Writers Abroad Magazine Issue 2 March 2015 | Page 31

WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE
"Until the last time."
The line went quiet. For a moment, she thought he had gone and felt a fierce stab
of regret. Then he spoke softly. "That wasn’t my fault."
She snorted. "No?" She didn’t even try to keep the disbelief from her voice.
"Jessica." The hurt was back with a vengeance. The same old pattern. He would
never change. "I love you, Jess."
Definitely the same pattern. She closed her eyes, fighting the pull of his voice.
"Then prove it,” she said. “Come and see me."
"You know I can’t," he whispered, his voice growing fainter.
"Then I’ll come to you," she said and slammed the phone down.
She showered quickly, but then took her time getting ready, making-up her face,
styling her hair. She dressed in her favourite jeans and a blue silk shirt and spent a
minute staring at herself in the mirror. She had changed so much in the last 12 years.
Had Mark changed at all?
She knew where she would find him, if she managed to find him at all. The last
place they had said goodbye.
It was a beautiful winter’s day. She hugged her coat around her as she sat on the
bench and waited, the sun warm on her face. Nothing happened. Had she really
expected it to? Mark had never been reliable.
She heard footsteps and looked up. A young woman was walking toward her, a
huge bouquet of flowers in her arms. She had Mark’s eyes and his thick mahogany
hair. She came to a halt in front of Jessica and put the flowers down on the grave
beside her.
"I brought these for Dad."
"That’s nice," Jessica answered. "He would have liked them."
"What are you doing here, Mum?"
"I came to say goodbye to your father."
And with those words she felt the tight band loosening around her chest. She could
do it. She could say goodbye at last. Finally put a stop to the phone calls.
The first year Mark had phoned, she had contacted the phone company but they’d
had no record of the call. Since then, she had always wondered if they were real. But
not too hard, because she’d needed the calls so desperately. Besides, they had
seemed real.
Twelve years ago, on Valentine’s Day, there had been a car crash. Mark been well
over the limit, and the woman in the passenger seat had died with him. Jessica had
been kidding herself all this time; it wasn’t the anniversary of their wedding that brought
Mark back to her year after year, it was the anniversary of his death.
No more phone calls, real or imaginary. It was time for that new beginning. WA

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