Return Chapter 4: Restless
When weird becomes wild and wild becomes wonderful.
Return explores the definition of home in the external and internal realms,
reframing the notion of belonging, be-longing.
Readers can begin the Rumored Woman Series with either Reflect or Return.
Sarah's mysterious disappearance upended Ian's world. To avoid questioning his sanity, he’d coped by burying himself in his work. His bank account was flush, but his peace of mind was depleted. He’d been running on fumes.
After making the rookie mistake of sleeping on the flight, his body hadn’t adjusted to the time difference between Boston and Hawaii. Reading hadn’t helped him drift off to sleep and the hotel’s clock display indicated only twenty minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked, 1:47 a.m.
Accidentally dropping his cell phone in the Pacific during the sunset sail was somehow symbolic. Ian wasn’t prone to interpreting signs from the universe like Sarah, but that one felt too obvious to ignore—let go. It was time to move on with his life, time to start piecing it back together, even if one of the central pieces had gone AWOL.
Forty-eight hours without a phone felt strange, reminiscent of the days when he had been unreachable after he left the office or home. The era of cell phones meant work was always at his fingertips, clients could find him anywhere, anytime, challenging him to maintain a boundary on billable hours so it didn’t bleed into his personal time. Ian hadn’t expected to experience such separation anxiety from an inanimate object until he realized it represented his last remaining connection to Sarah.
A future without Sarah felt unimaginable. He’d denied that possibility so far, but the fact that she hadn’t reached out in six months had cracked his resolve, and doubts flooded in. Is she still alive? The thought made him ill. He couldn’t go there.
Unwinding in Kauai’s tropical weather offered a balm for his heartache. When faced with the option of driving to Lihue in predictable traffic to shop at the Verizon store or playing tennis or golf, he rationalized a phone diet was good for him, and he’d replace it when he returned home. It helped him break the habit of checking it in vain, hoping for a message from Sarah.
The day had started well, but the events of the afternoon and evening had unsettled him. It was the kind of thing he’d have talked through with Sarah. Ian relied on her to sense his unease and check in with him. She gently probed until he discovered how he felt. He and Jim rarely talked about what kept them up at night, instead they covered world events or politics on the tennis courts and golf course.
The night before he’d left, he ate dinner with Jocelyn and Jim. Jocelyn was shocked he still planned to take his vacation in Kauai without Sarah. Apparently, Jim hadn’t mentioned it to her. Ian said aloud what he feared most: that Sarah was never coming back, and he’d put his life on hold long enough. He hoped this would finally put an end to Jocelyn’s suspicion that he knew her whereabouts. Sarah’s friends had deluged him with questions and, later, accusations that he found impossible to field. He nearly revealed Sarah’s secret during their interrogation, but he’d stopped short of telling them about her doppelgänger.
The palm fronds rustled in the evening breeze. His book fell open on his chest while his thoughts strayed. Even though he put the novel on the nightstand, a sensation of weight remained over his lungs. Ian turned out the light and rolled over, but sleep evaded him.
His thoughts returned to the day. It had begun with an early morning run, a refreshing ocean dip, and reading at the beach till he dried off. He planned to repeat the sequence tomorrow—or more accurately, today, given the hour.
Yesterday at the driving range, he’d noticed a few parties of two teeing off. He’d meant to set up a tee time before going to lunch, but his hunger had sidetracked him, and without a phone, he couldn’t call.
He walked to the pro shop and chatted with the young men behind the counter while he bought a sleeve of balls and a divot tool. The staff mentioned they were new to Kauai but not to golf, having played through high school and college. They accommodated his lack of planning by adding him to a twosome at 1:15 p.m.
His mind hadn’t strayed from golfing while he played, and his time at the driving range had finally paid off when his short and long game had come together yesterday. Ian had brought the other players to their rental cars so they didn’t have to carry their golf bags, before pulling up behind the line of empty carts near the pro shop. The golf attendant had been on his cell and Ian heard him say, “Gotta go,” before he promptly greeted him.
“Aloha, sir. How was your round this afternoon? Would you like your clubs cleaned?”
Ian had noticed a trim, older Black man with graying sideburns waiting beside his golf bag when he drove up.
“Well, thanks, it’s a gorgeous course. But I believe this man was here before me.” Ian knew this was the last tee time of the day and noted the man strumming his club covers.
The golf cart attendant said to him, “What is it you need?”
“A cart—my tee time is now.”
