The Call
Miriam had eaten lunch, washed the dishes, and lay down for a nap. Her husband, Paul, had gone to their countryside cottage to help a friend mend a fence. He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening—Monday meant work. Miriam had retired a year ago, while Paul still had two years left.
The phone’s harsh ringing yanked her from sleep. For a moment, she didn’t even recognise the sound.
“Yes…?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep, not bothering to check the screen. Who else would call her but her daughter or husband? Paul hated phone calls—it had to be her daughter. She lived with her husband in another town and was due to give birth soon.
“Miriam? Were you asleep?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, crackled through the line.
“Who is this?” Miriam asked warily.
A loud, exaggerated sigh came through. “Don’t you recognise me? How long has it been?”
“Alice…? How did you get my number?” Miriam felt no joy, only surprise.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mum a few years back. She gave it to me.”
Miriam vaguely recalled her mother mentioning something like that.
“Are you in town?” She immediately regretted the question—why else would Alice call? “There were rumours you’d moved to America,” she added.
A laugh burst from the phone, then twisted into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Miriam sat up, suddenly alert.
“Hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? There’s something I need to say. And don’t bring anything—I don’t need it.”
“Hospital? Are you ill?” Miriam was fully awake now.
“Hard to talk. I’ll text you the address.”
“But—” The line went dead.
A moment later, a text buzzed through with the hospital name. “Oh God, Alice has cancer!” Miriam reread it, her hands trembling.
She glanced at the clock—half five. Visiting hours would be over by the time she got there. She trudged to the kitchen and pulled a frozen chicken from the freezer for broth. Alice had said not to bring anything, but who visited the sick empty-handed? Homemade broth wasn’t just food—it was medicine. She left the chicken to thaw in the sink and sat at the table. Her daughter was twenty-eight—so it had been just as long since she’d last seen Alice.
With age, Miriam had learned to greet even good news with caution. The call left her uneasy, a knot of dread tightening in her chest. And of course, Paul wasn’t home. Maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth, visit Alice, and get answers. But sleep wouldn’t come.
Alice had been raised by her paternal grandmother from age ten. There had been no warmth in that house—she’d often stayed late at Miriam’s, doing homework together. The grandmother brewed moonshine, supplying the local drunks. Naturally, Alice’s parents drank too. The wives of those men threatened to burn the illegal still down. Maybe they had. Or maybe, as the police believed, Alice’s father had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, her parents never made it out of the burning house. The grandmother had vanished somewhere, and Alice, as always, was at Miriam’s. They survived.
After the fire, the council housed Alice and her grandmother in a grim little flat. Moonshine was banned in the shared kitchen, and the grandmother grew sullen, counting every penny, scolding Alice for every bite she took. She ate at Miriam’s instead.
The grandmother had despised Alice’s mother, calling her a witch who’d cursed her son into ruin. Never mind the free-flowing moonshine. Alice’s mother had been a beauty—rare was the man who didn’t turn his head. Her father had been fiercely jealous, even violent.
Alice grew up looking just like her—tall, slender, with a wild mane of auburn curls, dark eyes, and full lips. The freckles dusting her face didn’t spoil her; they gave her a golden glow.
Right after school, Alice ran off with some transient lad. “Hopeless, just like her mother,” the grandmother would sigh.
Miriam’s own mother disapproved of their friendship. When Alice left town, she’d breathed a sigh of relief—always afraid the girl would lead Miriam astray. What bound them together? Even Miriam didn’t know, only that Alice made life brighter.
Miriam finished college, got a job, met Paul, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Gossip was all she ever heard of Alice.
Her mother couldn’t help with childcare—too busy working—and evenings, when Paul was home, she felt awkward visiting. So Miriam spun alone in exhaustion, barely keeping upright.
The only thing she dreamed of then was sleep. Sometimes, nursing her daughter, she’d close her eyes just for a second—then jerk awake, terrified she’d dropped the baby or suffocated her. The child, milk-drunk, would sleep peacefully in her arms. Miriam would lay her in the crib and rush to express milk, cook, scrub soiled nappies, forcing her eyes open.
That was when Alice reappeared. She looked even more like her mother—more beautiful, if such a thing were possible.
“God, you look awful,” Alice said bluntly when she saw Miriam. “Always knew marriage and kids did a woman no favours. Never having any myself.”
“Never say never,” Miriam smirked.
Alice then confessed she’d had too many abortions to ever bear children. But maternal instincts were hardwired—she happily babysat, taking the baby out so Miriam could cook or collapse into sleep.
Soon, Alice left the boy she’d run off with. The next man was much older. He rented her a flat in central London, visiting twice a week.
“Living the high life,” Alice would sigh, reminiscing.
“Why just ‘almost’?” Miriam asked. She found Alice’s escapades tedious but humoured her.
“Old. Disgusting.” Alice wrinkled her nose. “Generous, though. Cash, gold, furs.”
“What about his wife? Kids?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Alice waved a hand.
When he discovered her other men, he threw her out. There were others after—even a foreigner. That must’ve been the America rumour. Though he was Norwegian, not American.
“Enough about me. How’d you end up like this—a milk factory? Call this happiness? No thanks.”
Paul was wary of Alice from the start.
“Didn’t know you had a friend like *her*,” he muttered after their first meeting.
“Quiet, she’ll hear!” Miriam snapped. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go. Her gran’s dead. She’s kind—just looks rough. You’ve no idea how much she helps with Emily.”
Then Emily’s fever spiked. Nothing brought it down. On the third day, they called an ambulance. An injection, then hospital. Miriam chased after them in slippers and a dressing gown.
Paul froze—Alice brought fresh clothes, toiletries. A week later, they were discharged. The flat was spotless. Soup waited in the fridge, meatballs in a container.
“You cooked? *And* mopped?” Miriam gaped.
“Alice did,” Paul said, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tart,” she chided. “Where is she?”
“Gone. Why d’you care? How’s Emily?”
That night, Miriam curled into Paul, missing him. The stress had dried her milk—no more sore breasts, no more wincing when he hugged her too tight.
But Paul mumbled something vague and turned away. The same the next night.
“Paul, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted—*dying* for sleep—but I never refused you,” she said, hurt.
He stammered excuses. In time, things settled. Miriam slimmed down—no need to eat for milk.
Emily grew, married. She and Paul lived quietly, content in ways they hadn’t in youth.
Then the call came.
Miriam couldn’t picture Alice dying. Some mistake. She tossed all night, remembering. At dawn, she rose and started the broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours. Filling a thermos, she headed to the hospital, ready to bribe the guard if needed.
The ward held two narrow beds. One held a thin woman in a headscarf—frail as an old lady.
Miriam almost asked if she had the wrong room—then the woman opened her eyes.
*Alice.*
Gone was the vibrant beauty. Her face was skeletal, pale. Even the freckles had vanished. Hands like twigs lay atop the blanket. Her dark eyes were dim.
Miriam’s shock must’ve shown.
“Didn’t recognise me,” Alice said.
Miriam forced a smile, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Alice nodded at the bed’s edge.
Miriam sat, remembered the broth, fumbled with theMiriam placed the thermos on the bedside table, turned without another word, and walked out into the spring sunlight, where the world carried on as if nothing had changed.
