Page 13 of The Accidental Text

Ihit send, feeling tears sting my eyes as I toss my phone toward the end of my bed and then lie back and stare up at the textured ceiling of my bedroom. My eyes move to the part that looks like a heart, right next to the fan. My eyes go there a lot. I often wonder if someone did it on purpose. I don’t know much about texturizing a ceiling, but it seems like it was more by chance.

I never noticed it until the first night I slept in my bed after my mom died. I’d been staying at the hospital with her, and then in my old bedroom at my parents’ house after she passed. I was trying to be a comfort to my dad, but really it was morecomforting for me to be there. Devon stayed with us, too, for a while.

When I finally came back to the apartment, I lay down in my bed and just stared at the ceiling, and that’s when I saw it. That perfectly shaped heart. I wondered if it was meant to be—a little token from my mom, silly as it was.

But this morning I’m feeling a little cynical. And I’m seeing it for what it probably is. Just a happy mistake from a texturizing gun … or machine … or whatever the heck they use to do that.

It all feels contrived. All this texting I’ve been doing, all these signs I’ve been seeking. It feels like she can’t hear me. I believe in heaven; I believe she’s moved on to another place where she’s whole and no longer suffering. But right now, it all feels a bit far-fetched. Maybe Iamin the anger phase.

I feel my phone vibrate at the end of my bed and I sit up to grab it, wondering what Hannah needs in the next room.

But it’s not from Hannah. My screen says I have a text from … my mom.

Mymom? I scream and throw the phone down on my bed, watching as it bounces a couple of times before landing facedown.

I know it’s not from her, because even as hard as I’ve wished for that to be a thing, I know it’s not a thing.

Who could it be? Someone from my family, obviously. Only one of them would have access.

My dad, maybe? He might have been missing my mom and booted up her phone. But he doesn’t know her passcode—he could never remember it. It’s my grandma’s—my mom’s mom’s—birthday, which is why my dad can never remember. But also, my dad is terrible with all dates and numbers.Anytime he’d needed to open the phone when my mom was in the hospital, he’d have me or Chelsea do it, or call one of us for the passcode if we weren’t there. He said he didn’t need any more numbers in his head. Maybe he remembered? Or figured out how to bypass it? That doesn’t sound like him.

But it must be him. And that means … oh gosh, that means he’s read my thought dumps—the texts I’ve been sending to my mom. And he thinks I need mental help, which, let’s face it, I probably do.

He’s now texted me back to tell me we need to talk. He’ll probably never look at me the same. From now on, I’ll be the daughter that texted her dead mom’s phone. This is how he will always think of me.

I need to take a breath—take a moment. If I really think about it, nothing here points to my dad. He’s not very tech savvy, and he really is so terrible at remembering numbers. It’s possible that it’s not him.

Which means, even worse … it’s Devon. Or Chelsea. Oh, please don’t let it be Chelsea.Anyonebut her. I take it back. I hope it’s my dad.

I feel sick to my stomach as I reach for the phone. I need to know. I have so much damage control to do. So much explaining.

I pick up the phone, put in my passcode, and click on my texting app. The one that now has a little “1” in the corner, notifying me that I have a message.

I puff air out my mouth and click on my mom’s name, highlighted at the top.

Mom:Hey there. So, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I just recently changed my number, and this is the number they gave me.

What? I look down at my phone, and then up at my white farmhouse-style dresser across the room, and then down at my phone again. I quickly text back.

Maggie:This must be a mistake. This number belongs to my mom.

Itbelongedto my mom, I guess. But it’s still hers. My dad told me he kept the number. I asked him to keep it for a while, and he said he would. It’s only been three months since she passed. He didn’t cancel her line, did he? Surely this must be wrong.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Mom:I figured that, but I just got a new phone and a new number, and this is the number they assigned me.

I swallow, feeling confused. My brain suddenly feels like it’s waterlogged.

My phone vibrates again.

Mom:I’m really sorry about your mom, by the way.

I put a hand to my chest, my breaths coming in rapid succession. How can this be? This must be a mistake. How could this person have my mom’s number? And if my dad did, by some awful chance, cancel her account at some point, wouldn’t my texts start coming back to me as undeliverable? I’m so confused.

I pick up the phone and text back.

Maggie:I think there’s been some kind of mistake. This number shouldn’t have been given out.

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