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Phoebe
39.8097° N, 98.5556° W Lebanon, Kansas
Ipressinthenumbers, and my hand doesn’t shiver; it doesn’t shake. I am so calm. It terrifies me. Why am I so quiet? This is bad, right? I am reaching out for help; this is me at beyond rock bottom, past hell. I am dissolving without hope of being recognized.
I wait for someone to answer; I lean against my kitchen counter and repeat my soothing ritual. “Acadia, Arches, Badlands, Big Bend, Biscayne, Black Canyon of the Gunnison.” My voice changes the tone to make it a song I have always known.
When an automated message greets me over the phone, I almost hang up,almost. But I decide to wait; I’ve come this far. They say when you are uncomfortable, that is when it makes the most difference. So I stay on the line. Because if I hang up, I might just cut the cord to my lifeline, and I don’t know if I am ready to say goodbye yet.
“Hello.” The responder waits. But I don’t know how to start a conversation with this stranger. I don’t know how to create this kind of conversation. How do you tell someone over the phone you might want to die and feel better if you don’t survive the night?
“Hello?” They ask again, and I try to be brave enough to answer. It’s hard not to imagine Enzo is on the other side of the phone. My habits have taught me to call him in crisis, but things change. I cannot call on him when he does not answer, and I am too wounded to be turned away. It isn’t him, but still, my mind produces the image because it is safer to assume I am in the hands of someone who loved me once.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m here.” I cough, trying to cover up my lapse in a present mind.
“Glad to hear it.” The male, Iassumeon the other end, laughs. It is an excellent lighthearted sound, and I wonder if he has a lover out there that has the echo memorized.
“So, how does this work?” It is a simple ask.
“We talk, you speak, I listen. I talk; you listen. Simple.” The voice over the phone is light, and I wonder how he got there.
“Simple.” It doesn’t sound easy; it sounds like the hardest thing I will have to do in my adult life.
“What is your favorite food?” The guy must be trained to keep me talking and on the line. Because heaven forbid, I get off of this, and they have a casualty on their hands.
It isn’t a sense of humor I am proud of; I don’t have a plan, I have no decided path for ending this chapter. But the thought is heavy and so quiet I welcome it in without negotiating terms. Because for once, it feels safe; it feels like this darkness understands me. The depth of sorrow I can’t identify embraces me entirely, and it feels comfortable.
I don’t say a word to his favorite food question. We aren’t dating, and I would hate for one of the last things I say on Earth is about shrimp and steak tacos.
“Can you tell me where you are?” He tries again.
“Kansas.” I muster the truth this time.
“Wow, they usually route calls to the closest center.”
“What do you mean? Where are you?” I’m worried I made a mistake, called the wrong number. Maybe geographical information is the key to assisting callers.
“Austin, Texas,” he replies gently.
“Should I hang up and call a different number? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” I fidget with the phone in my fingers.
“Oh no, that’s okay. I am happy to be here and talk to you. Sorry, I don’t know what to call you.” There is the easy laughter again, and I promise I don’t want to bother him if I don’t have to.
I hold my breath, not knowing what to say.
“You can make up a name; it just seems strange not being about to say a name.” The voice grows quiet, and I relax a bit.
“Phoebe, my name is Phoebe,” I mumble. It throws the microphone.
“Well, Phoebe; nice to meet you my name is Ken.”
It’s a small smile, but I allow it because I need a little faith if this conversation continues.
“I love Austin, one of my favorite cities.” I can talk about the cities I’ve traveled to. I can discuss for hours about destinations, as long as we don’t talk about me. I’ll put the topic off until later.
“Have you been here?” His voice is calm, and I pick a piece of lint off my pants, distracting myself from the comment.
“I spent my summers with an aunt who lived in Pflugerville.”
