footie and ladies a happy bloke.
So I began talking to myself, out loud, in my empty flat. My voice sounded hollow and unnatural against the walls.
Why isnt she calling? I asked my reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away, blunt and unceremonious.
But she called every day! Relentlessly! Doesnt that mean she cared?
You told her her involvement wasnt needed. You shoved away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
I argued, proved, grew angry at myself, and in the end my inner voice my own self won. It forced me to admit a simple, chilling truth: those calls were what I needed. Like a breath for a drowning man, proof that I still existed for someone, that I was not a ghost.
Milly didnt call.
In the evenings I sat, staring at the phone, the silence inside collapsing into a mute scream. Just call please I whispered.
The phone remained mute.
I collapsed onto the bed long after midnight, never hearing a miracle. I drifted into a restless, nervous sleep, and it seemed as if I heard that relentless ring again.
I snapped awake. I wasnt dreaming. The phone was truly ringing that same insistent, alive call. I seized the handset.
Hello? my voice trembled.
Hi, the familiar voice said, Did you call me?
I shut my eyes. A smile, slow and weary, spread across my face the first in weeks. Bitter, exhausted, yet oddly relieving.
Yes, I exhaled, I suppose I did.
Silence followed, but it was different now not heavy with accusation, but alive, taut like a string, yet free of battle. I could hear her soft, even breathing, and my own heart thudding, uneven.
I, I stammered, seeking words that were no excuse, no fresh sting, just plain truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, she answered, quietly but firmly, without triumph. I was hurting too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first any more. Thats your decision now.
I pictured her, perhaps also clutching a phone, battling the urge to dial my number. The picture struck me as oddly touching.
Sorry, I breathed, the hardest word, scorching my throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For acting like a fool.
Accepted, her voice carried a gentle, forgiving smile. Though yes, I was a bit rude. I almost broke the kettle in frustration.
I laughed involuntarily, a short, relieved chuckle. That mundane, alive detail snapped me back into reality.
Is he okay? I asked, suddenly serious.
Hes fine. Ill guard him like the apple of my eye.
We fell quiet again, but now the silence was shared. We listened together.
Samuel, she said, tone turning serious, Whats really going on?
The anger that would have flared before now felt like a strange weakness, a desire finally to speak.
Everything, I said slowly, sliding onto the floor, back against the sofa. Work thats turned into hell. Debts that have grown like a snowball. The feeling Im sprinting along the edge of a precipice, ready to tumble. And a hollow as if Ive burned out inside. Nothing I want. No one.
I talked at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts as a doctor would diagnose. For the first time in months someone listened without interrupting, without advice, without the usual pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When I fell silent, only her breathing filled the line.
Thank you, Milly finally said. What did you say?
Do you now understand why I was out of sorts? I asked, a bitter grin tugging at my lips.
I do. Its no excuse for rudeness, she replied, voice firm again. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
And what will you do about it? I asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said resolutely, go to the kitchen, put the kettle on. While it boils, open the window for five minutes. Fresh air is vital for the brain, and you seem to be lacking it.
I obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, I said.
Good. While you do that, Ill be on the other end of the line. Then well figure out the job, the debts, that abyss youre staring into.
Her voice held no pity, no baby talk, just solid confidence, as firm as stone. In that confidence lay the strength I had missed.
I shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, set the kettle on, wrestled with a jammed window, and let the cool, rainscented air drift in. Those were small steps forward toward life.
And I realised it was only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages I no longer felt solitary in my crumbling fortress. Someone was extending a hand from the outside, and I was finally ready to take it.
