One-Sided Calls: Stories Told in Silence and Speech

Hey. Yeah, it’s me. I know, it’s late. I’m sorry. I’m in the garage. Dad’s old workshop. You remember last week, when you called about finding that old stock certificate in your grandmother's desk? I keep thinking about that. Expecting some big, dramatic discovery here. But it’s just… dusty. Smells like sawdust and oil. No, nothing like that. Just boxes. So many boxes. He kept EVERYTHING. Old tax returns, appliance manuals from the seventies… a receipt for a lawnmower he bought in nineteen eighty-four.

It’s… a lot. I was about to give up, actually. And then I found this. Behind the workbench, tucked inside an old toolbox. A shoebox. No, not shoes. Cassette tapes. Like, dozens of them. Each one is labeled. Just a date. And a number. This one says… June 11th, 1992. Number one. I don’t know. I found his old Walkman, too. The yellow one. The one he always took to the beach. It still has batteries in it.

Hold on. It’s his voice. He’s… just talking. To himself, I think. He’s describing the day. What he had for breakfast. A problem he’s having with the car. It’s so… normal. It’s so HIM. Wait. Listen. Did you hear that? In the background. A baby. Crying. No, that can’t be right. June of ‘92? I was already seven. You were nine. We weren’t babies. And we were at school. He says… he says he’s in the workshop.

Alone. Let me fast forward. Okay, this is another one. From a week later. Number four. He sounds… tired. He’s talking about Mom. How she’s not sleeping. How he’s worried. Yeah, I remember that summer. She was sick a lot. Or… that’s what they told us. She stayed in their room most of the time. Wait. He just said… “The little one is quiet tonight. Finally. I don’t know how much longer we can do this.

She looks more like her every day.” What does that mean? What little one? I’m looking at the other tapes. The dates… they go on for almost a year. And then they just… stop. The last one is April, 1993. There’s nothing else in the box. Just the tapes. And… wait. There’s an envelope at the bottom. It’s sealed. It just says… “Forgive me.” It’s a birth certificate. It’s for a girl. Born June 2nd, 1992.

The mother’s name is listed as… Jane Miller. Our mom. The father’s name is left BLANK. I… I don’t understand. We don’t have a sister. Do we? Where did she go? No. Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. They wouldn’t have. They COULDN'T have. I’m sitting here, on his dusty stool, holding a piece of paper that changes everything. Everything I thought was true. All those times he was out here… “tinkering.” He was talking to himself.

Trying to make sense of it. And I never knew. We never knew. Yeah. Me too. I’ll… I’ll be here. Just… listening.