Sophia Hyland-Wolzak
Telephones smothered me. Calls weren’t complete without a receiver, at least two participants, and it begged, and begged, until I relented. I tried to push the issue of the phone so far out of my mind, though I used it daily, that I delayed transitioning from prepaid credit to a phone plan. My boyfriend made fun of me for this, which I should have seen as a Bad Sign, but instead I dubbed it as Real Love, and thankfully it turned out my instinct was right.
When I switched over to the plan I was forced to change my number. How I knew that this change would inject some terror into my life was beyond me, but I think it was born from my need for familiarity. This kept me safe until it could no longer, then Margarita appeared with her name and history.
This felt like a great leap into the gorge, a cliff’s edge, and I told the service assistant,
What if I don’t want to?
He was surprised but then gave me the only answer.
You’ll have to change your number if you want the phone plan, he said. You’re kind of disconnected from the most updated version of civilization.
I’m completely connected, I said. If anything, I’m even more connected because I physically go to the shop and interact with another human being.
You buy credit in person? he asked.
They weren’t up for inventing a new pathway for me to keep my number. The service assistant showed me a list of those available. By letting my eyes go down the length of the list, I already designated my old number dead, engaging in this amputation. Poor old thing, that it was, it had been good to me, and I remembered it, and no other number. I was to start over again and constantly look at a note to recall my new number like a fool. People immediately lose trust in a person when they can’t remember their own phone number, the most basic of sequences.
I chose the one that seemed the easiest to commit to memory. There were two sets of doubled numbers within it. It was either that I thought little of myself by choosing the phone number I deemed as the least complicated, or that I gamed the system.
Taking the tram home, I watched an elderly woman kiss the backs of her knuckles three times. She wore a small, paisley scarf, which covered the front of her hair and was tied in a knot under her chin. Her long, salt and pepper hair was woven into a braid which passed the trim of the scarf and reached the middle of her back. I kissed the backs of my own knuckles, to wish the same obsessive-compulsive purge onto myself, warding off evil. I had experienced transformation, after all. In her other, kiss-less hand, she gripped her phone. I bet she had a phone plan before I did.
That evening, I sent out a mass message advising my contacts, which I selected, including ex-boyfriends I no longer spoke to but wanted them to be aware of my whereabouts, that this was my new number, should they need me. Not one of my ex-boyfriends responded, but I hoped they read it and my name signed at the bottom of the message brought a tight squeeze to their heart. They were so chaste, refusing to acknowledge me, loyal to their darlings.
Within the first week of this new life, an unknown number called me. It was toward the end of a work day, and I had requested a call back from a clinic, as I was unwilling to deal with being thirtieth or so in the queue, and answered hurriedly as if it were my general practitioner wanting to deal me terrible news, even if I was the one who called to simply follow up on pathology results.
Margarita, where are you? the caller asked.
It was a man’s voice. He was gruff. This seemed to me a Bad Sign of his character.
I’m not Margarita, I said.
Yeah, right, he said.
You have the wrong number, I said.
I have it memorized, he said.
This is my number. I bought this number.
And who are you?
People like him were all designed the same way. When boarded onto a plane, if the pilot politely advised the passengers over the speakers that they were to be delayed by another twenty-two minutes, I imagined he would repeat, practically yelling, You’re joking, just so everyone knew he was bothered.
Who are you? I asked. You called me.
Cat and mouse, he said. Huh, Margarita? Cat and mouse, cat and mouse. I’ll get sick of this one day.
I’m Melanie, I said.
Sounds a lot like Margarita, he said.
They are entirely different names, I said.
The caller hung up. The abrupt end brought some relief, but his interrogation frightened me. Too, I worried for this Margarita, having to field calls from the Cat. No one wanted to be, would choose to be, the Mouse. I kissed my knuckles three times for good luck and safety, and mentally thanked the old woman on the tram for this ritual.
Things had snowballed recently with my physical health, in that my perceived issues multiplied. Not that anything specifically was found and a cause for concern, but a long period of neglect caused me to investigate disturbances on and inside of my body. There was a small brown patch of skin that appeared between my breasts which did not resolve by itself. After a sudden fall down a ladder, which was really a short distance, my right foot swelled, only slightly, but the foot became a little too long, a little too big to fit into my shoes. I also found a mole between my big toe and my extra-long second toe, Morton’s foot, but I preferred Royal Toe. I was given cream for the skin on my chest and the rough skin disappeared in less than two days. A friend recommended an osteopath who somehow massaged the size difference in my foot away. And the mole was removed and biopsied, amounting to a whopping nothing, negative. By the end of this, I asked for blood tests to be done, for good measure, might as well. I hadn’t received the results, so I was inching toward concern.
While scanning documents at my job, my phone vibrated in my front pocket. I was alone in the small cubby of a room with the printer and stationery. I spoke into the wall, hoping this gave me some privacy.
Melanie speaking, I said.
It’s not, though, the voice said.
It was a different voice from the Cat.
Can I help you? I asked.
We know you’re covering for her, they said. I’m giving her until Sunday night to pick up her son’s things from my place. I’m not a storage facility.
The caller’s voice was so high-pitched that I felt sorry for their mother, who was forced to withstand their doubly piercing screams as a baby. Perhaps the screams were so ultrasonic as to be unheard, like a dog whistle.
Who’s her? I asked.
Margarita, they said.
I don’t know a Margarita, I said. I haven’t even met one before.
