Dial Tone

~The Art Student~
The hold music for government assistance through the state of Ohio is surprisingly jazzy. She puts it on speakerphone and dances around the room, for half-an-hour, before someone picks up on the other line. The voice of a woman goes through some spiel. It sounds like she’s reading from a piece of paper, and she’s not into it, like the kid who gets called on to read in class when nobody else volunteers.
Mara keeps dancing but moves closer. She waits until the woman is done and then she plops down onto the bed so hard her phone bounces up, catching air.
"Yeah uh, I need help I guess? Like insurance. I’m twenty-six now so…" Her legs hang off the bed still moving up and down, still dancing even without the rest of her, bobbing the phone on the bed ever-so-slightly, making waves.
"I need your social security number and date of birth," The woman on the other end of the line says mechanically. Her voice carries a note of exasperation and annoyance.
"Social security?" Mara asks. Her legs stop. Panic rises in her stomach, lifting the pitch in her voice. "Umm gimme a minute to find it? Actually, you know what, can I call you back?" She speaks fast. Then hangs up faster, not allowing the woman a chance to respond.
Mara rolls over onto her back to stare up at glow-in-the-dark stars and planets spread across the ceiling above her, white with clouds of yellow, tar stains from the previous tenants who were smokers. She dials a new phone number. The only one she knows by heart other than 911. It rings once.
"Hello?"
"Mom?"


~The Teacher~
She should have been home by now. She should have been off an hour ago.
Sandra sits across from a concerned young mother. Both of them have forced their bodies into a much-too-small, bright, colorful, plastic chair of a child. Between them is a short round table covered in crayons and construction paper.
"I told you people repeatedly I don’t want urine on his pants. You have to take his little dingy out and hold it for him."
"Ma’am we are not legally allowed to touch your child's genitals."
"You changed his diaper a year ago,how is this any different?"
"Every year of their life, from one moment to the next, a child is never the same. They grow very quickly. One day you can pick them up and carry them to bed, a year later you can’t."
"My son is too young to urinate properly and you are sending him home in soiled clothes! This is outrageous. I want to speak to a manager!"
Suddenly a phone rings. It’s Sandra’s phone. On the screen she sees the name of her daughter, Mara. She jumps up so fast her little plastic chair falls to the ground. She motions to the other mother that it’s something important, mouthing the word daughter and quickly escapes out into the hallway.
Sandra wants to vent about her day. She wants to complain about still being here so late past closing time when this is supposed to be a part-time job. She wants to whine out loud, to anyone, any ear that could listen, to scream that one day off a week just isn’t enough. She wants to cry. She takes a deep breath. She wants to throw that little plastic chair through the glass of the front door. She wants to punch this other woman in the face. She wants to tell her daughter.
But she doesn’t get a chance. Mara talks loud and fast. Rapid fire words like bullets. Some words sink in, some get lodged in the skull, most go in and pass out, straight through, some miss completely, ricocheting around the room like an echo. And she’s so loud Sandra has to hold the speaker of the phone a few inches back. It’s a necessary distance.
Mara’s upset. As usual. And just like usual she’s going on and on about every petty little problem, every trivial complaint. Sandra stops paying attention. She’s figuring out now what it is she needs to say to the other mother.
"So if you could either cover my rent this month or just loan me a couple hundred…" Sandra wakes up to the world in her ear. As the information processes, her brain forgets to breathe, leaving only a small gasp behind. As if she’d just been punched in the stomach. Below the belt. Unfair. She’s already carrying the phone bill, car payments, and car insurance all for Mara. Deep inhale. Sandra blows air into the receiver of the phone.
"Oh no! I’m sorry, you’re breaking up." She says from a distance with her arm stretched out. Her thumb moves up to hit a red button. Call ended.
"You should not have this job." The other mother says in disgust from the doorway to the classroom. She has her arms crossed. Her large frame is blocking the doorway allowing little light to spill out past her. Hardly an outline. Almost all shadow.
"This is the cheapest daycare in the city. They hire anyone off the street with zero experience in any field. It’s the only place that offers part-time. I am a full-time nurse in hospice, so yes, you’re right, I should not have this job." Or Sandra would have said if only she’d had the nerve.

