door in a weak attempt to be festive.
Jake has a fit about my sliding door every time he comes to visit me. “Any half brain can break into one of these. It’s a burglar’s wet dream,” he says. Soon after I moved in he brought me a broom with the bristles chopped off. “See, it fits perfectly,” he said, laying the long, slender wooden handle in the metal track. “Unless an intruder breaks the glass, there’s no way anyone is getting through this door. Promise me you’ll put this in whenever you’re home.”
I promised, and have used the broom handle precisely zero times since. I insert the rod and tell myself that I’m doing so because Jake will most surely drop by later and give me hell if the door is not secured, but in actuality I’m spooked.
Once I’m sure that the dead bolt on the front door and each window is locked I sit down at my C-shaped kitchen counter that serves as my dining table and office area. Sitting on the Formica—a dated beige with a pale blue and brown boomerang pattern smattered throughout—is my laptop and phone. The captioned phone, a gift from my dad, allows me to have real-time phone conversations with others even though I can’t really hear a word they are saying. The system scrolls the caller’s words across the screen so I can see what is being said and I can answer as I always have when using a phone. It even translates into text any voice mail messages left when I’m away. Most of the time the phone sits idle except for my conversations with Nora, and my weekly calls with my dad and brother.
I have two pressing phone calls that I need to make. The first to the center in hopes of rescheduling my interview, and then I need to call David. I’m not sure which call I dread the most. I find the number for the center, and after a few seconds the screen on the tabletop phone display reads “Five Mines Regional Cancer Center, this is Lori, how may I assist you?”
I take a deep breath. Though it’s hard to explain, the anxiousness I feel when I speak into the receiver rivals that of having to sleep in a dark room. “Yes, hello,” I begin, concentrating on modulating the volume of my voice and the enunciation of my words. “May I speak with Dr. Huntley?” Because I can’t hear myself I don’t know how loudly or softly I’m speaking. Usually I rely on clues from the facial expressions of the listener—like if they lean in to hear me better or if they cringe because I’m too loud for the situation. Talking by phone takes away those physical cues, making it impossible for me to know how I’m doing.
“Dr. Huntley isn’t available right now. May I direct you to his voice mail?” the receptionist asks. My shoulders sag. I was hoping to speak to him in person. I want him to know just how much I want this job—how much I need this job. I agree and thank the receptionist, and after a minute the phone display invites me to leave a message for Dr. Huntley.
“Dr. Huntley, this is Amelia Winn. I’m so sorry about missing this morning’s interview. I promise you it was for a very good reason and I’d really appreciate the opportunity to explain everything to you and hopefully reschedule our visit. Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I leave my phone number, hang up and stare at the phone for several moments before I pick up the receiver again. I dial the number I know by heart. The number that once belonged to me too. This is the phone call I’m hoping will go straight to voice mail. There’s a good chance that David is at the hospital but it could also be a day off for him. I’m not privy to his schedule anymore.
“Hello,” the display reads and my stomach flip-flops.
“David?” I ask because the phone isn’t able to identify who’s speaking.
“It’s me.” Of course I can’t gauge the emotion in his response but I imagine he’s put on his clinical, slightly patronizing tone that he reserves for interns and people who have pissed him off.
“I can explain,” I begin, but then stop. Will it even matter? Every move I’ve made, every word I’ve uttered in the last two years has been wrong. The display remains idle. I was once able to talk to David about anything. He’s the smartest, most capable man I’ve ever met. He’s an excellent ob-gyn, loved by his patients for his gentle bedside manner and well respected by his peers. But beyond that, what I love most about David is that at his core he’s a good man. He would do anything to protect those he loves and there was a time when I was counted among that very small group.
“I was out paddle boarding this morning and something...” I hesitate. I know I’m not supposed to say anything but it’s hard. David knew Gwen. She was my friend, a floater nurse at both hospitals who surely assisted David one time or another in the delivery room. The tragic irony, given Gwen’s job and the fact that I found her floating in Five Mines, is not lost on me. “Something very bad happened. I couldn’t get away in time for my interview with Dr. Huntley. I promise. I’ve already called the center and left him a message.”
I pause, waiting for David to ask me if I’m okay, if I’ve been injured but no words appear on the screen. He is probably just relieved that I messed up before I even got the job—saves the trouble of Dr. Huntley having to fire me later and saves David some embarrassment. I ignore the twinge of hurt and plunge forward, determined to at least get my side of the story out. “I can’t say anymore right now, David. It’s a police matter.”
“Fine, then.” The words finally appear on the display. “I hope you get a second chance.”
“Me too,” I answer, and I think we both know I’m talking about much more than a chance at a clerical job. “How’s Nora?” I ask.
“She’s great.” I imagine his voice rising with pride. “Parent-teacher conferences are next week. She can’t wait to show off her classroom,” he goes on to say. I want so badly to ask if I can come too. After all, for most of Nora’s almost eight years, I was the one who organized and coordinated nearly every single event of her young life. I was the one who took Nora to her first day of kindergarten when David was stuck in a difficult delivery. I was the one who organized her birthday celebrations, baked each cake, wrapped each gift. I read her books before bed each night, put cartoon Band-Aids on her cuts and scrapes, held her when she woke up shaking from bad dreams. Of course I did. I’m her mother.
David doesn’t invite me to teacher conferences any longer and I don’t dare push it. I don’t have any rights when it comes to Nora. Her birth mother, selfish, flighty and indifferent to her daughter, refused to give up parental rights even though David begged her to so that I could adopt her as my own and give Nora a real mother. But that’s just how Trista is. She doesn’t want the inconvenience of having a daughter but to be spiteful she says no to the one person who was thrilled to step into that role.
David, to his credit, after I promised him I had stopped drinking, has grudgingly allowed me to spend some time with Nora. Always in his presence, always in public.
“Can I call her later?” I ask. “I want to hear all about trick-or-treating and her costume.”
“Yeah. How about around eight? We’ll be back home by then.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then as an afterthought, add, “Watch the news tonight, David. It will explain a lot.”
He doesn’t say that he will or won’t, but simply says goodbye and disconnects.
As I heat the kettle for tea, I toss a few pieces of kindling into the wood-burning stove. I have electric heat, but rarely have to turn it on. Twice a year I call an old friend of my dad’s and he brings me enough wood to warm my home through the longest of winters. He stacks it behind the house and even covers it with a tarp to keep it dry. I settle into my mink-brown wide-wale corduroy–covered love seat and without invitation, Stitch squeezes in next