Well, they said. If you, you know, happen to meet Margarita for the first time, then you can tell her she has until Sunday. Tell her it’s Jess who called.
I won’t need to do that because I don’t know her and I won’t be speaking with her, I said. Therefore, no messages to pass on.
We were closer in school, you know, Jess said. It was only after she moved out to Gippsland with that birder that she got this way. We’d call each other right when we got home. It sounds like it’d be suffocating, but it wasn’t. Is she still a bit sick with whatever she’s got? It sounded Japanese or made up.
A member of the IT team walked into the room. They opened the cupboard and found binder sleeves, taking a few. They eyed me, and I didn’t blame them, as I must have seemed peculiar hovering my face so close to the blank wall on my own. I spoke quietly.
I really don’t know this person, I said. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.
She went on a field trip there, Jess said. That’s how young she was when she met him. He was married to someone else then, but he couldn’t help himself. Hanging around like that in the middle of the day, no job. Have you seen his chest hair? I know I shouldn’t judge people based on how they look. There’s only so much you can fix. And those God-awful, skinny fingers on him. I’d never want to be touched by the guy. She does, I guess. You can tell her that.
I’m hanging up now, I said.
These calls, seeking Margarita, came through each week. It made me paranoid. I previously took my privacy and anonymity for granted. I missed my former number. Everyone was after Margarita, who wasn’t me, but the burden of her existence was. The callers, though they seemed pure at heart, always demanded, and never asked, to speak with Margarita. Worse, they didn’t believe me. I felt defeated by my own attempt at optimization. The expectation of phones, however, is that they are with you everywhere you go.
I stopped answering my phone and would let the calls ring out to my voicemail. There was one message I wouldn’t delete. It was half past midnight when they called.
Hi, the caller said. Do you think you could pick me up? I don’t have enough money for the train or a taxi. I was over at Dad’s, but Nadine didn’t want me over there with Charlie. She thought Charlie was crying because of me, and she had to sleep on some couch in his room. Dad didn’t say anything, obviously. I’m sitting in a park somewhere. I’m not sure which one, but I could figure it out. I’ll walk over to the sign. It says Honey Flower Park. I don’t want to stay with Dad and Nadine for the rest of the weekend, so if you could come pick me up, that would be really great. I don’t mean to call you so late, but I don’t think I can do it another day. Nadine is a freak. She sort of talks to Dad to talk to me, even though I’m right there. Like I’ll ask her a question, but then she’ll answer but to Dad only. I don’t know if that makes sense. I could meet you somewhere in the middle and walk there. Call me back, okay?
I kept missing the return call from the clinic. They would go to my voicemail, and it would start all over again. I couldn’t save their number and know it was them calling, as my doctor rang anonymously. Again, I requested a call back, as I was twenty-second in the queue. It was an improvement from my last wait, but only marginally.
One of the Margarita calls I answered during lunch with my boss. It was an apology meal. She told me she only treated me the way she did, which included comments about my specific degree of beauty and the supposed inaccessible way that I spoke, because she thought I was too smart to do the work that I was currently doing. I was well over it. I just nodded and painted a rich picture in my mind of my bathtub overflowing with the green suds of an extraterrestrial bath bomb.
When the call came through, I was relieved. I excused myself, insisting how important it was that I take the call, personal matters, and I stepped outside. The sidewalk was busy with office-goers and deliverymen, and so I pressed my back against a black-painted brick wall, which was hot from the sun. I answered,
Hello?
Hi, the voice began. This is Miriam, a paramedic with the Ambulance Service. We’re here on site to assist, but we’ll need someone to answer the door.
Where are you? I asked. Is something wrong with my mother?
At your home in Fox Ponds, Miriam said.
My mother was okay, but Margarita was somewhere hurt. She seemed, at her core, to be avoidant. I envied this refusal to give in to the demands of others, even if that also included immediate medical attention.
You’re calling for Margarita, I said.
Yes, Miriam said. You called.
I’m not Margarita, I said.
Could you please put her on the phone, then? Miriam asked. The operators received a distressed call from this number asking to provide assistance at this address. There’s a risk of cardiac arrest. I can see through the front window and there’s feet. There is a person on the hallway floor.
I’m not with Margarita, I said. I don’t know her. You have the wrong number.
This was recorded in our system, Miriam said. It was copied from the original call itself. What do you mean you don’t know her? How did you know her name?
That’s a long one, I said. Do you have an hour?
No, Miriam said.
Well, I hope you’re able to get to her, I said. Maybe bust the door open. I’m sending you good thoughts.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and returned to lunch. My boss barely touched her salad, and I wolfed down my own as quickly as I could and suggested I should get back to the office before an imaginary meeting.
Walking down the sidewalk, overtaking others, my fear grew. Something was wrong with Margarita. I was willing to make a trade in exchange for the preservation of her life. I would continue to share this number with her, fielding these intrusions, as long as she was safe. I kissed my knuckles and made my blood pact. Dear Margarita, poor bird, flat on her back, bare feet exposed. I resumed my normal mode for my phone, accessible, and waited for the inevitable next call.
#
Sophia Hyland-Wolzak is from Northern Virginia, USA, and lives in Melbourne, Australia. She was a finalist in Writer’s Digest‘s Short Short Story Competition and Midway Journal‘s Action/Words Poetry Contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Post Road, Midway Journal, Cordite Poetry Review and Rabbit. She is a past winner of The Letter ReviewPrize for Poetry.