Hanging Up

“I need change,” I shouted as I thumbed through the book for Maddy’s number.

“Shut up,” I heard someone yell groggily.

“Eve’s father took an overdose,” said Zoe, running to her room.

“You’re kidding?”

“Eve’s father took an overdose.” I heard it repeated over and over, punctuated by yawns, as Zoe tore back, holding out a jar filled with nickels, dimes, and quarters.

I fumbled with the coins as I stuffed them in, misdialed, and tried too quickly to start over. I banged on the receiver to get a dial tone.

“Let me dial.” Zoe pressed down on the receiver, held it awhile, then released it and inserted several quarters. “What’s the number?”

The entire floor was out of bed and gathered around the booth. I noticed that Joanne, the engaged person, was now sleeping with toilet paper around her head. While Zoe dialed for me, I wondered whether Joanne would sleep that way after she got married.

Zoe handed me the receiver. I heard ringing. An angry male voice answered: “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to wake you—” I stopped. I could barely speak. “This is Maddy’s sister, Madeline Mozell’s sister Eve. Get her, hurry up, please, it’s an emergency.”

While I waited what seemed like five minutes, but was probably only two, several girls got bored and went back to bed.

Finally Maddy picked up. “What’s wrong?”

“Dad took an overdose of something, I don’t know what. You’ll have to call the police and get over to the house.”

“Me?”

“You’re the only one out there, for God’s sake.”

“But suppose he’s dead. Suppose I find him plopped on the carpet. Or like, he could be in the bathtub.” She started gasping, hyperventilating.

“Maddy, you have to.”

“I won’t go.” She screamed this really loud, and kept on screaming. Probably everyone in the hall could hear.

“What’s going on? Is that her father?” asked Joanne.

I yelled into the receiver, “Isaac, Isaac, are you there?”

“’Lo.”

“Isaac?”

“This isn’t Isaac, it’s Presto. If Maddy wanted to be with Isaac, she could, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to be with me.”

“Presto, please slap my sister, she’s hysterical.” I heard a slap. “Thank you. Would you please put her back on?”

She was crying tamely now, making sad little hiccuping sounds, as if she’d scraped her knee in the playground and the teacher had finally quieted her.

“Madeline, you have to do this.”

“Why? It’s not my fault.”

“It’s not mine either.” Now I was crying too, heading her off at the pass. “Maddy, someone has to take care of this, so just do it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” We were sniffling in unison. I hung up.

“Are you all right?” Zoe asked.

“Yes.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “I don’t think I can study anymore,” I said as Zoe trailed me to my room. “I think I have to”—I made a face at her, trying to smile—“go to bed.” I closed my door.

That was my father’s first hospitalization, and my sisters and I were a great team. After I got the crazy call, Maddy checked him in, and Georgia did the follow-up. “Not enough to kill him. Big surprise,” she reported.

“I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I probably flunked my final,” I told Georgia, knowing I hadn’t. I was too much of a trouper to flunk. I was one of the supercompetent Mozell sisters. I could abort my father’s suicide and pass a final exam the next day. “Look at you. You’re fine,” my mother had pointed out. Was she right, or was I proving her right, living up to her expectations even now, especially now, when I could never get her seal of approval?

Four (#uf27aafa2-544c-5332-9ecd-2087dd168095)

At six a.m., the phone rings. “He’s dead,” I say to Joe, and grab the receiver. “Hello.”

“Is this the beautiful, wonderful daughter of Lou Mozell?”

“Hi, Dad. Are you all right?”

“Why’d you lock me in the pen? ’Cause of Jesse?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Go to hell.” He hangs up.

I feel dizzy from the jolt—first to the body, then to the brain. Joe puts out his arm for me to snuggle into. I shake my head.

“He’s been in that geriatric/psychiatric ward a week and he’s definitely not better. I wish they would slap some handcuffs on him. At least then he couldn’t phone.”

“How about a straitjacket?” suggests Joe.

“Right.” I throw off the covers and get up. I jerk open the closet and look for my robe.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Joe pats the bedside table, hunting around for his glasses. He puts them on and watches me from the bed.

I go into the bathroom. Why am I in here? “What am I looking for?” I yell to Joe.

“Your bathrobe.”

“Right.” I take it off the hook and go back into the bedroom. “I hope this memory thing my father has isn’t catching.”

The phone rings again. Joe reaches for it, but I get there first. “It’s my father,” I say nobly.