As long as someone answers

“Every Tuesday at 3 PM, my mother calls the same wrong number.

Has for six years.

“Hello, this is Susan. Is Robert there?”

Same response every time, “No Robert here. Wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you.”

Then she hangs up. Sets a reminder for next Tuesday.

I thought it was dementia. Mom’s 71. Maybe forgetting she’d already tried this number.

“Mom, that’s not Robert’s number. You’ve called it 300 times. Why do you keep calling?”

She looked at me strangely. “I know it’s not Robert’s number.”

“Then why”

“Because someone answers.”

Turned out, the woman who answers is 83. Lives alone. Has severe social anxiety. Never leaves her apartment. No family. No friends.

“Six years ago, I called your brother’s old number by mistake,” Mom explained. “Woman answered. We talked for two minutes. When I apologized for the wrong number, she said, ‘Please call again anyway. Nobody calls me.'”

“So you just… kept calling?”

“Every Tuesday. We talk for exactly twelve minutes. About nothing. Weather. TV shows. Her cat. Then I say I have to go, and she says okay.”

“For six years?”

“For six years.”

“Does she know you’re calling on purpose?”

“Of course. I’m not subtle. But we maintain the fiction. I ‘accidentally’ call. She ‘happens’ to answer. We pretend it’s chance, not choice.”

“Why the pretend?”

“Because accepting help is hard. Accepting a wrong number is easy.”

Mom’s phone buzzed. Tuesday, 3 PM reminder.

She dialed. “Hello, this is Susan. Is Robert there?”

A pause. Then laughter. “No Robert here, Susan. But I’m here. How was your week?”

I listened to them talk. About the weather. A TV show. The cat’s vet appointment.

Twelve minutes exactly. Then, “I should let you go.”

“Okay, Susan. Same time next week?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll accidentally dial this number again.”

More laughter. Goodbye.

Mom hung up. Looked at me. “Her name is Dorothy. I’ve never met her. Don’t know her last name. Don’t know her address. Just her voice every Tuesday for twelve minutes.”

“What if you stop calling?”

“Then she stops having Tuesdays.”

Mom died last year. Suddenly. Heart attack.

I found Dorothy’s number in her phone. Called it.

“Hello?”

“Hi. My name is Sarah. I’m Susan’s daughter. I think… I think you were expecting her call today.”

Silence. Then crying.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Can I ask you something? Did she ever tell you why she really called?”

“She said you needed someone to call.”

“That’s what she told you. But I’m calling to tell you why I answered. Because your mother’s voice on Tuesdays was the only thing that kept me alive. I had the pills ready four times. Four different Tuesdays. And every time, at 3 PM, she called. And I couldn’t do it after hearing her voice.”

I’ve been calling Dorothy every Tuesday for nine months now.

Same time. Same “wrong number” fiction.

Because my mother taught me, sometimes the most important call you make is to the wrong person.

On purpose.

Every Tuesday.

For as long as someone answers.

Credit: Grace Jenkins

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