EVERY DAY IS CLOCKWORK: school, Jackie’s, pocket a little extra cash, have a coughing fit, get a massive headache, swallow some pills, study in the empty apartment. Pretend I’m doing okay. I’ve managed to keep it going for almost a whole month, all on my own.
While Aaron has yet to return any of my calls, he did send some money for rent, so I guess that’s something. I don’t know how he knows I’m still here—he must have someone, somewhere, checking on me. Which means he must still care in some small way. Maybe it’s Carmen or Mrs. Allister from downstairs.
But something feels different on the walk home from school today. In fact, the whole day has felt off.
The landline is ringing.
I can hear it as I walk up the endless stairs to our apartment, my lungs ragged and still not functioning at capacity due to this cold that doesn’t want to go away. I drop the keys on the floor, pick them back up, try the lock again. Finally I make it inside. I race to the phone.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver.
The connection is bad. Static. But on the other end I hear pieces of the words: “. . . a collect call from . . . inmate . . . correctional facility. . . . To refuse this call, hang up. To accept this call, press one now.”
I press the one button. Then I press the receiver to my ear even closer. Don’t want to miss a word. The automated voice says, “Thank. You.” There’s a click on the line.
Then, “Hello, hello? Brooke, are you there?”
I feel tears stinging my eyes. I miss you. I love you. I need you. I hate you. I’m sorry. I keep opening my mouth to speak, but it’s like a hand is reaching up the back of my throat, strangling the words out of me.
“I don’t have long,” she says, and pauses, the line crackling. “Say something. Please. I miss you.” And then I hear it: She’s crying. She sniffles loudly and coughs like she’s trying to catch her breath. “Brooke,” she whispers. “I love you.”
I slam the receiver down. Hard. But then I pick it back up immediately and bring it to my ear. “Mom?”
But it’s just the moaning, empty dial tone.
My voice echoes back at me, spiraling through the kitchen. I hang up again, softly this time. I run my fingers over the gentle crater in the wall next to the phone—the spot where Dad’s fist once landed. I sink down the wall onto the linoleum floor. I think about the way Dad’s hand looked the day he died, his body sprawled out only a few feet from where I’m now sitting.
The phone rings again. I look up at it, but it’s too late. I can’t reach it. Aaron was right. There’s no saving this. It’s too late for us. The phone rings and rings and rings. Ten times, twenty times, a thousand times. I cover my ears. I close my eyes. I can’t feel my insides. I’m cold now. Frozen solid.