The Call
Mira finished her lunch, washed the dishes, and lay down for a nap. Her husband, Paul, had gone to the countryside to help his friend mend a fence and wouldn’t return until tomorrow evening—Monday meant back to work for him. Mira had retired a year ago, while Paul still had two years left.
An unexpected ringtone yanked her from her doze. It took her a moment to realise it was the telephone.
“Yes?” she answered hoarsely, still half-asleep, not even glancing at the screen. Who else would call but her daughter or husband? Paul disliked talking on the phone, so it must be her daughter, who lived in another town with her husband and was expecting a child soon.
“Mira? Were you asleep?” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” Mira asked warily.
A deliberately loud sigh crackled through the receiver.
“You don’t recognise me? How long has it been?”
“Alice…?” Mira frowned. “How did you get my number?” She wasn’t pleased, though she couldn’t say why.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mother years ago—she gave it to me.”
Mira vaguely recalled her mother mentioning something of the sort.
“Are you in town?” A pointless question—why else would Alice call? “There were rumours you’d moved to America,” she added.
The line burst with laughter, then twisted into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Mira’s pulse quickened.
“The hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? There’s something I need to say. And don’t bother bringing anything.”
“Hospital? Are you ill?” Mira was wide awake now.
“Hard to talk… I’ll text the address.”
“But—” The dial tone cut her off.
A moment later, the message came through. “Good Lord, Alice has cancer!” Mira reread it, stunned.
She checked the clock—half past five. Visiting hours would be over by the time she arrived. She went to the kitchen, pulled a frozen chicken from the freezer for broth. Alice had said not to bring anything, but how could she show up empty-handed? Homemade broth was more medicine than food. She left the chicken to thaw in the sink and sat at the table. Her daughter was twenty-eight—so it had been that many years since she’d last seen Alice.
Age had taught Mira to greet all news, even good, with caution. After the call, she couldn’t shake a creeping dread. And Paul, of all times, wasn’t home. Maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow she’d make the broth, visit Alice, and learn the truth. For now, she couldn’t quiet her racing thoughts.
Alice had been raised by her paternal grandmother from age ten. Affection was foreign to her, so she’d often stay late at Mira’s, doing homework together. The grandmother brewed moonshine, supplying the local drunkards. Naturally, Alice’s parents drank too. Wives of the alcoholics threatened to burn down the illegal still. Perhaps someone did—or, as the police believed, her father fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, Alice’s parents never made it out of the burning house. The grandmother vanished somewhere, and Alice, as usual, was at Mira’s. They survived.
After the fire, the council housed the grandmother and Alice in a dormitory. Brewing moonshine in the shared kitchen was forbidden. The grandmother grew bitter, counted every penny, scolded Alice for every mouthful. So Alice ate at Mira’s.
The grandmother had despised Alice’s mother, calling her a witch who’d hexed her son into ruin. That free-flowing moonshine at home went unmentioned. Alice’s mother had been beautiful—rare was the man, young or old, who passed without a second glance. Her father’s jealousy had turned violent.
Alice grew up the image of her mother—tall, slender, with wild auburn curls, dark eyes, and full lips. The freckles dusting her face only added a golden glow.
Right after finishing school, Alice ran off with some traveller. “Hopeless, just like her mother,” the grandmother sighed.
Mira’s mother disapproved of their friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Alice vanished, she’d breathed a sigh of relief, always fearing Alice would lead Mira astray. What bound them together? Even Mira didn’t know—only that Alice was fun.
Mira graduated from college, started working, met Paul, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Gossip was all she heard of Alice.
Her mother couldn’t help—she worked—and evenings, when Paul was home, she hesitated to visit. So Mira spun alone, collapsing from exhaustion.
All she dreamt of then was sleep. Nursing her daughter, she’d doze off, jolting awake in terror—had she dropped the baby? Smothered her under heavy breasts? The child, fed, slept peacefully in her arms. Mira would tuck her into the crib, then pump milk, cook, wash nappies, forcing her eyes to stay open.
It was during this haze that Alice reappeared, more like her mother than ever—more beautiful, if that were possible.
“Look at you,” Alice said without greeting. “Always knew marriage and motherhood didn’t suit a woman. I’ll never have children.”
“Never say never,” Mira smirked.
Alice then confessed to multiple abortions—she could never have children now. But maternal instincts were genetic. Alice delighted in babysitting, taking the child out so exhausted Mira could cook or simply sleep.
Soon Alice left the man she’d run off with—her first abortion was by him. The next was much older. He rented her a flat in central London, visiting twice weekly.
“Living the high life,” Alice sighed, reminiscing.
“Almost?” Mira asked. Talks of men bored her, but manners demanded she listen.
“Old, revolting,” Alice grimaced. “But generous—money, gold, furs.”
“What about his wife? Children?”
“What’s that to me?” Alice waved it off.
When he discovered her other men, he threw her out. Others followed, even a foreigner—hence the America rumours. Though he was Norwegian.
“Enough about me. How’d you land in this mess, turned into a milk machine? Call this happiness? Not for me.”
Paul eyed Alice warily.
“Didn’t know you had such a friend,” he said upon meeting her.
“Hush, she’ll hear,” Mira cut in. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go—her grandmother’s dead. She’s kind, just rough-edged. You should see her with our Emily.”
Then Emily’s fever spiked, untameable. On the third day, they called an ambulance. An injection, then hospital. Mira chased after in just her dressing gown and slippers.
Paul froze. Alice brought Mira clothes, toiletries. A week later, they were discharged. Mira returned to a spotless flat, soup in the fridge, meatballs in a tub.
“Did you cook? And mop?” Mira gaped.
“Alice,” Paul muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tart,” Mira chided. “Where is she?”
“Gone. Why fuss over her? How’s Emily?”
That night, Mira curled into Paul, missing him. The stress had dried her milk—no more sore breasts, no more flinching when he embraced her.
But Paul mumbled something, turned away. The next night, again.
“Paul, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted, but I never refused you,” Mira said, hurt.
He stammered excuses. In time, things smoothed. Mira slimmed—no need to eat for milk.
Emily grew, married. She and Paul lived quietly, harmoniously, unlike their youth.
And now, this call…
Mira couldn’t picture Alice dying. A mistake. She tossed all night, remembering. At dawn, she gave up and started the broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours, filling a flask and heading to the hospital, hoping to bribe the guard.
The narrow ward held two beds. One held a thin woman in a headscarf—at first glance, an old lady.
Mira almost asked if she had the wrong room—then the woman opened her eyes. Alice. But changed—face gaunt, pale, skin taut. Even the freckles were gone. Her hands, atop the blanket, were brittle twigs. Where was the vibrant Alice? Her dark eyes dull.
Mira’s storm of feelings must have shown.
“You didn’t recognise me,” Alice said.
Mira forced a smile, approached.
“What’s wrong?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Alice nodded at the bed’s edge.
Mira perched, remembered the broth, fumbled with the flask.
“Put it away. Won’t eat,” Alice said, watchful.
“I’ll leave it. Fresh. For later.”
No reply.
“How are you feeling?” Mira asked, wary of offense.
“Fine, for the final stage.”
“Did they operate?”
“Too late. Don’t waste time. IMira walked away from the graveyard, the scent of spring in the air, ready to face the future with quiet strength and forgiveness in her heart.