~Conversation 1~
"I’ve been cut off of the Pell Grant." Mara spoke into the phone with that same quiet shame as the time she wrecked the car.
"How does that happen?" Sandra asks.
"You take too many extra classes. They catch you not on track to graduate."
"Well, maybe you shouldn’t have done that." Sandra would have said if she were brave enough.
"Well…" She breathes in deep. She’s in the parking lot of a nursing home, standing outside her car. The breeze is sharp and cold. It makes her feel more awake than she should be at the end of a weekend nursing shift.
"You’re going to have to work more and save up if you want to go back. You could get a better paying job... If you aren’t in school, you ought to be working full time. You could get a second job. You could probably ask for a raise." She said this and it felt brave. It felt right.
But the girl was silent. When she did speak it was quiet and small. As if she were standing back from a several-foot distance. Later on, she would forget to say I love you before goodbye. And Sandra would be shocked by the sudden realization she’d mechanically recited those words of affection into open air. She would linger there until the next splash. New shock. Dial tone.


~The Newly Employed~
She sits on a couch with a laptop pressed up towards her chest, over her thighs which are propped up by her feet on the edge of the coffee table. Inches away from an open box of cold pizza.
Mara tried texting first. She waited for nearly an hour, scrolling through Reddit and Facebook to pass the time. The orange glow between the white stripe of her blinds slowly turns to shadow as the window to the world outside gives into night.
She dials her mother.
Ring.
She waits. Her finger twitches above the mouse pad. Onscreen a form is open, waiting for more information before she can continue.
Ring.
She looks at the cell phone in her hand. She looks at the image of her mother smiling.
Ring.
What could she be doing?
Ring- "Hello?" Mara’s ear fills with a static buzz. She can hear voices. She hears loud music and laughing. She hears the scoot of a hard metal chair across linoleum floor.
"Mom, are you in a bar?" She asks this with more accusation in tone than she meant to.
"Oh, well, yeah… Me and some girls from my church group decided to take a trip up to Denver to see Bon Jovi. It was amazing! The guitarist-"
"Oh my god, are you high?!"
Suddenly the static gets much louder.
"Oh no, bad reception!"
"Wait! Wait! Mom! I just wanted to ask which should I claim for my W2 paperwork, zero or one? "
"Oh, honey, claim zero, you’ll get more back."


~The Freshly Fired~
Sandra spends most of the day cleaning her house. She does it in manic speed as if she actually has somewhere to be. She rushes the vacuum, knocking things over with the cord like a large dog unaware of his tail. She pushes so hard on the broom its plastic bristles bend. She scrubs the dishes so hard the metal of steel wool bites into the flesh of her fingers. She scrubs until paint chips, until Teflon wears away, until she bleeds. She scrubs and scrubs as if trying to erase something.
It was just a stupid part-time job. She tells herself. You don’t really need it. But then she stops to think about what her life will be like to have that much less.
The phone starts to ring and before she knows for sure who it is the thought has already appeared in her mind. Maybe it’s time to stop playing for Mara’s car insurance?
She stares down at the phone in her hand. At the picture of a teenage girl with bright purple hair and braces. She misses that face, that hair. Mara wears it natural now. She has to for work.


~Conversation 2~
"I have good news!"
"Did he propose?"
"Ugh no, you know I don’t believe in marriage," Mara’s voice snaps. She sounds annoyed.
"Did you get a raise?"
"No, mom, stop guessing and just let me tell you." Sometimes she still sounds so young. Sandra can close her eyes and see a girl in a car just learning how to drive. They’d cruise for hours and hours talking about anything and everything. Mara got her license later than she had to. Neither one of them was ready for the road trip to end. One more mile! Mara would beg. Let’s just check it out? Have you ever taken that exit?
"Two of my paintings have been selected for an exhibition!"
"Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so proud! Send me a picture... Where’s the gallery?"
"It’s here in Richmond. The opening reception will be at the end of this month. I was hoping maybe you could come if it’s not too late for you to request off from work?"
"Oh, honey, I wouldn’t miss it for the world."


