Calling Home

Home, a place I haven’t been in more than ten, wait no twelve years. I can’t believe Grammy is gone. The finality of death hits my chest hard, my aching heart beats loudly, the lub-dub, lub-dub, echoes in my ears. The stifling heat makes it hard to breathe. Or is it the sadness that is engulfing me. I walked aimlessly through the kitchen, running my fingers over the yellowing cream color Formica countertop. The chip in the corner opposite the oven and stove still there from when I accidently hit it with my skateboard when I was eight. The aged white refrigerator that has the freezer on top and fridge on the bottom, is still standing, still working, but Grammy isn’t. The plastic feel of the handles still sticky from jam I’m almost certain Grammy had on her fingers from that fateful morning. How is she gone? I just spoke to her last week. Last night. It’s too surreal. The crockpot is nestled on the counter, I peer in hoping no meat is rotting inside, but I know there won’t be, she never made it to midday when she starts all of her meals in her trusty appliance.

           I walk through the living room, her worn spot in the recliner, her attempt to fix frayed edges with embroidery. Small leaves and flowers stitched with love in precarious places. The couch still against the window, the marble windowsill that split my forehead open when I was nine, jumping around and landing wrong. I touch the scar that runs through my hairline remembering her voice, her tender touch, how she stopped the bleeding and scooped me up into her car and drove me to the small community hospital where I received twelve stitches. Her small television sits on top of an antiqued wood credenza. I open the side doors, the hidden bar still filled with bottles of whiskey, vodka, and rum. A bottle of champagne that we were saving for when I got engaged -which never happened. I let my fingers run over the powder blue landline, the ancient technology my Grammy refused to get rid of. During Hurricane Michael she was able to make calls for her friends to let their families know they survived the storm.

I continue wondering aimlessly, tears falling from my face. The memories I had here, the poignant one that changed our lives forever when I was six, my mother going out one night for drinks with a friend only to never return home. Our weekly visits to the police department to see if they had any information, any new discoveries. I spent hours and days by the landline, waiting for it to ring, waiting for the caller to say they found my mother – but they never did. I stopped wondering where she went, what had happened, and when I left for New York in pursuit of stardom on Broadway, I never came back to relive the bad memories. I sealed them up, forgetting all the good memories that my grandmother had built up over the years. As I walk into Grammy’s room, another landline on her nightstand, this one beige. Her perfume bottles lined up like soldiers on her dresser, the delicate ivory crocheted lace doily underneath them. The room smells like her. A mixture of Estee Lauder and Oil of Olay moisturizer. Her two staples of beauty care regimen.

I sit at the edge of her bed. My fingers play with the crochet pink and white blanket at the edge of her bed. I bring the corner of the blanket to my nose and inhale her scent. Fresh tears flood my eyes as I remember her tight embrace as I was leaving, my small hatchback packed with all of my belongings. I promised Grammy I would return, that I wouldn’t forget about the love that I was leaving behind. I thought of my love for her; she was thinking about my love for Breck. I promised myself a new beginning, leaving the heartbreak of this town behind me. I’m startled out of the memory by a foreign ringing sound…the brrrng brrrrng of the landline catches me off guard. I scoot over on the edge of the bed.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously. Who would be calling Grammy’s house? All of her close friends know what has happened, and I am her only family left.

“Umm, hello.” the male voice answers back, “I was looking for Grammy Soph.”

Grammy Soph? No one calls her that. Her friends call her Sophia or Sophie, and I call her Grammy. “Umm, who’s this?” I ask the caller, adjusting the bulky handset.

“Sorry I must have the wrong number.” he answers and hangs up abruptly.  

I stare at the phone, perplexed. I uncoil the cord and place the handset back in its cradle. I stand, and head back toward the living room. I open the deep red secretary desk, pull the chair out, and sit to go through Grammy’s personal items. She had her funeral plans laid out after grandpa died, buying the plot next to him and prepaying for the burial so I wouldn’t be burdened with it. Rummaging through a drawer for paperwork, I find a ledger, opening it to find her bills and payments she has made to date. I run my hand over her writing, coaxing her to touch me from beyond. Another shrill sounding brrrng, brrrrng sounds from the powder blue phone connected to the wall. I sit and listen for the ring again. The shrill sound fills the quiet space in the room. I stand, walking toward the phone, the ringing paused, and as it shrills out again, I pick up the handset.

