Chapter 25
The phone shrills during dinner, making me jump.
It’s only then that I realize what silence I’ve lived with all day.
Not a sound, except for the white noise of vacuuming the carpet, or the watery sound of mopping the kitchen floor.
The phone never rang; no one knocked; not one person disturbed my solitude—though it felt more like abject loneliness by the end of the day.
When Tom returned home, I surprised him with a fierce embrace.
But Tom’s entrance was a welcome interruption; the telephone’s ring is not.
It sullies my house—my spotless rooms and straightened pillows.
I feel sullied myself, though I’m showered and dressed for dinner.
Tom gives me a steady look and pushes his chair back from the table. I sit unmoving, my fork frozen in air, as I listen to Tom in the kitchen.
“Hello, Stanley residence.”
“Hello? Who is this?” I swallow. Will the man just breathe and laugh, or will he say vile things? Will he tell Tom the full truth of how my thighs were scarred? Will he tell him I’m…
Tom returns. He gives me a wobbly smile.
“Wrong number. They wanted someone named Gunderson.” Relief floods through me, but it’s temporary.
There will be another call sometime, probably soon.
Or the man will come to our door instead.
He’ll ask for Tom and I’ll stand behind him, absorbing all the terrible words.
Digesting them. Becoming them—right in the presence of my husband.
I try to eat my food, but when I’ve chewed and chewed, I find I can’t swallow. If I swallow it, I’ll become those things, won’t I? I push the chewed meat into my napkin when Tom turns his worried eyes away from me for a moment, and then I set my fork down carefully.