~The Insurance Salesman~
The hold music for the insurance company is obnoxious and repetitive. Mara is convinced it’s because they want the customers to give up on waiting, to give up on getting their money, to just stop trying and go away. But of course, that rarely works. Everyone needs money. And why have the same hold music for employees?
"It’s just cruel." Mara says to the aging hipster in the cubicle next to her. He nods his head in understanding, but his empty eyes imply otherwise. She pops in one earphone and plays a track of music that was popular ten years ago. One ear in this world, one ear in another. One foot bobs up and down to the music. The other is planted firmly on the ground.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Mara. I’ve got a customer here with me on the other line named Frank who had a tree fall on his house… I’ll patch him over… Frank?"
"Frank?"
"Hello?"
Dial tone. The only sound in the world worse than hold music.


~The Nurse~
Sandra called her friend Lauren first. Then she called Tom. Then she tried Mara.
Ring. It suddenly occurs to Sandra it had been a long time since she and Mara spoke on the phone. Lately, it’s just text messages.
Ring. And they don’t spend holidays together anymore. Mara prefers now to spend those special occasions with Terry’s family. She misses having a reason to buy something special, a reason to clean, a reason to buy a turkey.
Ring. She misses long drives. She misses those venting phone calls. She misses a bathroom stained with hair dye. She misses paint stains on the walls. She misses random calls for simple questions.
Ring. She regrets that one time she snapped, stressed, yelling; just google it!
She hangs up.
A moment later her phone lights up. A text message;
What’s up?
Sandra wants to tell her about the promotion. She wants to tell her about her new friends, about Tom taking her out, about feeling young and beautiful again for the first time in a long time, she wants to tell her she misses her, that once a year just isn’t enough, they ought to see each other more. She would have said all these things if she were brave enough.
Instead, Sandra says nothing. She imagines the silence will stretch and grow, like a seed, into concern. That Mara will call her back worried that something was wrong. That her voice will crack with emotion, and she’ll be scared into keeping a closer stay-in touch.
She waits.
She waits.
She waits.
Nothing.


~Conversation 3~
"I can’t even remember the last time I worked on a painting. I feel like I’ve lost myself. Every weekend is antique shopping, camping, or skiing. I never liked any of that stuff. It’s all him. Where did I disappear to? I used to go to concerts. I used to go to coffee shops. Remember when I got a surfing lesson? They said I was a natural."
"Well, honey… it’s not really his fault. You spend a lot of time with someone and you take on their interests. You just have to make more time for yourself. Make room for your interests."
"He’ll never-"
"Not him, you. You have to make time for you. It’s not good to be codependent."
"It doesn’t matter." Her voice gets weak and quiet. Sandra snaps to attention. Her arm hairs stand up, and her skin prickles.
"What’s wrong?"
"It’s too late."
"What’s happened?"
"I’m pregnant… I guess we’re really going to keep it…"
"Oh, honey!"

~The Mother~
They painted the guest room. It’s a theme of colors. Modern and stylish but still warm and inviting. She’s hoping her daughter will come and visit. She hints and hints but she’s not brave enough to just ask her outright.


~The Mother~
In the hospital, she’s hooked up on IV’s. She’s on pain medication so she can’t focus her thoughts. They flow through her mind like music. Numbers dance, they won’t stand still. She wants to call her but she can’t remember the number. Where is her cell phone? What is her name?

~The Mother~
She looks out the window and thinks about those long drives. She thinks about painting landscapes. She remembers blue hair the exact color of the sky, lost in the wind, nearly invisible. She remembers phone calls that carried on for hours. She remembers asking for help when she didn’t need it, just to make her feel involved. She wants to reach out and hug, feel the soft warmth of her arms.

~The Mother~
She wants to hear her voice again. One last time. She stares at the phone.
"Hello?"
Dial tone.
It hadn’t been ringing.
Suddenly frantic, she starts to press buttons at random. Surely one of these combinations has to be right? There has to be a way to find her. There has to be a way to get through. There is so much she never said. So much she never said thank you for. She wants to tell her mother she’s sorry, tell her thank you. She wants to tell her daughter sorry, tell her thank you. She wants to drive through the past and stir up every speck of dust that fell unspoken, and pull it out into the light. She wants to make up for all the bravery she lacked. She wants another chance. She wants a do-over.
She dials and dials. Each button is a number. Each button is a note of music. What is the song she’s searching for? What is the code combination to make everything better? She really knows what to say this time. Really. She knows exactly what she needs to say to make everything right again. Her finger is shaking as it finds its way to a green button.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.

Nothing.
Dial tone.