Page 9 of First-Time Caller
“Again, I say,what dirty laundry?”
“If it makes you feel better,” I cut in, “we only have about twelve listeners.” I lean back in my chair until the back groans. Everything in this studio is duct-taped together, holding on for dear life. “One of them is probably my mom.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any better.” Lucie exhales heavily. I wait as she considers her options. “What are your qualifications? Are you a psychologist or something?”
“No.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“Nope.”
“I can never remember the difference between those two,” she muses.
“I think it has something to do with prescribing medication.”
“Interesting.” She could not sound less interested. “So, what are you, then? A shaman? A love guru? Do you read people’s palms?”
This woman. “No. I do not read people’s palms over the radio. I am also not a cult leader.”
“You heard that, huh?”
“It’s incredible what you can hear when someone says something into a speaker.”
Fabric shifts in the background, the rasp of blankets and pillows moving around. I take another sip from my mug and wait.
“So if you’re not any of those things . . . how are you supposed to give me advice?”
I grin. “Oh, now shewantsthe advice.”
“I’m just saying. Hypothetically. If I agreed.”
“It’s pretty simple. You talk and I listen.”
“And you fix it?” She makes a vaguely dismissive sound. “Just like that?”
“There’s nothing to fix, Lucie.” The smile slips from my face until I’m staring down at the chip in the top lip of my coffee mug. I drag my thumb over it. “You’re not a toaster. Or faulty wiring. And I’m not a guru or a psychic or a . . . professional . . . in any sense of the word. I’m just a person. A person who likes talking to other people. Who, occasionally, has mediocre advice to give. You’re safe with me, and with the people listening. I promise. If the conversation ever goes somewhere you don’t want it to, just say the word. We’ll call it a night and you can ban television in your household for the foreseeable future.”
Maya offers a grunt of protest in the background. Lucie snickers.
“But I’m not . . . I’m not trying to fix anything for you, Lucie. I’m just going to listen, yeah? We’ll talk and see what happens.”
“See what happens,” she repeats.
I eyeball the clock. “Yup. We’ll see what happens. But you’ve got about a minute to make up your mind.”
“Please, Mom,” Maya whispers in the background. “I think it’ll help.”
Lucie hums, considering her options. “I guess I could always just hang up the phone.”
“You absolutely can,” I tell her, though I hope she doesn’t. There’s a couple of hours left in my shift and I don’t want to spend it trying to flick coffee stirrers into the trash can across the room. The booth gets too quiet when it’s just me, and the quiet gives me too much room to think.
“Promise you’re not a cult leader?” she asks.
“Not at the moment, though I suppose that’s a direction I can explore if the radio thing doesn’t work out.” A mattress ad plays its final jarring notes, something about “comfort cascading to dreams,” whatever that means. “It’s your choice, Lucie. However you want this to go. But we’re about to be back on the air.”
“With twelve listeners.”
“Likely closer to nine, given the late hour.”