The blond attendant didn’t offer to take his clubs. He curtly said, “You can have this one after it’s empty.”
There were several carts around and no need for the man to wait. If Ian had been treated that way, he’d have been miffed. He removed his clubs to expedite the process and headed for his rental car.
The golfer simply said, “Thanks.”
Ian turned to him and said, “Enjoy your round. Watch out for the water hazards—they swallow balls.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” The man had a poker face while he put his clubs in Ian’s dirty cart.
The difference between the attendant’s courtesy toward him and the unnecessary, blatant rudeness toward the other man irked Ian as he walked away, leaving a sour taste in his mouth after an otherwise excellent afternoon. He assumed the white attendant was from the mainland because his racist attitude didn’t embody the spirit of aloha.
The inside of his car had felt like an oven, irritating him further. Ian opened all four windows and blasted the A/C, replaying the scene in his head. What a shitty way to start a round of golf, given it was a mental game as much as anything. The guy was a guest on vacation. He shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of crap on holiday—or ever. Then Ian realized his mistake, there was no vacation from racism. Maybe the Black man wasn’t ruffled by it because he was used to it. If the attendant had acted that way with a witness, how might he have behaved if he’d not been there?
The residue of the racist exchange had stayed with Ian after his shower and nap—should he have called out the attendant’s behavior even if it meant making a scene?
As he lay in bed, he considered the significance of his chance encounter at dinner, meeting the stranger again. Ian’s shoulders tensed recalling the events of the evening.
He’d planned to eat at The Bistro’s bar to avoid sitting at a table for two because staring at an empty chair only exacerbated his loneliness. Ian hadn’t expected to chat with anyone other than the bartender and thought he’d managed to put the incident behind him during the drive.
At The Bistro, he snagged the only remaining seat at the end of the L-shaped bar. Shortly after he’d sat down, the bartender greeted him, and Ian put his attention on the menu. He had selected an Argentinian Malbec called The Seeker, and satisfied his fish craving by ordering their Fish Rockets appetizer and seafood gumbo.
While he waited for his wine, he spotted the Black man, who’d been given his cart, sitting two seats away. Upon seeing him, Ian’s quandary returned. He’d treated the stranger kindly, the way he was raised, but he hadn’t taken it a step further—that path was unfamiliar. When his wife stood to use the restroom, Ian noticed she was pregnant. The empty barstool between them provided a window for conversation.
Ian asked, “How was your round of golf today?”
After a moment, the man’s face registered recognition. “The course has spectacular views, but my game was disappointing and there wasn’t time to play another nine. When I stopped by this morning, that was the only open slot. I underestimated how popular it’d be this time of year—they said it’s booked solid for tomorrow too.”
“Really? I arranged my tee time after lunch and joined a twosome, so you could’ve played with us.” An awkward silence hung in the air. “Hmm, after witnessing the racist treatment you received earlier, it seems you were denied access to the course.”
“It’s not the first time.”
“What if I get a tee time for us tomorrow—will you join me?”
“Sure, I regretted lugging my clubs here just to play one round.”
“If I’m successful, do you want me to raise the incident with the staff?”
“Thanks for your courtesy earlier today, but let’s take it one step at a time.”
“Is this your first time playing the course?” Ian asked.
“Yes, it’s our first time to Kauai. We’ve just moved from Brooklyn, New York, to San Francisco. The day before we flew out, our boxes left for the West Coast. We’re still on East Coast time.”
They commiserated over the challenge of adjusting to the time difference. When his wife returned, he stood to help her with the barstool and extended his hand to Ian. “I’m Darren. Janelle, this is the man I mentioned who noticed I’d been waiting.”
Ian shook their hands. “Good to meet you. I’m Ian.”
Darren took out his wallet and handed Ian his business card. “Let me know about tomorrow. I was so preoccupied with the move that I didn’t think to book ahead.”
Ian took the card and said, “I don’t have a card on me, or a phone for that matter—it took a dive in the ocean.”
Janelle had shifted in her chair and asked Ian, “What line of work are you in?”
“Consulting. How about yourselves?”
Darren replied, “We’re both lawyers. It’s a small miracle we managed to find vacation time. Normally, we go to Jamaica, but Janelle wanted to try something different. Neither of us has ever been to Hawaii.”
When their dinners arrived, Janelle curtailed his hopes for company by saying, “Nice meeting you. Enjoy your meal.”
