Page 4 of First-Time Caller
He opens his mouth to say something else, but I’m saved from the details of his meditation routine by the sudden and jarring sound of a foghorn. Half the people in the café cringe; the other half cheer. Our table is an even split down the middle.
“What the hell is that?” I yell over the booming sound, my hands clapped over my ears.
“If they have to call someone’s name for pickup more than twice, they break out the horn.” Jackson continues stirring his tea like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Like the obnoxious horn thing is a daily occurrence. Maybe it is. “Now that it’s quiet, I’m sure the barista will yell the name again.”
A blond head appears on the other side of the counter. Her face is twisted in fond exasperation, an extra-large iced coffee in her right hand. She lifts it above her head, narrowly missing a balding man with his nose buried in a paperback.
“Brooks Robinson,” she bellows, her voice almost as loud as the foghorn. “I’ve got a café au lait for Brooks Robinson.”
The crowd parts, shuffles, moves. The people hidden in the stacks in the loft peer over the edge. There’s a murmur of interest. Brooks Robinson is an important name in Baltimore.
“Do you really think it’s him?” Jackson asks. He twists in the booth to get a better look.
“I doubt the greatest third baseman of all time is getting a café au lait on a Tuesday morning at a bookstore that celebrates anti– Valentine’s Day.”
Jackson shrugs. “You never know.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “If it is, let’s ask him if he wants to be on Baltimore’s formerly most popular late-night radio show.”
Jackson turns back to me with a smile. “That’s the spirit. With a little positive thinking, we can turn this ship around.”
I don’t respond. As far as I’m concerned, this ship is already at the bottom of the ocean.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Do you ever wonder what the point of it all is?
CALLER:. . . What?
AIDEN VALENTINE:What’s the point of all this? What are we doing? Are we just bumbling around? Hoping for the best?
[pause]
CALLER:I asked if I should bring my girlfriend flowers more often.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Flowers die. Everything dies.
CALLER:I thought this was a romance hotline.
There’s something in the hallway.
I keep hearing a scratch or a whisper or . . . something like clothes tumbling in the dryer with the handful of pennies Maya always inexplicably leaves in her pockets. A low scratch and then a dull thud.
I don’t know what the hell it is.
I let my book drop to my chest and sit up in bed. Every time I think I’ve imagined it, I hear it again. But Maya’s room is dark and the only other thing on that side of the hallway is the linen closet I’ve never been able to open more than two inches. We store hand towels in there. Boxes of tissues that we’re never able to retrieve. Other small objects that we can wedge through the tiny crack.
Oh god. Is our linen closet haunted? Is there a malevolent spirit who is pissed about my inability to fold a fitted sheet? If this house is haunted, I’ll burn the whole place to the ground. Maya and I will move into the coffee shop across the street. Our clothes will smell like everything bagels and too-strong coffee, but we’ll be spirit-free.
I slip from the bed and grab my empty tea mug, brandishing it like a weapon. I have no idea what I’ll do with it if I’m faced with the vague outline of a Victorian woman floating down my hallway, but it makes me feel in control of the situation. Slightly.
I lean out of my doorway, glancing down the stairs to the front door to make sure that it’s still dead-bolted. Golden light from the streetlamp out front filters in through the stained-glass windows on either side of the door, illuminating our small foyer in a kaleidoscope of muted color.
Everything is exactly where it should be. Our shoes are stacked neatly in a line beneath a row of hooks on the wall. My work bag is next to Maya’s backpack.
Nothing malevolent and ghostly down there.
I hear the sound again, closer than our maybe-haunted linen closet. I turn my head sharply toward Maya’s room. There’s something shoved in the crack between the floor and the door. Navy blue, like the comforter Maya has on her bed. Another sound trips through the wood. Laughter this time. It specifically sounds like the laughter of my twelve-year-old daughter. My twelve-year-old daughter, who should be asleep in her bed with her comforter and not talking or laughing with anyone.
I tiptoe closer to her room and press my ear to her door. We painted it pale pink with sparkly stars when she was eight, but she decided she hated it when she turned eleven. I tried to peel off the stars, but the stubborn ones still cling to the very top edge where neither of us could reach, their faded tips curling up.
