The Call
Miriam had finished her lunch, washed the dishes, and settled down for a nap. Her husband, Peter, had gone to his friend’s countryside cottage to help mend a fence and wouldn’t return until tomorrow evening—just in time for work on Monday. Miriam had retired a year ago, while Peter still had two more years to go.
An unexpected ringtone jolted her awake. It took her a moment to realise it was the telephone.
“Yes?” she rasped, still groggy, not bothering to check the screen. Who else would call her but her daughter or Peter? Peter loathed phone calls, so it had to be her daughter, who lived in another city with her husband and was due to give birth soon.
“Miriam? Were you asleep?” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” Miriam asked warily.
The line carried an exaggerated sigh.
“Don’t recognise me? How long has it been?”
“Eleanor? How did you get my number?” Miriam asked, more surprised than pleased.
“Is that important? I ran into your mother years ago—she gave it to me.”
Miriam vaguely recalled her mother mentioning it.
“Are you in town?” The moment she asked, she knew it was a foolish question. Why else would Eleanor call? “People said you’d gone to America,” she added.
A laugh crackled through the phone, morphing into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Miriam’s voice tightened.
“In hospital. That’s actually why I’m calling. Could you come? I’ve something to tell you. And don’t bring anything—I don’t need it.”
“In hospital? Are you ill?” Miriam was fully awake now.
“It’s hard to talk. I’ll text you the address.”
“But—” The line went dead.
A moment later, the message arrived with the hospital’s name. “Good Lord, Eleanor has cancer!” Miriam reread it, stunned.
She checked the clock—half past five. By the time she got there, visiting hours would be over. She hurried to the kitchen, fetched a chicken from the freezer for broth. Eleanor had said not to bring anything, but how could she visit empty-handed? Homemade broth wasn’t just food—it was medicine. As the chicken thawed in the sink, she sat at the table. Eleanor hadn’t been seen in twenty-eight years—not since Miriam’s daughter was born.
With age, Miriam had grown cautious of all news, even good news. After Eleanor’s call, unease clung to her. And Peter, inconveniently, wasn’t home. Perhaps it was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth, visit Eleanor, and find out the truth. Yet the agitation wouldn’t subside.
Eleanor had been raised by her grandmother, a woman with little affection to spare. Often, she’d stay late at Miriam’s, doing homework together to escape the chaos at home. Her grandmother brewed illicit moonshine for the local drunkards, Eleanor’s parents among them. The other drunkards’ wives had threatened to burn the still. Maybe someone had—or, as the police believed, Eleanor’s father had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, her parents never made it out of the burning house. The grandmother vanished, and Eleanor, as usual, was safe at Miriam’s.
After the fire, they were given a room in a hostel. The communal kitchen banned moonshine. The grandmother grew bitter, counting pennies, begrudging Eleanor every mouthful. So Eleanor ate at Miriam’s.
The grandmother had despised Eleanor’s mother, calling her a witch, blaming her for her son’s ruin. She never mentioned the free liquor that filled the house. Eleanor’s mother had been strikingly beautiful—rare was the man who didn’t glance her way. Her father’s jealousy had turned vicious, even violent.
Eleanor grew up looking just like her—tall, slender, with a mane of red curls, dark eyes, and full lips. The freckles dusting her face only added to her charm.
Right after school, Eleanor ran off with a travelling salesman. “No better than her mother,” the grandmother sighed.
Miriam’s mother had never approved of their friendship, though she pitied Eleanor. When the girl fled town, there was relief. She’d always feared Eleanor would lead Miriam astray. What had bound them together? Miriam herself couldn’t say, except that Eleanor brought excitement.
Miriam finished college, started working, met Peter, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Of Eleanor, she heard only rumours.
Her mother was busy with work, unable to help. Evenings, with Peter home, she hesitated to intrude. Miriam struggled alone, exhausted to the bone.
All she’d yearned for back then was sleep. Nursing her daughter, she’d nod off, jerking awake in terror, fearing she’d dropped the baby or smothered her with her own heavy chest. The baby, fed and content, would sleep soundly in her arms. Miriam would lay her down, then pump milk, cook, scrub nappies—forcing herself to stay awake.
It was then that Eleanor reappeared, even more strikingly beautiful, more like her mother than ever.
“Look at you,” Eleanor said without greeting. “Marriage and motherhood don’t suit you. I’ll never have children.”
“Never say never,” Miriam smirked.
Eleanor admitted she’d had multiple abortions and could never conceive. Yet maternal instincts lingered. She gladly helped with the baby, taking her on walks while Miriam napped or cooked.
Eleanor soon left the man she’d run off with—the one whose child she’d aborted. The next was much older, renting her a London flat, visiting twice a week.
“I lived in luxury,” Eleanor sighed later.
“Almost?” Miriam asked, though talk of Eleanor’s men bored her.
“Almost. He was vile. But generous—money, jewellery, furs.”
“What about his wife? His children?”
He’d found out about Eleanor’s other lovers and thrown her out. There were others after, even a foreigner—hence the America rumours, though he was Norwegian.
“Why am I rambling? Look at you—a milk factory. Is this your idea of happiness? Not for me.”
Peter had been wary of Eleanor from the start.
“Didn’t know you had such a friend,” he’d said when she first appeared.
“Keep your voice down!” Miriam hushed him. “She’ll stay a few days. She’s got nowhere else—her grandmother’s dead. She’s kind, just rough around the edges. You’ve no idea how she’s helped with Lucy.”
Then Lucy spiked a fever, unbreakable for days. An ambulance took her to hospital. Miriam raced after in her nightclothes.
Peter froze, but Eleanor brought fresh clothes, toiletries. A week later, they were discharged. Miriam found the flat spotless, soup in the fridge, meals prepped.
“Did you do this? Even the floors?” Miriam marvelled.
“Eleanor,” Peter mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tart. Where is she?”
“Gone. Why d’you care? How’s Lucy?”
That night, Miriam curled into Peter’s side, craving closeness. The milk had dried up from stress. No more pain when he held her.
But he muttered something incoherent and turned away. The next night, the same.
“Peter, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted, but I never refused you,” Miriam said, hurt.
He stumbled through excuses. Time passed, things improved. Miriam slimmed down, no longer eating for milk. Lucy grew up, married. She and Peter settled into a calm companionship, unlike their early years.
And now—this call.
Miriam couldn’t picture Eleanor dying. Some mistake. Sleepless, she tossed until dawn, then rose to make broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours, filled a thermos, and went early, hoping to bribe the guard.
The narrow ward held two beds. One held a frail woman in a scarf, aged beyond recognition.
Miriam nearly asked if she had the wrong room—until the woman opened her eyes.
Eleanor. The change was shocking. Her face gaunt, lifeless, freckles gone. Hands like twigs atop the blanket. Where was the vibrant Eleanor? Her once-dark eyes now dull.
Miriam’s expression must’ve betrayed her shock.
“You didn’t recognise me.”
Miriam forced a smile, stepped closer. “What happened?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Eleanor gestured weakly.
Miriam perched on the bed’s edge, fumbling with the thermos.
“Don’t bother. I won’t eat.”
“I’ll leave it here. Fresh. Maybe later.”
Silence.
“How are you feeling?” Miriam treaded carefully.
“Well enough for the final stretch.”
“Did they operate?”
“Too late. No point. I wanted to tell you—”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt.” Eleanor coughed violently.
“I always envied you,” she said when she caught her breath. “Your home. Kind husband. Daughter. Parents. Even when you”Walking home through the park, Miriam felt the weight of the years lift, knowing that forgiveness, however hard, had set her free.”
