In a Network of Lines that Enlace – Part 2
By: Megan Forziati
“Jonathan! Jonathan, are you there?” asks the woman.
“Yes, yes I am here,” I replied.
“Jonathan! It’s your mother! Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all day! Did you take your medication today? Are you coming over for dinner later?”
“Yes, yes I will be over later. Goodbye mother.”
Click. A faint ringing in my head remains. My laptop sits open on the desk. I sit down and begin to write an e-mail to my students, addressing why I did not make it to class. I settle on a family emergency. I finish up and hit the small red send button. The button really should be bigger. I have an e-mail account to send e-mails so why would the sole purpose of the site be so miniscule? The phone rings. Before the first shrill can finish, I pick up the phone. I know never to be the first person to make a sound. Let the caller make his purpose heard. No sound comes from the telephone but I refuse to make the first move. That is just what they want you to do. So they can catch you in a lie! I look at the clock. I have to be at my mother’s house in an hour and a half, and I still need to shower. Three minutes go by and no noise from either end can be heard. Five minutes pass. This is not the longest I’ve waited; sometimes no one says anything. I steal a quick glance at the small screen on the phone that records the battery level. No bars exist.
I begin to panic. The phone died before the caller made his purpose known. I will surely pay for this. It is just a matter of time before the next phone rings in the next place I am located. I put the phone in the charger and run into the shower. My shower is the only place that drowns out the noise. It is the sole escape from the funhouse of sounds. My water bill is more expensive than the electric bill. I check the time. Thirty minutes before I have to be at my mother’s. That leaves me fifteen minutes to get dressed, comb my hair, pick up the phone, put my shoes on, pick up the phone, grab my coat, pick up the phone, close the door, and turn the key.
I spring down the three flights of stairs, afraid that the ring will call me back, causing me to be tardy for dinner. I hop in a cab and give him the address to my old babysitter’s house. You never know what cab driver might show up at your house the next night because he saw something he liked in the front yard. I thank the driver, give him a tip, and step out onto the curb. I stand there until he turns the corner. In less than three minutes I am knocking on the door, and my mother welcomes me in. A waft of fresh apple pie seeps onto the porch. I give my mother a peck on the cheek and walk into the small kitchen which is already set for the two of us.
“How was your day, Jonathan? I cooked your favorite!” exclaims my mother.
“Just an ordinary day, mother. You know.”
“Fine, just fine, Jonathan. Well dinner is just about ready, so you can have a seat. Don’t forget the movers are finishing up tomorrow. Oh! I almost forgot. You left some of your writing here a few days ago,” she says.
She walks into the living room, which I can see through the doorway from the kitchen. She rustles a few papers and moves a coat off the armchair. She hands me my writing, and I am relieved to find it still there. My soon-to-be masterpiece: “The Marked Girl”.
“What a beautiful fur coat, mother,” I say.
Once every two weeks a two part short story will arise from the mind of Megan. In other words, once a month a brand new story will come out, however, in order to find out the ending of the story, you will need to tune in two weeks from the first part to get the follow up. Enjoy!
