Calling Home11 PM on a Monday night finds me perched on the edge of the kitchen sink, legs dangling like they did when I was a child. Mom had always scolded me when I clambered onto her spotless counters. Mine are drowning in chipped dishes and half-empty cans.Calling Home1 day ago in Short Stories
As I scoot sideways off the hard corner of the countertop, my jeans dig sullenly into my hips. They never used to be this tight. The crushing fabric makes it difficult to extract my cellphone from my back pocket, but I ignore the protesting creaks of the cabinets beneath me and do it anyway.
Turning the phone over in my hands, I examine the tiny scratches in its hot pink plastic as if they’ll give me all the answers. Maybe they’ll spell out some kind of divine message--as if I need one. Any message from heaven would just be telling me what I already know.
Slowly, I dial the number. Turn the screen off. Abruptly set the phone down like it burns my fingers.
The dark screen stares blankly up at me from the countertop. In its smudgy