“Hello?” I answer.

“I’m looking for Sophia Heath.” the same male voice from earlier answers back. I pause for a long moment, perhaps too long as I hear the male voice again. “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

“I’m here….yes.” I pause, wondering who it could be. Duh, I think, just ask. “Who is this?” I ask the male voice.

“I’m a friend of Gramm- I mean Sophia. My name is Beck, I’ve been helping her over the years around the house, taking her to appointments.”

My heart stops for the second time in a twenty-four hour period. Beck. Grammy has reached through from beyond, wherever souls go after they die. Pushing Beck back towards me.

“Hello?” he asks again, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. I’m…” I trail off, what do I say to the man I wouldn’t marry twelve years ago. To the man I left for stardom in New York. “It’s me…Alyssa.”

A long pause, then a sigh. I can hear him breathing and I wonder what he looks like now. His voice is raspier, deeper than when we were naive teenagers in love. Was his hair still shaggy? Did he still drive a beat up Ford pickup? I doubt that.

“Alyssa.” he whispers, the disbelief palpable over the phone.

I stand in Grammy’s living room, pacing and coiling the landline cord between my fingers. I gnaw on my lower lip, a habit I always had when I was waiting for Beck to answer my calls. The habit I displayed when I paced in front of the living room picture window waiting for his truck to pull up and whisk me away to the park, the movie theater, the skating rink, really any place where we could hold hands and kiss each other. The silence continues as we both try to figure what to say.

Beck clears his throat, “So is Soph not around to talk? She said she needed to bring something to me which is silly because she hasn’t driven in three years.” he explains.

I start to cry, not the soft tears of nostalgia, longing, and sadness from when I first came home, but sobs of sorrow and regret and loneliness. “She…..she…..” I try to speak in between the sobs, “she died yesterday. I came as fast as I could, but it was too late. And I’m here now at the house, but …. I don’t know what to do Beck.” I sob, the tears and snot falling from my face.

“Died? NO. When? What?” his shock and disbelief and I hear him throw something against a wall, a slew of profanity muffled, he must have pulled the phone away from his ear. I hear him cry. Strangely, I want to hug him, to tell him we will survive. But we didn’t survive all those years ago and I ran instead of dealing with the aftermath.

“It’s like it’s happening all over again.” he says finally, and I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles whiting under the pressure. I hold it with both hands and cry more as I remember the baby we lost, the sadness and grief we felt, and now we’ve lost Grammy.

“I….I don’t know what she had to bring to you. But I’m here if you want to come look through her items. Maybe something will speak to you.” I offer. I hear him sniffle and imagine he is wiping his eyes, his shirt sleeve now tear-stained.

“I think I know what she meant. What she was bringing me.” he tells me softly.

“Oh? Yeah? What?” I ask, scared of what he might say, knowing what he might say,

“You.” Beck answers. “This past week we had been talking a lot about the baby and you and the loss of both things at one time. She brought you back.” he says with such conviction it catches me off-guard. I slide down the credenza into a sitting position, my knees propped up against my chest, the powder blue handset cradled in the crook of my neck as I listen to Beck silently, the tears running down my face as I rock back and forth.

“Alyssa? Are you still there?” he asks.

“Yes.” I answer, shaking my head simultaneously even though he can’t see me.

“Can I…can I come over?” he asks, knowing that I could say no, he tries anyways.

I think of Grammy, of the love she gave me when I needed it most. I look around the home she made for me, how she encouraged me to finish school when I got pregnant at seventeen. How she cooked dinner for me and Beck. How we bought fancy champagne for the wedding after he proposed. How heartbroken she was when I lost the baby. How destroyed she looked when I left for New York, and now, her contact from beyond was in bringing me home. Bringing me back to heal, to find peace. To find Beck.

“Yes, I’d like that Beck.” I answer him. His name rolling off my tongue for the first time in twelve years. The antiquated telephone technology bringing me the voice I’ve needed to hear all these years. “I think it’s time Beck.”

We say our goodbyes and I gently place the handset back into the powder blue cradle. I push myself off the floor and go stand by the picture window, pacing for Beck’s vehicle to pull into the driveway, like he did all those years ago.