Landline

Was he actually avoiding her calls?

It sure seemed that way. The only time someone answered Neal’s phone was when he wasn’t there . . . supposedly. Maybe his mom was running interference for him. Maybe she knew something that Georgie didn’t.

Margaret wouldn’t want this to happen. She liked Georgie, and she’d never want this for the girls. (This, Georgie thought, not wanting to find better words for her worst-case scenario.)

Margaret wouldn’t wish for it or want it. . . .

But Neal was Margaret’s son. And she knew he was unhappy.

That was just a fact.

That wasn’t Georgie being melodramatic or paranoid or delusional. That was Georgie being honest.

Neal wasn’t happy. Neal hadn’t been happy for a long time.

He didn’t complain about it. He didn’t say, “I’m unhappy.” (God—in a way, that would be a relief.) He just wore it, breathed it. Held it between them. Rolled away from it in his sleep.

Neal wasn’t happy, and Georgie was why.

And not because of anything she’d ever done or said. Just because of who she was.

Georgie was Neal’s anchor. (And not the good kind. Not the happy anchor that keeps you safe and grounded, the one you get tattooed across your chest.) Georgie was . . . dead weight.

Okay. Now she was being melodramatic.

This was why she never let herself think about this. Because her brain would dive and dive and never touch bottom. She didn’t let herself think about it. But she still knew it. Everyone around them knew it—Margaret must. That Neal wasn’t happy. That he hated California, that he felt alternately lost and thwarted here. Trapped.

And everyone knew that Georgie needed Neal far more than he needed her. That the girls needed Neal far more than they needed her.

Of course Neal would get custody. Neal already had custody. Neal and Alice and Noomi—they were a closed system, an independent organism.

Neal took them to school, Neal took them to the park, Neal gave them baths.

Georgie came home for dinner.

Most nights.

When Georgie drove Alice to swim lessons, Alice worried that Georgie would get lost on the way there. “I guess we can call Dad if you can’t find it.”

On Saturday mornings when Neal left to run errands, the girls wouldn’t ask for breakfast until he came home. When they fell and hurt themselves, they screamed “Daddy!”

Georgie was extra. She was the fourth wheel. (On something that only needed three wheels. The fourth wheel on a tricycle.)

She’d be nothing without them. Nothing. But without her? They’d be exactly the same. And Neal . . . maybe Neal would be happier.

She felt sick again.

She picked up the yellow receiver but kept one finger on the phone’s plunger, not ready to hear the dial tone. There wasn’t any reason to call Neal now—she’d just tried.

Georgie should pick up a wall charger for her cell phone tomorrow on the way to work.

Or just get your battery fixed, her brain yelled at her. Or just go home, where you have wall chargers stashed all over the house!

I’m not going home again until Neal is there, Georgie yelled back, realizing for the first time that it was true.

She let the plunger go and listened to the phone hum.

It isn’t going to happen again, she told herself. After all, nothing strange had happened all day. Neal was avoiding her, but that wasn’t strange; it was just horrible.

It wasn’t going to happen again. Georgie’s head was clear. She felt firmly rooted in reality. Miserably rooted. She tapped the receiver against her forehead to prove that it hurt. Then she ran her index finger along the phone’s plastic face and started dialing Neal’s mom’s landline.

Because . . .

She wanted to.

Because she’d gotten through landline-to-landline twice so far, never mind what had happened after.

One, she dialed, four, oh, two . . .

These rotary dials were like meditation. They forced you to slow down and concentrate. If you pulled the next number too soon, you had to start over from the top.

Four, five, three . . .

It wasn’t going to happen again. The weirdness. The delirium. Neal probably wouldn’t even pick up.

Four, three, three, one . . .

CHAPTER 11

“Hello?”

Georgie exhaled when she heard Neal’s voice, then resisted the urge to ask him who the president was. “Hey,” she said.

“Georgie.” He sounded relieved. (He sounded like Neal, like heaven.) “You called.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I was such a jerk last night,” he said quickly.

Last night. She felt a wave of panic. Last night, last night, last night. Neal shouldn’t remember last night, because last night hadn’t happened outside of Georgie’s crazy head.

“Georgie? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Look, I’m sorry about the way I acted.” He sounded determined. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Georgie choked out.

“You just caught me by surprise,” he said. “Hey—are you crying again?”

“I . . .” Was she crying? Or hyperventilating? Maybe a little of both.

Neal’s voice dropped. “Hey. Don’t cry, sunshine, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Georgie said. “I mean, I won’t. I’m sorry, I just . . .”

“Let’s start over, okay?”

Georgie sobbed half a hiccuppy, hopeless laugh. “Start over? Can we do that?”

“This conversation,” he said. “Let’s start this conversation over. And last night’s, too. Let’s go back to last night, okay?”

“I feel like we have to go back further than that,” Georgie said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Neal was whispering. “I don’t want to go back any further. I don’t want to miss any of the rest.”

“Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes.

This was crazy. This was weird and crazy. It wasn’t real. But it was still happening. If Georgie hung up, would it stop?

Or should she keep crazy on the line, so she could trace the call?

“Okay,” she said again.

“Okay,” Neal said. “So . . . you called to see if I got in all right. I did. It was a long drive, and I only had three CDs, so I listened to this radio show in the middle of the night—it was called Coast to Coast—and now I think I believe in aliens.”