The bartender was too slammed to chat, so Ian had eaten alone, reflecting on Darren’s experience. The guys in the pro shop had been friendly and courteous to him today, but he was white.
Now, as he lay awake, he doubted they’d have treated Darren similarly. If I get a tee time tomorrow, does it point to a pattern of racism? If I ignore it, am I being complicit? What good is all the reading I’m doing on anti-racism if I don’t act on it? If Darren was open to him addressing it, how would he go about it? Ian knew there wasn’t a written policy to amend that directed staff to deny access to Black people. It was more invisible than that. It was people’s attitudes and beliefs that required changing, and he also knew confronting the staff wasn’t going to change their minds. What can I do? Mulling over it again wasn’t going to change it. It was only robbing him of sleep.
He turned the light back on to read, hoping to distract himself, but it didn’t work. His mind wandered from the words on the page back to the basketball courts, playing hoop, enjoying himself during last week’s pickup game. There were two Black guys that regularly arrived together. Would they join him for a beer if he asked? He could only recall one of their names, John.
Ian’s social circle lacked diversity, and Sarah’s was only marginally better, given Veena had been born in India and Maggie in England. Their cultural differences surfaced more around foods and holidays. Whenever Veena cooked, his palate felt like he’d gone on vacation; the blends of spices delighted him. She invited them to celebrate Diwali, the festival of lights, when her home glowed with candles that symbolized our inner light. Veena and her daughter, Indra, dressed in colorful saris for Diwali, and sometimes her twin brother, Arjun, flew in from San Francisco to join them. Ian hoped Veena extended him an invitation even if Sarah remained AWOL. He recalled it was celebrated sometime between mid-October and mid-November.
Despite the setbacks that Veena endured, she managed to radiate a resilience he witnessed in few other people, including himself. Ian had come to know some of the Indian Gods and Goddesses, as statues decorated Veena’s home. Lord Ganesha, sitting cross-legged with an ample belly, many hands, and an elephant’s head, helped to remove obstacles. Ian wondered if he offered his prayers to a foreign god, would he be heard?
If he asked John and his friend for a beer after basketball one night, would his friendly gesture be received? Making friends had been easier in college, but when they went their separate ways for jobs, it left a hole in his personal life. Ian had filled that void with work, sports, and Sarah. Her friends had become his friends.
How is it I can talk to anybody, on planes, restaurants, or golf courses, but these connections never deepen? All his closest friends lived at a distance. His life lacked more than Sarah; it lacked intimacy.
When Ian had called his college buddy, Scott, to let him know he had client work in San Francisco, Scott invited him to come early to visit because he and his wife, Lucy, had plans afterward, but that timing conflicted with his trip to Kauai. Ian debated if he’d made the right choice coming here without Sarah instead of hanging out with Scott and Lucy. He’d met Scott in philosophy class so their conversations immediately veered into territory he rarely spoke with others about. They had the kind of relationship that didn’t include talking by phone much, but when they saw each other again it was like they’d never missed a beat.
He had confided in Scott when he tried to find his father, twenty years after he’d left their family. The day Ian’s letter was returned unopened, stamped ‘return to sender, no forwarding address,’ Scott came over with a bottle of scotch. He hadn’t told his mother he’d reached out, not wanting to upset her, especially if it came to nothing. Scott and Ian sat on the front porch of his apartment, toasting all the memories that Ian never had with his dad and finally sealed the coffin on his absent father.
Ian imagined someday teaching his son how to ride a bike, pitch a baseball, do a layup, and throw a tight pass with a football. His mother had no athletic skills, which convinced him he’d inherited his ability from his father. The neighborhood dads had taken Ian under their wing and taught him everything he knew. He pretended it didn’t matter, but it did.
The clock read 2:22 a.m. He pulled back the covers and left his sleepless bed, putting on the hotel’s terry cloth robe and relocating to the lanai. Ian sat in one chair and used the other for his feet. The rustle of the palm fronds and chorus of frogs offered him something else to focus on as he closed his eyes. Eventually he felt drowsy and padded back to bed without looking at the clock or even taking off his robe. He hugged one of the pillows, curled into the fetal position, and drifted off.
The phone rang and startled me. Should I answer it? What if it’s Katrine? After the fourth ring, I said, “Hello, Sarah speaking. You’ve reached Katrine’s home.”
A woman’s laughter responded. “Very professional. ’Tis a side of ye ah’v nae seen yet.”
I recognized Katrine’s voice. Her ears must have been ringing.
