The call back

It was just a voice on the phone. “Please call back during our business hours, from Monday to Friday, 9AM to 5PM.” Can a voice be that sinister? Evidently, it can. 

A beep later, I was alone in my room, staring out at the old snow. 

I glanced at the kitchen clock, it was 5:02PM. With a sigh, I sunk back a little further into my couch and held my phone at arms length. Should I call again? 

Interrupted by the microwave’s beep, I stood up to turn it off. I extracted my cup of noodles—scalding hot! Nearly dropped it but managed to avoid disaster, placing it next to to my tribute to procrastination: a stack of cups from last week, the week before that, and perhaps even the week before that. 

They had called me five minutes ago. I had missed it for I was heating up water for yet another cup. 

I started pacing from wall to wall. 

Three steps—wall—turn—three steps—wall. 

Their timing was uncanny—just before closing. They must have gotten my results. My heart raced—I must be dying. I was dying and their offices were now closed. I was dying and I didn’t know of what. 

My ears, yes, it must be my ears. I had noticed a slight decline in their service lately.

I snapped my fingers next to my left ear. I could still hear. The right—all good.

The day had been remarkable until I got their message. 

“Mr. Brower, Please give us a call back as soon as you can.”

Until then, I had been blasting music within my apartment, blissfully ignorant, without a care of my impending doom. Now, I was certain—I was loosing my hearing. This must be it, yes, it was that swim in the lake. I knew I shouldn’t have gone. 

But I always swim in the lake. I don’t really swim, I hover over the floor. I don’t touch the floor but I don’t go too far for if it suddenly gets too cold and I get a cramp and if all of a sudden I forget how swimming works, I can at least stand. Or maybe I would drown in water where I could stand. That would be tragic. But no, I will die of an ear infection, most probably an animal that has crept into my ear as I submerged my head within the lake last week. 

I grabbed a fork and started gobbling down the noodles. They always sat nicely and went down too fast. One minute and seventeen seconds is the right amount of time to heat them up, only today it wasn’t. I was staring at the cup turning and turning and then my phone binged. 

‘You have a new voicemail,’ it read. 

Technology really isn’t how it should be, I should have heard the call. If it weren’t for that stupid phone, I’d know how many days were left in me. 

Last week's scare seemed like a distant nightmare now. I remember sitting in the sterile, doctor's office, the walls adorned with vaguely motivational posters about health and wellbeing. The room smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. Dr. Hammond peered at me over his glasses.

“Why are we doing the blood tests again, Mr. Brower?”

I shifted uncomfortably on the crinkling paper that lined the examination table. I was his best patient, he knew me by now and yet, I would sit there, scared to tell him just what was wrong with me this time. “Well, doctor, it's my heart. It's been racing, and sometimes I feel this tightness,” I explained, my voice trailing off. I didn't mention the countless hours spent on medical websites, self-diagnosing, the forums where people shared their worst fears becoming realities.

Dr. Hammond scribbled something in his notes, then proceeded with a few routine checks—blood pressure, heart rate, a stethoscope pressed cold against my chest. “Your heart sounds fine to me,” he said, not looking up. “But let's do the blood tests. It'll give you some peace of mind for a month at best.”

My noodles were gone. 

I walked towards my room, and with each step nearing me to the bedside table, my ears seemed to hurt increasingly. I reached for my well-worn dictionary of illnesses. The book creaked open, revealing pages stained with the evidence of my relentless search for an elusive diagnosis. 

The doctors never seemed to get it right. 

“I hope not to see you for the remnant of the year Mr. Brower,” Dr. Hammond had said, “My best patients are those I rarely see.” 

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I traced the lines of text and lost myself in this world where every cough could be pneumonia, and every headache a possible aneurysm. 

I flipped through the pages. 

The ringing of my phone broke the spell. I glanced at the clock; it was already 9 PM. 

I shut the dictionary with a definitive snap, the sound resonating in the cramped confines of my room. 

“It could be anything,” I muttered to myself. 

As I left the house, the ritualistic checking began. Had I locked the door? Yes, thrice. Stove off? Of course, I hadn't used it in days. I patted my pockets for the umpteenth time – keys, phone, wallet – the holy trinity of modern life.

Talking to myself had become a habit, less about the content and more about the comforting sound of my own voice, a steady drone that drowned out the incessant buzz of worry. “You're just going to work, Lowell,” I reassured myself, “not marching into Hades.”

Reaching my car, I fumbled with the keys. “You've done this a thousand times,” I chided myself, slipping into the driver's seat with the grace of a newborn giraffe. The familiar scent of the car's interior – a blend of pine air freshener and fast-food remnants – greeted me like an old friend.

The moment I started the car, the pain in my ears, that persistent, nagging reminder, vanished. Just like that. It was as if the ignition of the engine had somehow ignited a spark of rationality in my brain. “Psychosomatic, you think?” I asked the rearview mirror, which offered no reply, steadfast in its loyalty to reality.

Arriving at the hotel, I parked with the precision of a seasoned chauffeur. 

“Another night in the land of transient souls,” I said, stepping out of the car. The hotel loomed before me, a stoic giant of glass and concrete, its windows like a hundred eyes staring blankly into the night.

“Good evening, Mr. Brower,” greeted the night manager.

“Good evening indeed,” I replied with a wry smile, taking my place behind the reception desk.