ISSUE 16 | FALL 2013
the hallway, and living room. Finally he shoves the phone through his doorway and shuts the door. I stare at it. I cradle it in my arms and bring it into the living room. I put a record on the stereo and then, ridiculously, I turn the volume so low that it is inaudible. In case the phone rings. I hold it on my lap like a cat. Close to eleven p.m., my roommate comes out and looks at me. “Some call,” he says. I try to respond in a sarcastic tone, but my lips start to lose control and to my horror, a tear leaks out of my eye. I pretend I don’t notice. In spite of being a lady’s man, my roommate Tom is not a bad guy. He sits down next to me. “Who were you waiting for?” he says. “I’ll beat him up.”
“My mother,” I say. “She is in town. She got here today. I thought…” and then I can’t say anymore. A few more tears slide down my face and hang underneath my chin. He is confused. “Your mother?” “You know. My. My. Birth mother.”
I’ve told him the story before, over a bottle of wine. He soaked it up like a soap opera, just like everyone does. He knew she was coming, but he forgot.
He gets up and goes into the kitchen. “Come on.” I follow him. “I’ll make you some Malt O Meal.” He boils a pot of water and takes down a yellow box from the cupboard, shakes in a cupful of grains that look like beach sand. Tom’s father works for the company that makes Malt O Meal. He is fiercely loyal and denigrates Cream of Wheat and Quaker oatmeal at every opportunity. “Malt O Meal is the BEST,” he says. He spoons some lumpy brown sugar and a handful of walnut and raisins over the steaming mush. Then he trickles some cream over it and gives me a spoon. “Here,” he says. “You’ll feel better.” He hands me a paper towel for a napkin and sits there expectantly. I take a hesitant bite. The soft warm cereal, the sweet raisins, and cream embrace the inside of my mouth. I eat until I’ve scraped the bottom of the blue bowl, my eyes stinging with gratitude. When there isn’t anything, left he washes the bowl, gives me a hug, and we go to our separate rooms. He takes the phone with him to call the girl back. I sleep a restless sleep, dreaming that she will never call, dreaming that I have to follow a concrete maze to her hotel and that I get lost. Dangerous people chase me down. I keep falling down. When I wake up, I am crawling on my hands and knees, whimpering. In the morning my eyes are swollen, and I look as if I’d been drinking all night. I think about calling in sick for work. I shower and dress in my work clothes, one slow piece at a time. Just as I am about to descend the stairs, the phone rings. I lunge for it.
There is her voice. “Susannnn?” It is bright like sunshine. My heart speeds up in my chest, and I force myself to be casual. “Hey! Hello. When did you get in?” 105