“I’m so sorry, Nate. Can you think about it and let us talk through this problem?”
He drops his head, staring at the carpet, and when he lifts it again, I see his answer. It’s written all over his face as clear as if the words were spelled out on his forehead in permanent ink.
“No.”
I nod. If I had something I could tell him, a promise I could make, I would. But just like I couldn’t save Lindsey’s relationship, I can’t save my own.
“I’ll call you in a few days,” Nate says as he stands in the doorway, half in my apartment and half out. And then without another world he turns and walks out. I watch him leave, his back tall and straight as he strides his way down the hallway never once looking back to see the pain written on my face.
In my grandmother’shouse when I was growing up, she had an old rotary phone hanging on the wall. When I would spend weekends at her house and friends would call, I could lie on the floor with my feet kicked up on the wall dangling the cord around my fingers as we talked. I’ve never wished for a corded phone so much as when I’m on the phone with my mother.
It would give me something to do because if she hears me make any noise in the background of our conversation, she’ll assume she’s bothering me and then launch into the talk about how children these days can’t just enjoy a phone conversation. We always have to be doing something else. It’s less of a bother to just wander around aimlessly than try to use my time effectively.
“Did you hear me, Josie?” my mother asks, and I put down the magazine I’ve been mindlessly flipping through. If she’s going to ask difficult questions, I better pay attention.
“Of course, Mom. No, I don’t have a job yet it’s only been four days.”
“Well, you’d have more opportunities here.”
I stand from the table and walk a circle around Emma as she plays on the floor. “Yes, I realize there are more jobs in Bangor.”
“Our home is always open to you. It would be the smart place to figure out your life now, Josie.”
My left eye twitches and I slam the eyelid down to stop it in its tracks. We had this conversation so many times after the divorce. “No, Mom, I’m not moving back in with you and Dad.”
My brain isn’t even capable of processing the horror that would be. I made it through eighteen years of life with only small mental damage. I can’t do any more time in my mother’s house without risking further compromise.
“You don’t have to be all pissy about it. I’m just suggesting that we’re here if you need us. I can’t have one of my children living on the street. What would the girls say?”
I shake my head, sitting on the couch and then lying down with one foot propped up on the back portion. It’s not as good as the wall at my grandmother’s home where I used to sit for hours with a phone clutched to my ear talking to a classmate, but it will do. “I don’t know, Mother. Whatwouldthe girls say?” I’m a long way from living on the streets. Mostly.
“Well now you’re just being unbearable.”
I make a mistake of lifting my left eyelid and it twitches again.
My phone beeps, so I hold it out from my ear to catch the small green bar at the top that flashes with an incoming call.
“Oh, Mom, I’ve got to go. Someone is calling and you never know. It could be a job interview.”
“Don’t you have call waiting on your cell phone?”
“Of course, but I have no idea how to use it.” I’ve never successfully switched between calls on my phone. Has anybody?
“Fine, take the call. But if it is the job, call me back right away and we can talk about interviewing techniques,” says the woman who’s never interviewed for a job in her life.
I sigh but agree, anything to get her off the phone.
The problem with my cell phone — besides the fact I barely know how to use it — is that when you switch over to a new call, you can’t see who it is. I hate not knowing who is on the phone. But I wasn’t lying when I said it could be a call for an interview. It can also be my ex or his girlfriend calling to give me an update on their situation, which I’d rather not hear, but I have to take the chance.
“Hello?” I ask, after hitting the green bar to accept the call.
There’s silence along with a smattering of static and then, “Josie?” Nate says. “Why do you sound weird?”
I sit up ramrod straight on the couch. This was not the phone call I expected. “Hey, I was talking to my mother on her line. I didn’t expect you to call.”
“Well, I said I’d call,” he replies, possibly a tinge of regret in his voice.
“Yes, but I didn’t imagine it right now.” I leave out the part where I add in “or ever.” A lot of guys say they’ll call but not many do.
