A story about TV shows, sisters, and death.
Author’s note: if you don’t like making up your own ending, then don’t read this.
I thought the world was going to end in April.
Didn’t we all?
When school shut down because of the virus, Emmalie thought she’d be back in two weeks. Two weeks became a month. A month became two months. Two months became the rest of the school year. But I could tell Emmalie’s hopes wouldn’t die. That didn’t stop me from worrying.
When Dad had to go to the hospital, Mom told us not to worry. She always does that, because she knows I always worry. It doesn’t help, but I think she knows that too.
When Dad had to go, Mom told us we’d be alright.
Emmalie’s hopes had died with him. I sometimes caught Mom crying herself to sleep, but I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t tell her not to worry because I know it doesn’t help.
We got over it. At least, that’s what everyone thought.
When the world opened up again, we were expected to do the same. We were expected to get back to normal, to try to pretend nothing ever happened.
We tried.
Out of the two of us, Emmalie was the confident one. She was optimistic, outspoken, openminded. She didn’t need Mom to tell her not to worry. Me, I was the shy one. Observant, obedient, occupied. I would always be deep in thought, seemingly unapproachable - according to Emmalie.
But afterwards, we became the same. Mom, too. People treated us carefully and gently, like we might go up in flames any second. We became the only safe space for each other because no one else knew what we were feeling. They thought they would have to handle a ‘grieving’ family the same way one might handle a delicate vase. What they didn’t realize was we already cracked and what we really needed was for someone to glue us back together.
It took a couple years. Eventually, Emmalie got a job because that’s what all sophomores did. She wasn’t normal yet, but she told me it was ‘refreshing’. Most of the customers didn’t know who we were, so I guess that was the only time she could try being who she was before, if that made sense.
Eventually, I was getting good grades again. I was never good at the social aspect of school, so I focused on doing what I could, which was how I got ‘smart kid’ reputation. I wasn’t a fan of it, but I never stopped it. It is what it is I guess.
Nowadays, our together time is spent watching shows. They’re all dumb and make us half-heartedly laugh, but it’s too hard to do anything else. It’s too hard being how we used to be.
We’ve watched shows before with characters who die. More than half the time, the people who loved them hear their voices or some other nonsensical fantasy like that. Then they magically get over it in a week - for the purpose of moving the plot, I think. I don’t understand it.
I’m walking to the pizzeria, where Emmalie’s working. Mom said we’d all meet there because I’m old enough and she didn’t have time to pick me up. It’s in a darker, grimier side of the town, with stained brick buildings covered in ivy and lofty street lamps teasing me as I walk, alone in the night.
There’s a pay-phone attached to the wall of one of the buildings.
I smile. When Dad and Aunt Bailey were children, they would run around town finding pay-phones, reaching into the coin-return part and collect leftover change. That’s how they met Mom - she had come back realizing she forgot to collect her quarter, and had to chase dad to get it back.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The noise jump-scares me. I didn’t know payphones could receive calls. There’s no one else around, and while I get goosebumps from the fear creeping up on me - one could say I may have watched too many thrillers - the loud noise echoing through the empty street was already giving me a headache.
I make my way over to the booth, carefully checking the surroundings every seven seconds. It was Dad’s favorite number.
“Hello?” My voice is small. Emmalie says that years of not using it corroded it until it was barely there.
“Gail?” the voce on the other side of the line asks.
I stifle a gasp. This has to be a prank call. Maybe it’s some sort of secret code meant for someone else. I frantically looked around, trying to spot anyone, anyone else. Maybe Mom and Emmalie are playing a cruel joke on me. Maybe I’m having a dream. Pinching myself, I wince at the pain. Not a dream.
“Gail. Abigail. It’s me.”
It could not be. It was scientifically impossible.
Because there was only one person in the world who called me that.
-Gazala Shah