Chapter Text
Carla hadn't heard from her daughter in what felt like a decade. When the phone rang, she somehow knew, just knew that it was her little girl. Who else would call on a Sunday, at this hour, during the season finale of Murder, She Wrote? As the telephone blared its strident alarm, Carla jumped to her feet, tripped, and almost fell. Limping, she hurried to the small on which the new-fangled shoe-shaped phone stood.
This had, of course, been her daughter’s gift – the last Carla had heard from her.
She picked up the receiver and pressed the darned thing to her ear. “Hello?” Her heart was thumping. Her mouth was cottony. She didn’t much believe in any of that Church stuff, but still, she sent up a quick, silent prayer. Like the ancient Romans, she thought that it couldn’t hurt to honour other people’s gods, no matter what one’s own beliefs were.
At first, there was no reply, just this strange crackle in the line.
Then, there was breathing.
Carla closed her eyes and gripped the receiver tightly, to the point of pain. “Honey? Is that you?” No reply came – apart from that tremulous, ragged breathing and the crackling in the line. “Please, if it’s you, then say something. Please.” Again, nothing. Carla’s stomach roiled. Pain shot through her head. “I don’t care about what happened, you hear me? I don’t. No-one’s mad at you. It’s been so long. I’m not mad at you, sweetie. Please just come home.” In a quiet, defeated voice, she added, “I can’t do this anymore.”
More silence followed, more breathing, more crackling.
When Carla realised that the person on the other line was trying and failing to not weep, her skin broke out in gooseflesh. She felt cold – chilled to the bone. “Honey?” It was her. It had to be her.
“Mom?” It was almost inaudible, but it was definitely Honey.
Her knees weak and her legs rubbery, Carla dropped herself into the wooden chair by the telephone table. God help her, Honey sounded afraid. “Come home. Please, I-”
“I see it now.” The voice was barely above a whisper. “I see it.”
Beads of cold sweat were blooming on Carla’s forehead. She was so, so cold. “See what, sweetie?”
“Mom, I see it now. I can’t run anymore.” She sniffled, and it sounded so desolate that it broke Carla’s heart. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry…sorry for what I’ve done, sorry-”
There was a knot in Carla’s throat. Her breath hitched. It all just came rushing back like a black flood: all the memories, the guilt, the regret, the sorrow. She pressed her lips together, tried to stay calm, didn’t quite manage. Oh, her little girl! A sharp, clear memory came back: both of them by the lake, Honey picking up pebbles with her pudgy baby hands, throwing them into the shallow water, laughing. It was all too much. “Baby, I don’t care anymore. Just come home.”
“Can you forgive me?” Another crackle-filled little silence ensued. “Mom? Please tell me if you can forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you!” There was no question about it. Many times, Carla had asked herself this, unable to come to a definitive conclusion, but now she knew. She knew. “Honey, I-”
“Thank you, Mom.” Honey was no longer weeping. Her voice was clearer. She sounded relieved, almost happy. “Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you, too – so much. Baby, can you tell me where-”
“I love you, Mom. Thank you. Thank you so much for forgiving me. It means so much to me…so, so much.”
This…what was this? She…oh, no. A year of no contact, then this? What…no. Honey couldn’t be thinking of…no. No! Carla’s stomach churned worse than ever. If only she could still protect her baby! It had been so much easier when Honey had still been a child. Now, Honey was a grown woman, and Carla was so damn helpless.
There was no protecting one’s children from themselves once they grew up.
“Honey…”
“Thank you for helping me. You were always there for me. You always loved me, no matter how badly I screwed up – always.”
“Honey, you-”
“Mom!” She said it with such force, the words got stuck in Carla’s throat. “If you listen closely, you’ll hear the chimes. You’ll hear them. I used to think they were scary, but they’re not. I’m ready now. I’m not afraid anymore.”
“Sweetie, I don’t understand what-”
“I’m not afraid anymore, Mom. I just needed to know if you’ve forgiven me.”
Panic gripped Carla’s innards like iron hooks. “You need to come home. You need-”
“I love you, Mom. Goodbye.”
The connection was cut. The dial tone shrieked its cacophony into Carla’s ear.
Carla dropped the receiver on the carpet, slapped her hands to her face, and burst into tears.