Incoming call from "Withheld"

While sitting on my patio having a long distance drink with Atticus, call waiting alerted me.

“Atticus, let me call you back. I’ve got a weird phone call coming in.” Click over to the other line, “Hello?”

“Is this Liz?”

“Yeah, who is this?” Questioning now the decision to answer “withheld” at 10pm.

“This is Heather. Have you been spending time with Jaime?” I’ve seen this movie before.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gone out twice. Who is this?”

“I’m Jaime’s girlfriend. He’s been living with me for the past five weeks. The police just picked him up from my house and I’ve decided to call every person he’s called from my phone and warn them about him.”

Stop.

This isn’t a poorly written “chick flick”.

This isn’t a writer’s lie, or even an exaggeration.

Though at times I wish it was.

“The police? Why?” The script had been written; I had to say my lines for the cameras I imagined were hidden in the shrub to the left of my patio, in my neglected grill, in my dog’s collar.

“He locked my children out of my apartment today, while he hired a prostitute. My daughter went to the neighbor’s house and called me at work. I called the police to have him removed. He said she was a massage therapist. Then why were they naked?” Heathers voice has risen an octave since I first accepted her call. I hear Heathers hysteria and want to run away from it.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Lame words are all I have to offer. “I had no idea. He and I met a few weeks ago. We had lunch twice. He told me you were his sister, and you and his nieces were living with him for the next month. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what to do. Just thought you should know.” Heather has retreated from the cliffs edge, and I am thankful.

“Clearly, Heather, I will not be in contact with him anymore. I appreciate this phone call. Keep yourself safe, dear.” I never can resist the urge to call even a stranger dear or hon when I know they are in distress.

Gently giggling, I pour myself a glass of vodka. The giggling has turned into silent laughs as I resume my long distance drink with Atticus. Recounting the story I just participated in, the silent laughs turn into chesty chuckles. The therapist that lives inside my mind tries to speak, but those chesty chuckles have turned into belly laughs interspersed with a healthy snort or two and tears are running down my cheeks.

“Who do these things happen to, seriously? Whose life is this?” I ask Atticus.

"It’s yours Liz.”