I heard the sound coming from upstairs: a muffled chime echoing through the hallway. It got louder at the foot of the stairs. I went up to the guest room and found my cell phone ringing on the dresser. I thought I had turned it off. I didn’t remember switching it back on. I looked down at the unfamiliar number. I pressed talk.
There was silence on the line. Then a soft, unsure voice.
“Is this... Tess?”
It was not a low voice like Jonah’s, but somehow I recognized it without having heard it before. I looked down at the screen again, at the seconds of the call ticking away. Slowly, I brought the phone back to my ear. Then I sat down on the bed, took a breath, and said: “That depends. Who wants to know?”
More silence.
“I didn’t think this would actually be your number,” he said.
“Why would I give you a fake one?”
This signaled another long pause.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
Each time Daniel Torres spoke, I was surprised to hear his voice. I was surprised that it existed at all.
“I’m sorry,” I said after a while. “Is this weird for you or something?”
No response.
“I mean, is it strange to talk to another human being without an element of deep deception in the mix? I can’t imagine how tough this must be for you.”
I had told myself to stay calm—not to get too upset before I had the chance to learn something—but it was difficult.
“Maybe... this isn’t a good idea,” he said finally.
I was lying down on my bed, the taste of stale beer on my tongue. The ceiling above my bed was cracked and peeling.
“Christ,” I said. “Of course it isn’t a good idea. How could it be? I don’t know you. You’re nothing but a creepy stranger to me. I don’t even know where you’re calling from.”
“Romeoville,” he said right away.
His voice was a little louder this time.
“Where?” I said.
“Romeoville, Illinois,” he said. “It’s a suburb of Chicago. By Joliet.”
This time it was my turn to pause.
“Romeoville by Joliet?” I said, “That sounds totally made up.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “It’s totally real. I’m looking at it right now. It’s as boring as ever.”
“And that’s where you grew up?”
“No. We moved around a lot. My dad’s a flight instructor.”
For some reason, this seemed like the oddest thing in the world to me. The father of this person I had known but not known taught people to fly airplanes in Illinois.
“So,” he said. “What else?”
Still stuck in thought, I barely heard his question.
“What’s that?” I said.