“Ah’d forgotten to tell ye where the water shutoff is and the fuse box in case ye needed them for any reason. Storms are predicted later this week. If ’tis pourin’, ah leave the horses inside. Otherwise, they have a rain blanket, but ah suspect ye’d of figured that out.”
“True.” I knew the place in me that attempted to control what I could, as if tidying my surroundings could tame the chaos within me. I surmised she was worried about her daughter, and leaving a complete stranger in her home to care for her horses wasn’t easing her concerns. She told me the water shutoff was under the sink, and directed me to the cupboard where the fuse box hid. “Where are you on your journey? How long will it take to get there?”
Katrine said, “Ah came ashore a few minutes ago. Ah’m waitin’ on mah bus to take me across Mull, then the ferry to Oban, and then the train to Edinburgh. Ah’m guessin’ the same route that ye came here.”
“Excellent guess.” Crap, I set myself up for that. “I’m glad you called. Is there a second-hand store? I’d like a better pair of waterproof walking shoes.”
“Aye, there’s a clothin’ swap in the church basement the first Wednesday of every month. Ye’ll have to check their bulletin board. Ah’v nae been there for some time, and they may have changed the day of the week. There are wellies under the bench. Ye can muck the stalls in them.”
I stared at my bare feet. “Thanks. Hmm, what if my shoes are in no condition to be swapped? Can I purchase an item?”
“Ah imagine they’d nae refuse ye, but we also have a fine cobbler. Ah’m sure he’d mend them. Nae much is thrown out—we’ve nae where to toss it. Our rubbish is ferried off the island, which reminds me ye’ll find the bin in the back of the house. We bring our trash and recyclin’ down to the dumpster near the ferry. Mah bus is pullin’ up, ah best be off. Please eat from the garden. It’d be tragic to let it go to waste.”
“One last question: Where should I sleep? Is there a guest bedroom or perhaps one of your daughter’s rooms?”
“Ah doubt any one of them will be returnin’ home, so it dinnae much matter. Ye can be Goldilocks and see which one’s just right. Ye’v seen Fiona’s room and Brìghde’s the orderly one. Maeve’s has a wall of bookshelves, which was never enough, so she has stacks coverin’ the floor. Ah swear when ye nae lookin’, they multiply like bunnies.”
I chuckled.
“Ah’m off now. Thanks again.”
After hanging up, the silence of the house settled in around me. Everything else had its place but me. I wandered upstairs to play Goldilocks. Brìghde’s room was as described: orderly, bordering on sterile. Nothing was on her desk but a cup of pencils. Nothing was on her nightstands but reading lamps. I peeked in her closet. Nothing hung on the hook. The rod had only a few items on hangers. The pressed cotton shirts and creased khaki pants were evenly spaced apart. I sensed the precision of her mathematical mind. She had a lovely view of the fields and a handmade quilt folded neatly at the base of the bed.
I crossed the hall to Maeve’s bedroom. Her floor-to-ceiling, custom shelves were stuffed two-deep with books, and even her nightstands held precarious stacks. Her corner bedroom offered a view of the sea opposite the bed. Across from the door was a window overlooking the neighbor’s sheep farm. I recognized the pasture where I’d schooled Saorsa. A narrow desk was wedged below the window and beside the bed. Even with the chair pushed in, the access to that side of the bed was blocked. It didn’t matter, given the floor was an obstacle course of book towers.
The wooden desk was littered with piles of papers, books, and pens—a mosaic of chaos begetting creativity. Two large photo collages hung on the limited wall space. I opened her closet, and a salmon-colored, boiled wool, knee-length coat caught my eye. Jeans hung on her hooks alongside a deep purple, plush robe. Her taste in clothes appealed to me. An abundance of sweaters spilled off the top shelf in various shades of green, from emerald to teal, cluing me in she might be a redhead.
I wandered into Katrine’s corner bedroom, which had an expansive ocean view. A high-back chair and a tall lamp stood beside a window that overlooked her pasture. The partially unmade bed had a faded mossy-colored comforter pulled back on one side. A bud vase on her nightstand displayed a single lavender rose that spiraled open into a dusty cream hue. I bent to smell the bloom’s faint fragrance and took a closer look at the framed photo of the girls sprawled in the grass in a kind of puppy pile on top of a man I assumed was their father. No one looked at the camera, only each other. The youngest child and man were redheads, the others were brunettes with red highlights.
