The Call
Miriam had finished lunch, washed the dishes, and laid down for a nap. Her husband, Paul, had driven to his friend’s cottage in the countryside to help mend a fence. He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening—Monday meant work. Miriam had retired a year ago, but Paul still had two years left.
The sudden ringing jolted her awake. Disoriented, she fumbled for the phone without checking the screen.
“Hello?” Her voice was rough with sleep. Who else would call but her daughter or Paul? Paul hated phone calls, so it had to be her daughter—married, living in another city, expecting her first child any day now.
“Miriam? Were you asleep?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar—feminine, sharp.
“Who is this?” Miriam’s guard went up.
A deliberately loud sigh crackled through the line. “Don’t you recognize me? How long has it been?”
“Alice…?” The name slipped out before she could stop it. “How did you get my number?” She wasn’t happy—just uneasy.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mother years ago—she gave it to me.”
Miriam vaguely remembered her mentioning it.
“Are you in town?” A stupid question. Why else would she call? “Last I heard, you’d moved to America,” Miriam added.
A laugh burst through—then cut short with a pained groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? There’s something I need to say. And don’t bring anything—don’t bother.”
“Hospital? Are you ill?” Miriam was fully awake now.
“Too hard to talk. I’ll text you the address.”
“But wh—” The line went dead.
A moment later, her phone buzzed with the hospital name. *Oh God, Alice has cancer.* She read the message again, numb.
Half past five. By the time she got there, visiting hours would be over. She moved to the kitchen, pulling frozen chicken from the freezer for broth. Alice said not to bring anything—but how could she show up empty-handed? Homemade broth wasn’t just food; it was medicine. She left the chicken thawing in the sink and sat at the table. Her daughter was twenty-eight now—so that’s how long it had been since she’d last seen Alice.
Lately, Miriam had grown wary of news—even good news. But this call left her restless, anxious. And Paul, of course, wasn’t home. Maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth early, visit Alice, and get answers. But for now, she couldn’t shake the dread.
Alice had been raised by her grandmother from age ten—no affection, just survival. She’d spent evenings at Miriam’s, doing homework together while her grandmother brewed moonshine for the local drunks. Alice’s parents drank too. The wives of those men threatened to burn the illegal still down. Maybe someone did—or maybe, like the police said, her father fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, Alice’s parents never made it out of the burning house. The grandmother vanished for a while, and Alice, as always, was safe at Miriam’s.
After the fire, they were put in a grim council flat. No more moonshine. The grandmother grew bitter, counting pennies, begrudging Alice every mouthful. Alice ate at Miriam’s instead.
The grandmother had despised Alice’s mother—called her a witch, claimed she’d cursed her son into drinking himself to death. Never mentioned the free booze at home. Alice’s mother had been beautiful—men of all ages turned to stare. Her father’s jealousy turned violent.
Alice grew up looking just like her—tall, striking, with wild auburn curls, dark eyes, and full lips. Freckles only made her glow brighter.
Right after school, Alice ran off with some traveller. “Hopeless, just like her mother,” her grandmother muttered.
Miriam’s mother had never approved of their friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Alice disappeared, she’d sighed in relief—always afraid she’d lead Miriam astray. What kept them close? Miriam never quite knew, but Alice made life brighter.
Miriam graduated college, got a job, married Paul, had a daughter. The gossip about Alice never stopped.
Her mother worked, couldn’t help much, and evenings—when Paul was home—felt awkward. So Miriam juggled it all, collapsing into bed each night.
All she’d wanted back then was sleep. Nursing her daughter, she’d nod off mid-feed, jerking awake in terror—had she dropped her? Smothered her? The baby slept peacefully in her arms. Miriam would tuck her in, pump milk, cook, scrub nappies, forcing her eyes to stay open.
And then Alice reappeared. More stunning than ever—impossibly so.
“Christ, you look rough. Always knew marriage and kids did this to women. Never having them,” Alice said by way of greeting.
“Don’t jinx it,” Miriam smirked.
Alice shrugged. “Too late. Had too many terminations—can’t have kids now.” But maternal instinct lingered. She doted on Miriam’s daughter, pushing the pram while Miriam cooked or snatched sleep.
Alice had left the traveller after the first abortion. The next man was older—paid for a flat in central London, visited twice a week.
“Living the high life,” Alice sighed.
“Almost?” Miriam asked. The details bored her, but politeness demanded she listen.
“Old. Revolting. Generous, though—cash, jewellery, furs.”
“What about his wife? Kids?”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Alice scoffed.
When he found out about her other men, he kicked her out. There were others after—even a foreigner. That’s where the America rumour came from. (Though he was Norwegian.)
“Enough about me. How’d you end up like this—a milk machine? Call this happiness? Not for me.”
Paul was wary from the start. “Didn’t know you had friends like her,” he’d muttered.
“Keep your voice down,” Miriam hissed. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go—her gran’s dead. She’s kinder than she looks. You’ve no idea how much she helps with Emily.”
Then Emily spiked a fever—nothing brought it down. On day three, they called an ambulance. The hospital kept her overnight. Miriam chased after them in slippers and a dressing gown.
Paul froze. Alice brought clean clothes, toiletries. A week later, they came home to a spotless flat, soup in the fridge, meals prepped.
“Did you… cook? And clean?” Miriam stared.
“Alice did,” Paul muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tramp. Where is she?”
“Gone. Why d’you care? How’s Emily?”
That night, Miriam curled into Paul, missing him. The stress had dried up her milk—no more pain when he hugged her. But he mumbled something incoherent and turned away. Same the next night.
“Paul, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted, but I never refused you,” she whispered, hurt.
He stammered excuses. Over time, things settled. She slimmed down—no need to eat for two anymore.
Emily grew up, married. She and Paul lived quietly, peacefully—unlike their early years.
And now this call.
Miriam couldn’t picture Alice dying. Some mistake. She tossed all night, memories flickering. At dawn, she gave up and started the broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours—poured the broth into a flask and went. Maybe she could sweet-talk the guard. Or bribe him.
The ward was cramped, two beds along opposite walls. One held a gaunt 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. But changed. Sunken cheeks, papery skin—even her freckles gone. Hands like brittle twigs. Where was the radiant woman she’d known? Her dark eyes were dull.
Miriam’s shock must have shown.
“You don’t recognize me,” Alice rasped.
Miriam forced a smile, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Alice nodded to the bed’s edge.
Miriam perched, remembering the broth. She fumbled with the flask.
“Put it away. Won’t eat.” Alice’s gaze never left her—pleading, desperate.
“I’ll leave it here. Fresh. Maybe later.”
Silence.
“How are you feeling?” Stupid question, but what else was there?
“Dying. Let’s not waste time. I need to tell you—”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt.” Alice coughed violently, then gasped. “Always envied you. Your flat, your decent husband, your daughter. Even when you fell asleep on your feet, I envShe walked away from the grave, the weight of forgiveness lighter than the burden of anger had ever been.
