Landline(8)

“Where else am I supposed to display their ribbons?” her mom had said when Georgie objected. “They’re award-winning dogs. You’ve got one foot out the door anyway.”

“Not currently. Currently, I have both feet on my bed.”

“Take off your shoes, Georgie. This isn’t a barn.”

Georgie’s old bed was still in the room. So was her night table, a lamp, and some books she’d never gotten around to packing up. She opened the closet and dug through a pile of leftover junk until she found an antique, yellow rotary phone; she’d bought it herself at a garage sale back in high school—because she’d been exactly that kind of pretentious.

Christ, it was heavy. She untangled the cord and crawled halfway under the bed to plug it in. (She’d forgotten the way that felt—the way the outlet bit down on the end of the cord with a click.) Then she climbed up on the bed and settled the phone in her lap, taking a deep breath before she picked up the receiver.

She tried Neal’s cell phone first, but the call didn’t go through—their network sucked in Omaha. So she dialed his mom’s home number from memory. . . .

Georgie and Neal had spent one summer apart—junior year, right after they started dating. She’d called him in Omaha every night that summer. From this room, actually, on this yellow telephone.

There were fewer dog portraits on the walls back then, but still enough to make Georgie feel like she needed to hide under the blankets when she stayed up late talking dirty to Neal. (You wouldn’t expect Neal to be filthy on the phone; normally he didn’t even swear. But it’d been a long summer.) His mom answered after four rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, Margaret, hi. I know it’s late, sorry, I always forget about time zones—is Neal still up?”

“Georgie?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, it’s me—Georgie.”

Neal’s mom paused. “Just a minute, I’ll see.”

Georgie waited, feeling nervous for some reason. Like she was calling some guy she liked when she was fourteen. Not the guy she’d been married to for fourteen years.

“Hello?” Neal sounded like he’d been asleep. His voice was rough.

She sat up straighter. “Hey.”

“Georgie.”

“Yeah . . . Hey.”

“It’s really late here.”

“I know, I always forget, I’m sorry. Time zones.”

“I—” He made a frustrated huffing noise. “—I guess I didn’t expect you to call.”

“Oh. Well. I just wanted to make sure you got in okay.”

“I got in fine,” he said.

“Good.”

“Yeah . . .”

“How’s your mom?” she asked.

“She’s fine—they’re both fine, everybody’s fine. Look, Georgie, it’s late.”

“Right. Neal, I’m sorry—I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You will?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ll call earlier tomorrow. I just, um . . .”

He huffed again. “Fine.” And then he hung up.

Georgie sat there for a second, holding the dead receiver against her ear.

Neal had hung up on her.

She hadn’t even had a chance to ask about the girls.

And she hadn’t gotten to say “I love you”—Georgie always said “I love you,” and Neal always said it back, no matter how perfunctory it was. It was a safety check, proof that they were both still in this thing.

Maybe Neal was upset with her.

Obviously he was upset with her, he was always upset with her—but maybe he was more upset than she thought.

Maybe.

Or maybe he was just tired. He’d been up since four.

Georgie had been up since four thirty. Suddenly she felt tired, too. She thought about getting back in the car and driving out to Calabasas, to an empty house where nobody was waiting up for her. . . .

Then kicked off her shoes and climbed under her old bedspread, clapping twice to turn off the light. She could still see fifty pairs of mournful pug eyes flashing in the dark.

She’d call Neal tomorrow.

She’d start with “I love you.”





THURSDAY





DECEMBER 19, 2013





CHAPTER 4


There was a Post-it note from Pamela (the front-desk girl) on Georgie’s office door. She must have missed it when she left last night.



Your husband called while you were talking to Mr. German. He said to tell you they landed and to call when you can.





Georgie’d already tried to call Neal twice that morning on the way to work—she wanted something to replace their last stilted conversation in her head—but he hadn’t picked up.

Which wasn’t that unusual. Neal often left his phone downstairs or in the car, or he forgot to turn his ringer on. He never purposely ignored Georgie’s calls. Never so far.

She hadn’t left him a message—she kept freezing up. But at least Neal would see that she’d called. That was something.

He’d sounded so off last night. . . .

Clearly Georgie had woken him up. But it was more than that. The way that he’d said his mom was fine—“they’re both fine”—for a second, Georgie thought maybe he was talking about his dad.