A crumpled pair of men’s boxer shorts claimed the floor on the opposite side of the bed and the nightstand had a paperback with soldiers on the front cover. It didn’t strike me as her taste. Apparently, she doesn’t sleep alone every night. Good for her.
I entered her bathroom and encountered myself in the mirror, along with a taped piece of paper filled with handwriting in stanzas, a poem entitled “Cleaning Your Heart” by Chelan Harkin.[1]
CLEANING YOUR HEART by Chelan Harkin
There’s crying
and then there’s Crying.
Crying is the act of the true warrior,
the deep grief that cleanses the heart,
that wrings out the ancestral line
of its ancient pain,
that reaches back to the beginning
of every oppression
you’ve ever known
which shares a cord with all opposition
and finally kisses even the wound
with light.
Crying allows you to dive
into and beyond the dark
that has held back countless generations
from their gifts and desires
and truths,
Crying undoes the sickness
of secrets,
Crying no longer compromises
truth for comfort,
this Crying is the evolution of the soul,
it is the alchemy of the straw
of the old world
to the gold of the new,
it is the undoing of the body
from being cinched
to the past
it unties the corset
of worn-out contracts
your soul never wanted to live in,
Crying resuscitates
your breathless life,
it is the embodied refusal
to go on serving what no longer serves you,
Crying is light
taking the shadow’s hand
and courageously walking
into the Great Unknown
trusting there’s wholeness
on the other side,
it is releasing once precious handholds,
it is forgoing control,
it is the time of the end
and the time of beginning,
it dives you deep into new frontiers
that may grab
a new handful of power,
it is surrendering deeply enough
all the structures you thought you knew
to re-home your soul in a more suitable
habitation,
Crying moves inner mountains
and slays illusions.
From the inside out
Crying undoes and remakes
the world.
I reread it out loud. It summoned memories from my underworld journey, the tear pool I’d dove into, and the dance of opposites between light and shadow. My conversation with the Hooks surfaced, challenging me to let go of what no longer served me. I recalled the lessons of surrendering to the Great Mystery and taking Faith’s hand. I closed my eyes, and felt myself return to the darkness of the Fox’s den, where I’d yielded to my night dreams and their wisdom, unearthing the secrets that had imprisoned me. I marveled at how revisiting those muddy memories mixed with shame and grief had opened a gateway for me to take up residence in my body again—for if I am not at home here, I will not be at home anywhere.
As I opened my eyes, Katrine’s mirror reflected my centered strength. I may appear mostly the same on the outside, but something seismic has shifted inside. The corners of my eyes and lips lifted slightly, welcoming me like an old friend.
Katrine hung up and dialed Angus. “’Tis time! Ah’m goin’ to be a nana soon! Brìghde’s in labor. Ah’m on the bus.”
“Congrats, Kat! Keep me posted on the wee one’s arrival.”
“For sure. The day’s already been full of surprises. Ah wanted to let ye ken ’tis nae Mary at the house tendin’ the horses. ’Tis Sarah… uh… ah dinnae ask her last name. We rode out together this mornin’.”
“Aye, ah saw ye. Ah wondered who ye were with.”
“Ah met her when ah went for a skinny dip. At first, ah thought she was an apparition, it bein’ Samhain today—ah thought the veil had thinned. Do me a favor and check in on her. Let me ken what ye garner about her.”
“Ah’ll check in on her, but ah’ll pay nae heed to a stranger’s life. ’Tis a boundary ah try mah best nae to cross. Mah life’s complicated enough without addin’ their troubles to mine.”
I wandered out of Katrine’s room, wondering where I’d sleep, and leaned against Maeve’s doorway. She was studying less than fifty miles from where I lived in Massachusetts. What were the chances of that? I chose her room, in a way swapping places with her. I’d wake to the view of the sea and share her bedroom with her books. They weren’t an imposition since they didn’t snore. I sat on the edge of her bed and the mattress was firm underneath me. What now?
I suspected it was five or six hours earlier on the East Coast, which meant Ian was still asleep, and I had more time to collect my thoughts. On a Sunday, he slept until at least eight. After a breakfast of pancakes and an espresso, he’d read and finally unpack his suitcase from the prior week and do his laundry so he could pack for the coming trip.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t come across a utility room and wondered where Katrine kept her washer and dryer. I poked around until I found the tiniest front load washer I’d ever seen, hidden in a hall closet. At first, I thought it accomplished both tasks, but it was filled with damp clothes. A plastic laundry basket with wooden clothespins scattered inside sat on top, indicating the method of drying. I welcomed the opportunity to feel useful for a few minutes as I ventured outside to discover her clothesline near the vegetable garden. Hanging her underwear was an act of intimacy that couldn’t be avoided, given the alternative of moldy clothes.
