Page 3 of Whispers on the Water

The attention causes my cheeks to turn red, and I unconsciously start rubbing my throat. Every now and then, out of the blue, the memory resurfaces, and a dull ache pulses in that spot. To hide the tick, I tuck a few strands of hair back in place. “Erm, I’m gonna go make a call. You good here?”

She nods, her face filling with more concern as I hop off the barstool. Probably because she knows she's struck a nerve. I'm not going to explain so I focus instead on what I need to do. After grabbing my purse from under the counter, I step outside. My phone’s in my pocket, but I’m not using it for this call.

I wait for a break in the traffic, then dart across the scorching pavement, regretting my no-shoes policy with every step. Once I reach the payphone, I pick up the faded blue receiver and dial the number from memory, the wind tousling my hair as I twirl the cord around my finger.

When the voice on the other end picks up, it sounds as frazzled as I remember. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mrs. Bennet?” I force myself to keep it formal, even though every fiber of my being rebels against it.

“It is.” It’s my sister’s voice, but I have to play this strange game of pretending I’m someone else.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bennet. My name is Rachel; I’m with Spectrum Communications. I was calling in regards to your service. Are you happy with it?” I can almost hear Penny’s mind whirring, recognizing my voice yet playing along because she knows the rules. If I know her as well as I think, she’s dying to ask about me, about where I am, and how I’m doing, but she stays silent on those fronts. I’d hang up if she didn’t.

“Actually, I’m not enjoying our communication service. In fact, I’m growing pretty sick of these calls.” I read between the lines; Penny’s tired of this charade, of our secret, coded conversations.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bennet. Is there a specific reason?” I press on, sticking to the game.

Penny sighs, “If you must know, my new baby is sick and I’m really missing my sister.” I ignore the part about missing me, even though it punches me right in the gut.

“Your new baby?” I knew Penny was pregnant, but I had no idea she’d already given birth.

“Yes, born a week ago. 6 pounds 5 ounces, but he has jaundice and is back in the hospital.” My stomach ties itself in knots. A nephew I didn’t know about, and he’s sick. I’ve never even met my seven-year-old niece.

“What’s his name?” I manage to ask through the panicked sensations flooding my body.

“Clark, he’s beautiful. I put some pictures on my Facebook page.” Tears start pricking at the corners of my eyes, knowing full well I can’t risk checking her social media for photos. It’s just as monitored as her phone calls.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry to hear about your son Clark, but glad he seems to be getting the help he needs. If you have any questions about your service, please call into our 1-800 number.”

As I slam the receiver down, my hands shake uncontrollably. A nephew. A nephew I’ll never meet. And he’s sick. Going back to the States would spell disaster for me and probably her, too. These calls are supposed to reassure me that everything’s okay back home, but this is the first time they’ve confirmed the opposite.

How can I support Penny from thousands of miles away without being able to communicate openly? I wish I could say something, anything comforting, but words fail me. The only thing I want is to hug her tight.

Penny and I were on our own when things went wrong. Our father was out of the picture by the time I was five, and our mother passed from a nasty heart condition when I was 19. But it made the bond between Penny and me stronger. In every sense of distinction, Penny is the perfect older sibling: protective but kind and always willing to help me.

This is one of the times when I feel the urge to pay her back, to rush to her side, and to be the comfort she needs.

But I can’t. No matter how much I want to, it simply cannot happen. The realization makes my eyes burn as they fill with salty tears.

Before I can second-guess myself and dial again, I rush back across the street, drying my eyes as I go. By the time I re-enter the shop, Tilly’s already attending to a customer, a woman in a vibrant pink swimsuit.

Tilly catches the tail end of my emotional turmoil, her eyebrows knitting together in concern. “All good?”

I nod, wiping my eyes again. “Sand in my eye,” I lie. Tilly gives me one last worried glance before heading out with the customer, leaving me with my thoughts.

The thing about Tilly is her incredible ability to care without being nosy. I’ve never felt comfortable sharing anything about my family or my past, and she respects that boundary like no one else. The whole story is just too painful and complicated, and I’m afraid it could completely alter our relationship. After all, not many people would willingly befriend a murderer.

Chapter three

Sam

Afew hours later, Tilly and I are back in our apartment above the bar, the sound of clinking drinks and laughter floating up through our open window. Tilly has punk rock blasting from our small speaker, parading around half-naked, holding up dresses in front of the mirror for inspection.

I’m lounging on the couch in our living room, book in hand, but I’m not really reading. Its too hard when I’m more captivated by her than the pages. “Oh, that one,” I suggest when she slips into a bright-colored dress that drapes perfectly over her sun-kissed shoulders.

“Really? It’s so tame,” she giggles, already on the hunt for sandals.

I place my book down. “Maybe tame is what you need tonight.”

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