I sat forward and picked up the receiver to see if there was an operator waiting at the other end. I listened to the ringing, still having no idea who I was going to call if and when the operator answered. In the middle of the third ring the call was answered, but instead of an operator I got a moment of hiss, followed by a recorded voice-mail introduction:
“Hi, this is Dianne. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message…oh, you know the rest. You’ll have three minutes after the beep, so don’t feel like you have to talk really fast. I hate that, don’t you? Okay, thanks for calling.”
This was the first time in five years that I’d heard her voice, and it almost broke me in half; clear and musical, with a subtle South Carolina accent that caused her to end every sentence on a smoothly descending note of embarrassed laughter that snuggled down in the back of her throat and wrapped itself up in something like a purr…I could almost feel her voice with my fingertips. In those few seconds it took to listen to her message, all those parts of her that I’d purposefully chipped away bit by bit in an effort to make her just another memory came together again, and there she was: her smile, her laugh, her eyes, the smell of her in the morning, the scent of her shampoo lingering on the pillow long after she’d lifted her head, the ghost of her touch against the back of my hand, and before I could even release the breath I didn’t know I was holding, the empty space in my life that had once been filled by her hummed so intensely with her absence that the last half-decade of my existence suddenly seemed inane and empty, a prolonged delusion, a vaudeville of what a life was supposed to be.
God, how I’d missed her.
Then came the beep and I began talking.
“Hi, Dianne, it’s, uh…it’s me.”
And then it hit me: I had less than three minutes. What the hell do you say to someone under these circumstances when you’ve only got three minutes, and it might very well be the last time you ever have the chance to say anything to them? For a second I flashed upon a high school drama club production of Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology that I’d been in; the director had explained to us that we needed to approach each of the monologues as that character’s only chance to come back from the grave and say all the things they wished they’d said to everyone while they were still alive. “Their only shot at finally making things right,” she’d told us.
So, I thought, just pretend you’re a dead man back for a few moments from the grave. Got it? Good. Places…
“Please don’t skip over or erase this. I don’t have a lot of time. Listen to my voice. I’m not drunk, okay? What I am is in a lot of trouble, and I don’t know if I’m going to be…ah, hell, Dianne. I never stopped loving you, and I’ve never stopped missing you. I was a jerk—no, wait, that’s not quite right, is it? I was cruel and selfish and cold, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it. Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask for your forgiveness, though I’d bet you would forgive me if I asked. You were always so compassionate, and thoughtful, everything any man who had the brains God gave an ice cube would want or hope for. But me? I blew it. And I want you to know how sorry I am. I hope that whoever you’re with now treats you with all the respect and affection you should have gotten from me.
“You told me after the divorce hearing that you figured I’d go on and live my life like you’d never been a part of it. I tried. And it worked for about a week. Then one morning I got up and started making my lunch for the day and realized halfway through that I was packing yours, as well, like I used to some days, remember? I’m standing there in the middle of kitchen looking at a tuna fish sandwich and wondering if I used enough mayo—you still like lots of mayo on your tuna fish?—anyway, I’m standing there with this goddamn sandwich and realize that you’re not going to be eating it, and I started…well, I kinda lost it, and I hugged the sandwich to my chest and squashed it all the hell over my shirt…it was one of those mawkish moments that always used to make you laugh when you saw them in a movie. It was really pitiful.” I looked at the clock; I had less than a minute.
“I want you to know something, Dianne. You were the love of my life—you are the love of my life, and whatever happens tonight, even if I never see or hear from you again, my soul was blessed because you were once a part of my life, and even though I didn’t treasure it at the time like I should have, I treasure it now, and wish to God I’d have the chance to treasure it—to treasure you—again. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. Just know that everything you did, all you tried to give to me, all of it mattered, all of it. And whatever happens after I hang up, if this is it, I want you to know that my last thought will be of you and how you made my world rich, even if I was too much of an idiot to appreciate it at the time.
“I love you. I always will. I just…I just wanted to thank you for all you gave to me when we were together.
“And it just occurred to me that all of this must sound melodramatic as hell, and I’m sorry. It’s been an…odd couple of days. But it’s almost over now. I love you. Be happy, and never let yourself think that any part of what happened was because of you. You were wonderful—shit, you were perfect. I was an asshole. I didn’t deserve you. This isn’t self-pity, hon, it’s just plain old regret. Six of one, half-dozen of the other, I know.
“Good-bye, Dianne. I love you. Think about using a little less mayo in the tuna fish, okay? I hear it’s not good for the cholesterol. You may quote me.” The beep sounded again, I hung up, covered my eyes with my hands, and wept quietly for a minute or two. The lights flickered and I looked up just as Ciera opened the door. “It’s time.” She stared at me. “Are you okay?” Wiping my eyes, I shook my head, then said, “Just ducky, thanks.”
“Nobody wants you to get hurt, Driver.” “So I keep hearing.” I wiped my eyes once again, let out a breath, and rose. We stared at each other for a moment. “So?” I asked. “I take three giant steps, or what?” “I wish you wouldn’t be so mean to me.” “I didn’t think I was.”
She glanced down at the floor for a second, then back up at me. There was some genuine hurt in that gaze. “I keep trying to be nice, but you act like you don’t like me very much.”
“Like you? I don’t even know you. Until a few hours ago, I had no idea you or anyone else in this place even existed! All I knew was that I was supposed to deliver a body so the family could bury it, that’s all. Now, suddenly, I’m right smack in the middle of something pretty seriously goddamn scary, I might be dead before the sun rises, and you’re getting defensive about my bad manners?”
Her eyes began tearing up. “Please don’t yell at me.”
“What the fuck would you do if you were in my position?”
“Please stop yelling.”
I opened my mouth to really let her have it, then her words—Please stop yelling—echoed back, only this time it was Dianne’s voice I heard speaking them, as it had so many time during the course of our marriage whenever I had been made aware of my shortcomings and was looking for someone to blame, usually her.
Please stop yelling. Oh, hon…. “I’m sorry,” I said to Ciera, stepping forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just…mad.” “Okay,” she said, not meeting my gaze. “Hey?” She looked up at me.
“What’s your name—your real name?”
A single tear slipped from her eye and slid a slow path down her cheek. “I don’t remember.”
“Really?”
“Really. Only Road mama and Daddy Bliss remember their real names. The rest of us, we kinda…don’t bring them with us when we come back.” “How old were you?” “I would have been twenty-one on my birthday.” “Christ…I’m so sorry.”