Next, I harvested kale, carrots, and cauliflower. The last cherry tomatoes were too precious to lose through the holes in the laundry basket, so I pinched the linen of my shift dress to create a fold for them to nest in. Ignoring the little specks of dirt, I popped one in my mouth. It burst with the sweet memory of summer.
Later, I changed back into Fiona’s clothes, planning an excursion into town to buy a journal, shoes, and the toothbrush I’d forgotten earlier. My bare feet were my primary concern. Katrine’s wellies were fine for mucking the stalls but too hot for walking. For me, a journal was as essential as footwear. I pictured myself with it, sitting at Katrine’s bay window, in the high-back chair, capturing everything I’d experienced on my odyssey since I’d left home. The irony that here on Iona, I’d likely become the rumored woman who washed up on shore wasn’t lost on me.
With the rest of my cash in my back pocket, I’d nearly departed to check the church bulletin board for news of the clothing swap until second thoughts stopped me. Sunday was the wrong day to go unnoticed to church. I pictured it swarming with people, and people asked questions. The only conversation I wanted was between myself and the page.
My search for paper yielded a yellow legal pad in Brìghde’s top desk drawer. As I descended the stairs, the phone rang and I ignored it, assuming it was unlikely to be Katrine again.
Seated by the bay window, with my pen poised above the page, I had every intention to write, but I stalled. Nothing came, no traction, no doorway in. I admonished myself. Just start anywhere. The longer I stared at the lined page, the more my leg bounced. My hand went to Faith’s pendant, my mind to the shipwreck, and the memory of composing my vows. She advised me to speak them out loud daily, affirming my commitment to myself. This morning, adrift on the sea, I’d only recited the opening line before my planning mind stepped in.
As I wrote my vow for the first time, I said it aloud. “To grow wild by the sea.” Wild is one word to describe today. “To slow down and listen to what I am sensing and feeling and to act on it with authenticity and integrity. To know if I am purring or growling inside and to let myself be known.” My body and my heart can guide me, not only my mind. Right now, I’m decidedly purring. “To give voice to my longings and follow them to a place of belonging, be-longing.” What are my longings? Where will they lead me? “To be in reciprocity with all my relations.”
Two grayish-brown geese waddled in the lower pasture, sinking their orange beaks and heads into the grasses, pecking, and occasionally wiggling their white rumps. They appeared to pay no mind to one another. Still, they had each other for companionship. Where was the rest of their flock?
Witnessing them had planted the thought of something to nibble on, and while I wasn’t exactly hungry, I sought the comfort of a scone. Afterward, I licked the tip of my index finger and dabbed up the crumbs from the plate. Jocelyn and I shared this habit. We joked we were members of the Clean Plate Club. The ache of loneliness I’d felt earlier reverberated in my chest. Even if I could call or email my friends, what would I say?
Sorry to be out of touch for six months, I’ve been shape-shifting in the underworld.
Just imagining the conversation left me feeling restless, disconnected, and adrift, like I had on the boat this morning. Has Ian mentioned anything about my doppelgänger to my friends? Reestablishing my connection with Ian remained my priority and I wagered if I woke him, he wouldn’t mind.
My whole body started to tingle from my toes to my scalp. I felt like a hive of bees buzzing, and I paced in front of the bay window, rehearsing what I’d say to explain why I couldn’t come home immediately. I felt his imminent disappointment and hesitated. Waiting isn’t going to make it any better. My sweaty palms gripped the phone and I dialed zero for the operator.
“Guid day. How can ah help ye?
“I’d like to make a collect call to the United States, please, from Sarah O’Sullivan. The number is 978-555-0119.” I circled in the tiny space around the coffee table.
“Hold the line, please.”
I held my breath as I heard it ringing.
The operator returned, “Yer party is nae answerin’.”
“Could you let it ring a bit longer?” but I heard it click over to my voice on the answering machine again. “Never mind, I’ll try later.” I hung up and sat, deflated. If only I could at least leave a message; however, with collect calls, the charges had to be accepted before any speaking was permitted.
Why isn’t he at home?
[1] Chelan Harkin, Let Us Dance: The Stumble and Whirl With The Beloved, (2021), 79–82.