“She knew about them,” Augusta tells Aaron.
“When, Mom?”
“I don’t remember,” she says.
“When was it, Mom?”
“I just told you I don’t remember.”
“Was it after she went to Sweden alone?”
“It could have been. I don’t remember.”
“Mom? Was that when Annie told you she was hearing voices?”
My mother says nothing.
“Mom?”
“Yes. When she got back from Sweden that time.”
“She was only sixteen! If you’d tried to get help then...”
“Stop it!” she says. “I did everything I could! I told her it was not unusual for a person to hear voices when she was depressed. I told her she’d experienced with Sven the exact same thing I’d experienced with her father. And...”
“Sven was a teenage crush!”
“Yes, but he abandoned her the same way. And so we both experienced depression, and as a result...”
“Oh, Jesus, what are you saying, Mom? Did you hear voices, too?”
“Only because I was so depressed. I went to see a doctor. I was terrified. The voices were telling me to kill myself! I was thinking of killing myself!”
“It’s all right, Mom,” Aaron says.
“He told me hallucinations were a common symptom of depression. Your father had just abandoned me. The doctor told me it was perfectly all right for...”
“Perfectly all right?”
“... for a depressed person to hear voices. Eventually, they went away. But I was so scared, so scared. And then... life is funny. I suddenly had more important things to worry about than your father and his girlfriends. My mother had cancer.”
“So you told Annie it was normal to hear voices.”
“If a person was depressed.”
“You told her it was fucking normal!”
“Don’t tell me how I should have talked to my own daughter!” my mother shouts. “Were you the one hearing voices? Don’t you think I know I’m responsible for the way she is? Don’t you think I’ve blamed myself enough all these years?”
“You’re not to blame, Mom,” Aaron says at once, and takes her in his arms. “You knew something was wrong, so you went to see a doctor. Crazy people don’t do that.”
“Yes, she is to blame,” I say.
And the telephone rings.
10
The piercing sound shatters the stillness of the room, paralyzing us. No one moves for the phone. We turn to look at the ringing instrument, but no one reaches for it.
“Well, is someone going to answer that?” my mother asks.
Augusta is standing closest to the telephone table. She picks up the receiver.
“Hello?” she says.
And then, again, “Hello?”
She puts the receiver back on its cradle.
“Nobody,” she says.
“Annie!” I say at once. “Do you have caller ID, Mom?”
“No.”
“Why wouldn’t she talk to me?” Augusta asks, sounding hurt.
“Damn it, I should have picked up!”
“We didn’t know it was Annie.”
“We still don’t know who it was,” Aaron says.
“Who else would hang up?”
“At least we know she’s okay.”
“If it was her.”
The phone rings again.
Augusta is reaching for it.
“Leave it!” I shout, and grab for the receiver after the second ring.
“Annie?” I say.
“Hey, bro,” she says.
She sounds very tired, very far away.
“Where are you, honey?”
“Oh dear, where am I?” she says.
“Annie? Honey, tell me where you are.”
“Oh, you know.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me, Annie. I’ll come get you. We’ll go have a cappuccino together.”
“Oh nooooo, no more cappuccinos. I know you. You take a girl for a cappuccino, and next thing you know a psychiatrist is telling her she’s crazy.”
“Honey, where are you? Tell me, okay?”
“I’m someplace safe. Don’t worry, Andy. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay now.”
“What’s that noise I hear?”
“What noise? I don’t hear any noise.”
“That sound? What is it, Annie?”
“Let me talk to her,” my mother says, and snatches the phone from my hand. “Annie?” she says. “Honey, I’m so sorry we argued yesterday, there was no need for that. I love you, Annie, I love you with all my heart. Please come home, and we’ll work out some way to...” She looks at the receiver. “Annie?” she says. “Annie?” and turns to us, a surprised look on her face. “She’s gone,” she says, and gently replaces the phone on its cradle.
“What’s her cell phone number?” I say. “You must have it someplace.”
“I don’t remember her giving it to me.”
“If she gave it to you, where would it be?”
“In my book.”
“Where’s your book, Mom?”
“The desk there.”
With a sideward dip of her head, she indicates a drop leaf desk on the wall just inside the entrance door. Aaron and I start for it in the same moment, almost colliding. We back off, and then start for the desk again. I reach it first. There is a small key in the drop leaf front. I twist the key, hold it to pull open the flap.
“Where, Mom?” Aaron asks.
“It should be there someplace.”
“Where?” I shout, and the phone rings again.
“Don’t anybody touch it!” I yell, and run across the room for it, the phone ringing twice, three times, I yank the receiver off the cradle.
“Annie?”
There is an instant’s surprised silence.
Then a man’s voice says, “May I speak to Helene Lederer, please?”
“Who’s this?” I ask at once.
“My name is Jason. If you have a moment, I’d like to explain the advantages of the ultimate mileage card. Is this Mr. Lederer?”
“Goodbye,” I tell him, and hang up. “If it rings again, please let me...”
The phone rings.
I snatch the receiver from its cradle.
“Hello?”
“Where’d you go, Andy?”
“Don’t hang up, honey.”
“Just don’t put Mom on again, okay?” she says.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. Where are you, Annie?”
“On my way to the North Sea,” she says.
“Are you at an airport?”
“In a sense, bro, in a sense.”
“What’s that sound, Annie?”
“Beats me. Listen, I want to tell you something.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you remember when we thought a raccoon was breaking into the house? That was me. Andy.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I did? What a big-mouth, huh? I was watching the road for Daddy.”
“I know.”
“You think he’s ever coming home, Andy?”
“I don’t think so, hon.”
“Does he really have another little girl?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. You’re his little girl. Annie. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”
“You don’t have to worry, I’m okay.”
“I just miss you, hon. Tell me where you are.”
“Just don’t worry about me, okay?”
“Annie... is that the wind I hear?”
“I don’t know what you’re hearing, Andy. I’d better go now,” she says abruptly, and hangs up.
Aaron sees the look on my face.