“Give me your damn phone number,” Erik said before they hung up. “Whatever else happens, I am never not going to have your phone number. Ever again.”
“Will you use it?” she asked.
“I will call you tomorrow,” he said. “What time will you be back home?”
“By five. Four o’clock your time.”
“I will call you tomorrow, four my time.”
A pause. “Would you be offended if I didn’t hold my breath?”
Erik managed to putter Friday away in a mix of nervous activity and nervous clock-watching. He dialed her number on the meticulous dot of four.
She answered after two rings. “Crisis Hotline.”
“This is me always having your phone number,” he said. “How does it sound?”
She hung up.
Erik blinked at the dead receiver in his hand until it rang back a few seconds later. “Well-played, Marge,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, laughing. “I couldn’t resist.”
“It’s all right. I had it coming.”
They compared calendars and Erik proposed flying out on Wednesday, the fourteenth of December. “Or we can throw another day at it and I came come out the fifteenth. Your birthday.”
A pause shimmered between them, glazed with just a hint of discomfort. Her birthday was shrouded in such sexual connotations. Erik grimaced, hoping he hadn’t sent the wrong message.
“Come Wednesday,” she said. “And if we’re alive for my birthday I’ll make a cake. Or a cyanide soufflé or something.”
Avoiding any more assumptions or awkward sleeping arrangements, he asked her for the name of a hotel. “Should I rent a car?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have a few rehearsals scheduled so you should be free to come and go.”
“I’ll fly in, drive myself to my hotel and you’ll meet me there?”
“Yes. The lobby of a hotel is a good place to meet, don’t you think?”
“No crying in the lobby.”
“Throwing up is allowed.”
Logistics settled, they talked about their days for twenty minutes, then said goodnight.
The next night’s conversation lasted two hours. He told her about his marriage. He kept it short, didn’t talk about the infertility. Just a simple story. Daisy was quiet, almost ominously silent, neither asking questions nor interjecting.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, her voice airless and tight. “You’re going to have to tell me the whole story again when you get here. Frankly, I stopped listening after ‘I got married…’” She gave a nervous laugh, which dissolved into a jagged-edged sigh.
He felt his heart contract. “Dais…”
“I’m sorry.” She was still trying to laugh it off. “I don’t know why I’m... Just give me a minute.”
“I was a lousy husband at the end,” he said, feeling a strange blend of guilt and apprehension.
“But you were her husband,” Daisy whispered. And then she was crying. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he whispered.
“Let me call you back.”
“No,” he said. “Stay. Cry all you want. Please just stay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Take your time.” He let her be, let her ride it out.
“You know, any time you want to get sloppy, feel free.” She sniffed with another shuddering sigh. “I can’t be having all the fun.”
“Wait until I get to Canada. I’ll need a separate suitcase for my emotional shit. It’s going to be embarrassing, trust me.”
She put the phone down to splash cold water on her face. When she came back, he said, “I can’t believe you’re not married.”
“Well,” she said. “I came close.”
“To Opie? I mean John. Sorry.”
“Oh, God, he hated that name and no one could stop using it. No, it wasn’t him. Someone else. And I’ll tell you about it another time.”
“Will you tell me about when you were cutting yourself? Not right now. When I see you. It should be a face-to-face conversation but I wanted you to know I knew.”
“I’ll tell you about it.”