The number was dead, the line forever silent, the voice in the void muttering: Number no longer in service. James had not dialed his mothers number in two years. His wife, Clara, had given him an impossible choice her or his mother and he had chosen Clara.
Number no longer in service
A cold sweat seeped beneath his white work shirt, his breath caught in his throat. He sat on a bench in the park, and a crowd of laughing teenagers drifted past like a translucent river of giggles. James stared at them as if he were a wild animal, bewildered by his own presence, the world, the laughter, the careless hours of life. A letter lay on his knees, the envelope stamped in bold block letters with his name: James. A period followed. His mother had always punctuated everything with a dot. He had already printed it, the letter still sealed, untouched by his sister, so she could not have read it. His mothers handwriting filled two pages, a perfect, straightlined script without flourishes the kind of penmanship taught to top students in the old school system, each letter measured, no mistakes. It began:
Dearest James, my son. If you are reading this, I am no longer here
James choked on the words. He tried to hold back tears, but the longer he read, the harder it became.
He did not think of his mother that day. He went out for lunch, craving a greasy kebab wrapped in lettuce, tomato, cucumber and drenched in a tangy garlic sauce the stalls signature. As he approached the revolving doors of the shopping centre, a figure stepped out onto the street. It was his mother, as if she had just been waiting there for two years. Brown coat, dark wavy hair that fell just past her shoulders, a weary gait of a woman worn by work and housework. The same mother who had haunted him in fleeting visions for the past three months, sometimes packing bags, sometimes a distant, sad presence, never offering the protection he once craved. Three months earlier a small, bruised creature halfmouse, halfferret had crawled onto his bed. It shivered against his cheek, its soft fur unpleasant to the touch, yet pity outweighed revulsion. James let it curl into a doughnut shape on his pillow, its tiny breath shallow. In the dark room he realized there were no rats or ferrets in his flat; the creature vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow, a reminder that he had not dreamed it.
That night Clara slept, and James, halfasleep, found photographs of himself and his mother a family whole, not at odds. He did not know what to think.
He lingered near the exit of the mall, intending to follow the apparition, when a courier asked the guard:
Which floor is the appliances department?
Third, the guard replied.
I work there, James blurted, turning away from the doors. Whos getting a delivery? Maybe I should take it?
A vague premonition stirred. The courier read the label on the parcel: To James Merrick.
Thats me, James said, reaching out.
ID, please, the courier demanded.
James patted his chest, pulled his passport from his breast pocket, signed for the package and stepped out onto the bustling street chatter, car horns, the citys hum. He tore open the parcel; inside was a note from his sister, Emma:
Mother died on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youve always been a traitor to me.
June 12! Today was 15 September! Three whole months had passed without anyone telling him.
A dizzy spell washed over him; his stomach twisted, and he almost fainted, saved only by the rough brick wall of the centre. His mother was dead. The woman who had given him endless love, loyalty, protection the one he had once shouted, Im no longer your son! at in a fit of pride.
The thought of kebab, coffee, and hunger vanished. He could not bring himself to open the letter there. He trudged back to the park, sat down, and finally broke the seal.
Im gone now. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt an unexpected surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say such a sudden burst often means the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. How many times did I dial your number, only to hang up before the rings began? Both of us are prisoners of pride. Even now, as I write, pride keeps me from calling you. And you dont call. Perhaps you dont think of me, perhaps you dont care, but you are my son, my child, and I cannot stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with Clara; I was wrong in places, and she isnt easy either. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing. I raised you alone as best I could; perhaps I was a bad mother, since you turned away so easily. You punished me, my son. Thats enough. Forgive me.
I wanted, in my final hours, to hear your voice one more time
James sobbed, his fist clamped over his mouth. He had never felt unloved or ignored. His mother always found time to talk, console, advise, to guard him and his sister like a wolfess. When two schoolboys tried to bully him in Year Five, she caught one on the street and pressed a pocketknife to his ear: Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled him in karate and taught him to fight, to stand his ground, to show strength, not weakness.
He pressed the phone to his ear, imagined his mother answering, and whispered in his mind:
Im calling, Mum, please pick up. Im sorry for being weak. Let this letter be a joke.
Silence pressed back, heavy as a coffin, then the same relentless message.
Number no longer in service.
No! James screamed, dialing again and again, each time the automated voice repeating, Number no longer in service.
He tried his sisters line; she barked, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
He took the day off work and went home, stood like a post at his doorstep, coat and shoes still on. His strength drained. Clara, on maternity leave with their baby, sat at the kitchen table.
Whats happened so early, James? she asked, feigning concern.
He looked at her, words choking him.
My mother died.
What? Clara clutched her chest, a performative gasp that felt false to James.
Did Emma call? Whens the funeral?
It was three months ago. Didnt anyone tell you?
Shut up! Dont bring up my family again, James snapped.
After a brief, tense discussion they decided to drive to Emmas flat in the provincial town of Brighton, where their mother had lived. They sped away, James wildhearted, his anger a storm aimed at everyone himself, Clara, his relatives, but especially Emma. They burst through the door of the flat Emma now occupied. Emmas eyes widened, red with fury.
You should have told me! You should have let me know mother was ill! Youre a liar! she shouted.
I should? You should have called her yourself! James retorted, voice cracking.
Clara tried to intervene, Dont
Im not the one to blame! Emma screamed. You married the woman who drove our mother away!
Theyre both wrong, James whispered, feeling the walls of the cramped flat press in, the faded wallpaper, the old coat hooks, the cracked lamp all reminders of his mother and the pain hed caused.
Emmas husband, a tall man who had stayed aloof until now, stepped forward.
Out. Both of you. Leave this place. He pushed them toward the door, his words sharp like a knife.
James stood frozen as Claras eyes filled with tears. He sank onto the grimy staircase, weeping. The silence that followed was deafening.
Later, in the car on the way home, James said coldly, A great part of what happened is your fault. Yes, Im guilty too, but you bear the most. How can we live after this?
Clara replied, The final decision was yours, not mine. There are two of us to blame you and Emma. She should have told us.
They argued the rest of the drive. James stopped returning home. He vanished from Claras life, his whereabouts unknown, his phone unanswered. Weeks passed. The divorce left him with two burdens: a disordered household and a small son. He eventually returned, but he was distant, cold, his grief for his mother a heavy veil.
Sometimes, on a commuter train, James thought he saw his mothers silhouette in the window, a fleeting phantom that vanished when he turned. Yesterday, he imagined her on a train, staring blankly out the window, a crowd flooding the carriage. He pushed through, heart tightening like iron, nearly stepping on her foot, then realized it was another woman.
Out of habit, he still dials his mothers number, hoping for a crackle, a single ring from the darkness.
Number no longer in service, the automated voice repeats, as if the machine itself were answering.
I am his son! Mother, hear me!
Do not call this number again. Be grateful you still have your wife.
