Carol Henderson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Carol drove home from the cafe with Emma's book on the passenger seat. Two down. Two to go. She had not spoken to her older son in four years, and her middle daughter in three. She did not have their phone numbers. She did not have their addresses. She had let the paper slips and the birthday cards pile up and then vanish in the move after the funeral. December was seven weeks away. She needed a way in. At the kitchen table she pulled out an old address book and turned every page. Half the numbers were dead lines. She called the two that rang. A stranger answered the first. The second went to a voicemail that named someone she did not know. She tried her son's old email and got a bounce. She sat with her hands flat on the table and thought about who still knew him. His college roommate. She could not remember the last name. His ex-girlfriend. Same. She had been the mother of four children and she had let the threads slip one by one while she was tired. She drove back to the cafe before it closed. Emma was still there, in a chair by the tall wooden shelves, the leather book open on her knee. Carol sat down across from her and set her hands on the table. "I need your help," Carol said. "I don't have numbers for your brother or your sister. I don't have anything." Emma marked her page with her finger. "You want me to give them to you." "Yes." Emma looked at her for a long moment. "He blocked you for a reason," Emma said. "She did too." Carol nodded. "I know. I'm asking anyway." Emma closed the book. "One dinner," she said. "That was the deal. I'll send them your number. I won't send you theirs. If they want to call you, they'll call." Carol opened her mouth to argue and did not. "Thank you," she said. Emma took out her phone and typed while Carol watched. She read the message aloud before she sent it. Mom wants to talk. Here's her number. No pressure. Send. Send again. She set the phone face down on the table. "That's what I can do," Emma said. She picked up her book and left. Carol stayed in the chair by the shelves and watched her own phone. It did not ring. It did not buzz. She drove home with it in her lap and put it on the nightstand and left the ringer on loud. Two messages sat in two inboxes now, waiting to be opened or deleted. She had traded control for a chance. She would not know which one she got until someone else decided.