The right or wrong number can change your life. You realize it when you balance your checkbook or get your math test back. But most people concern themselves more with the numbers we dial to reach the people we love. In my case, I dialed a number I used to know by heart.
As it rang, I held my breath. Would she answer? Would she sound the same? Would she remember me? If so, would she be happy to hear from me?
“Hello,” a familiar voice asks disinterestedly.
“Nessa?” my voice trembles.
“That’s me. Can I help you?”
“It’s Opal.”
Nothing. I clear my throat and wait.
“Wow! Girl! I haven’t heard from you in forever.”
Now I say nothing. Has she forgotten me? Was our big fight only on my side? What are the odds another Nessa has this number now?
“Opal? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you just call to hear my lovely voice or was there another reason?”
“Well, we haven’t talked in a while…”
“Twenty years, girl. Twenty years.” She sips something and I picture her leaning back with her legs propped up and her beverage of choice in hand as she casually takes a dainty drink as if we talk every day and nothing has changed.
“Yeah. About that…”
“Are you doing a twelve step program or something?”
“Um…no…” Her forward acceptance of my call leaves me stalled out.
“Did you call to make amends?” She inquires as she takes another tiny sip and smacks her lips together.
I cringe as much from the lip smack as from the implication that I owe her an apology.
“Opal?” She asks.
“Still here,” I mutter.
“So, why did you call?” A tense edge hovers around her words.
I pause, debating if it is worth it, before finally softening my voice and continuing, “I guess you haven’t heard about Al?”
Her voice hardens, “You mean Al and you?”
“There was never an Al an I!”
“Right.” I swear I hear her eyes roll. “So I didn’t see you kissing him.”
“He was kissing me,” my voice rises and I take a deep breath, knowing she won’t believe anything I say about that night, “But none of that matters now. My mother just called…”
Silence falls for a few minutes before her subdued voice struggles through the air between us, “And?”
“She just talked to his mother. Nessa, Al died…” The calm in my own voice surprises me.
She chokes out, “How?”
“Car accident,” my voice lowers so much I worry she didn’t hear me.
“Was he…?”
I know the words she can’t ask, “No. He’s been on the wagon for years. He hit a patch of black ice and flipped his car.”
She clears her throat in an attempt to hide her feelings, but they still seep into every word. “So did you lose a bet or something?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you calling me instead of his mom?”
I take a deep breath before confessing. “I thought it would be better to hear it from a friend.”
“Are we friends?”
“We used to be…”
Silence fills the distance between us.
I finally break it with pleading words. “Maybe we can be again.”
“Maybe.” She sounds doubtful. “When’s the funeral.”
“Next weekend…”
“I’ll see you there?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Goodbye for now.”
“Goodbye.”
The line goes quiet and my mind races, wondering where this leaves our friendship.
~~
I know I keep writing these pieces that leave a million questions and probably beg to become a longer piece. If I filled out some of these and published them, would you buy it?
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