Call Me Margaret.

For as long as I can remember, my name has been Theresa. I had never had a reason to question this until tonight when Mom called me Margaret.

I wouldn’t have thought twice about it until I ask, “Margaret?”

And she answers, “I meant Margaret -- Theresa!” 

It hangs between us as we stand across from each other in between the kitchen and the dining room, still posed from the conversation we had been having. My eyebrows furrow slightly, lips mouthing the name again; Mom’s eyebrows rise slightly, lips parting in exasperation. 

Mom was not one to make mistakes. She was a woman of a strict and careful nature, always keeping the house tidy, her bookshelves organized, and her conversations straightforward and articulate. She was flustered by this mistake, and it made me wonder, who is Margaret?

A piercing whistle breaks the silence growing between us, and we both jump slightly. Mom quickly turns as if she’s taking the opportunity to leave the conversation and walks into the kitchen. She removes the kettle from the burner and pours steaming water into the teapot on the tray on the counter. She places the small lid back on the teapot, removes two tea cups from the cupboard, and places them on the tray next to tiny spoons and the honey jar. This was a part of our nightly routine: dinner, clean up, tea, and books by the bay window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. 

She says nothing as she places the tea tray on the table between the large chairs at the window. I watch her quietly but diligently, waiting for her to say something else. I step closer and swallow the fear beginning to form in my throat. 

“Who is Margaret?” I ask. 

“I said Theresa,” She nearly cuts me off. “Come, sit. Let’s read.” 

I listen because I’ve never been one not to; there was never much room to not to. I take my seat and pick up my book, glancing at Mom’s to see if perhaps hers was about a character named Margaret, and that’s what caused the confusion. She’s reading Pride & Prejudice, and I know there isn’t a Margaret in it. 

We sit quietly and read as I repeat the name silently in my head, in her voice. Margaret. Margaret. Margaret. 

*

I spend a week obsessing over Margaret. Mom and I are not close; we co-exist and get along. We have our small rituals, and we even go out for tea occasionally, but we don't have conversations about deep matters, including things like who Margaret is.

So instead, I thumb through family photo albums, search the neatly filed document cabinets that house birth certificates and social security cards, and even Google the name. My efforts are fruitless, so I turn to the last resource I had ever thought I’d use: calling the dead. 

Parallax Funeral Home rebranded two years back, and when they remerged with a new logo and color scheme, they also announced a new service: A Phone Call Away. You can call in, converse with an operator medium, and connect with someone you felt had left the earth too soon. I had never used the services, nor had I been interested. The only person in my life to die thus far was Grandma on Mom's side, but we weren’t close; I barely knew the woman. She would show up to birthday parties with a sour face and leave a card with a crisp $10 bill in it without saying a word to either Mom or myself. 

So, one week and one day after being called Margaret, I gather the stash of $10 bills I’d been saving from the birthday cards, along with money from babysitting, dog walking, and garden-weeding, and begin walking toward the funeral home. 

It’s a short walk, and on the way there, I calculate how long I have until Mom is back from work. I’m on fall break, but she hadn’t taken off work since it was only a Friday. It is 11:07 a.m. right now; she is off at 3:00 p.m. and will be home by 3:20 p.m. I’m unsure how long phoning the dead takes, but I’m hopeful it’s less than 4 hours. 

Parallax Funeral Home is nestled against a row of trees, gold-kissed leaves shimmering in the late morning sun. It’s November, but warm for the day, and the beams feel reassuring on my face as I enter the home. 

A receptionist is perched at the desk in the center of a large room neatly decorated with flowers, memorable eulogies, and framed photographs of the generations of family members who have run the home.

She greets me with a warm smile. “Hi there. How can I help you?” 

“Hi, I, um…” Suddenly, forget what the services are called. Do I simply say, “I’m here to call the dead?” or “I’m here to try and find Margaret?” 

“I am here to make a phone call. I think.” I decide. 

“Oh, yes, certainly. Do you know who you’re calling?” She turns toward her computer, typing on the keyboard as she speaks. 

“I have a first name and, I guess, a general location, but that’s all.”

She looks up at me from the computer screen. “That might be a bit tricky. Let’s set you up, and then we can settle the bill if you succeed."

I nod, and the receptionist rises from her seat, stepping out from behind the desk. She leads me to a phone booth in the corner, somewhat private but with a window facing the desk. She unlocks the door and lets me in. 

“So you’ll pick up the phone and press 0. Once you reach an operator, you can give details about who you’re trying to reach; if they can channel them, you’ll be connected; otherwise, you may have to try again another time.” 

I nod in understanding, and she gives me another warm smile before closing the door. Silence takes over the booth, and I hear my heart beating. 

I pick up the phone, and the line buzzes. I click 0, hear a beep, and it rings. 

“Operator,” a voice picks up on the second ring. My stomach twists at the reality of what is happening. 

“Oh. Hi. I’m trying to reach someone,” I squeak out. 

“Name?” the operator asks. She sounds bored or maybe irritated, and I wonder if I'm reading into it too much.

“Margaret. That’s all I’ve got,” I start. I give her the location of where I live and the context in which I heard the name.

“What’s your mother's name?” the operator asks. 

“April Weston.” 

“Date of birth? Location of birth?” 

I give her the details, and the phone goes quiet for a full minute. I consider asking if she’s still there, but then she speaks up suddenly.

“I’ve found a Margaret with a relation to April Weston. Would you like me to put you through?” 

“Y-yes,” I say quickly, my heart speeding up. 

“One moment,” the bored operator clicks several buttons on the phone as if dialing a number, and I’m sent to another set of rings. One, two, three, four, five…

I switch the phone to my other ear. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…

What are dead people doing that they take this long to get to the phone? My nerves begin twisting into irritation, and then someone picks up.

I freeze.

She speaks: “Theresa?”

*

“It’s me,” the voice on the other line crackles. It’s soft and young, perhaps a bit weary. “Margaret.” 

My heart feels as if it all but stops inside my chest. There’s a knot in my stomach and a buzzing in my head. 

“Who are you?” I ask. 

She’s quiet on the other line, this Margaret. There’s static, and I wonder if it’s normal; it makes sense, calling the dead and all –

“I’m your sister.” 

“My sister?” I’m not sure if I say it or think it. I was an only child; it was just mom and me. 

“Listen, Theresa –” more static. I look toward the receptionist as if I can signal the problem and get confirmation that it's normal, but she’s shuffling papers behind the desk. 

“I’m having a hard time hearing you,” I tell her, my nerves twisting again. My mind floods with questions: when was she born? When did she die? How did she die? Why didn’t Mom ever tell me about her? How does she know about me? Can she see me from up there? 

“Can you hear me?” Margaret asks. 

“Yes,” I say quickly. 

“Ok. Theresa, you need to get out.” 

I look around the phone booth and then the funeral home. “Get out of where?” 

“Her house…Mom’s house. You have to get out, leave, and find somewhere else to live.” 

“What? Why?” 

Silence. More static.

"Because...she killed me. Mom killed me."