On Call

On Call                                  696 words

         It's expensive to use the LinkArray communication phones but I feel it's worth the price. Some don't. Too much money to contact people too far away, they say. Not that we can tell where they are.

         I save my wages each month at my boring job then come down to the Array and call my mother for ten minutes. The pictures on the Array doors show a stylised sun shining over clouds but I guess it's not really like that. I hope so but I don't know; we're not allowed to ask those details. After I sign the forms containing the regulations on 'topics of discussion' and 'disclosure and privacy' I call mother.

         "Hello, Mum?"

         "Hello William, it's so good to hear from you. Right on time. How are you? Eating okay? How's work?" She was struggling to be cheerful. I could hear tears being restrained.

         "I'm fine, Mum. Everything's okay here. How's work?"

         "Fine. I miss you."

         I bite my lip. As usual, after just a minute I also feel like crying. "Miss you, too. How do you feel?"

         "Fine."

         We're silent for a while. There's never really anything to say. Nothing we're permitted to talk about, anyway. The prohibited topics, oh sure we'd love to ask but if detected our line would be cut and privileges withheld. Regular users know the score. I call Mum so she knows I still care. I tell her things are fine here but, really, life just goes on, doesn't it? Muggings, murder, rape, war, terrorism, disease, famine... but, hey, things are 'fine', Mum. Wish you were here.

         "So how's things, Mum?"

         "Good. It's all fine, I guess..."

         I change the subject before she considers our circumstances too deeply. Although we can't mention such things I know they prey on her mind like they do on mine.

         "I might get a cat, Mum. Or a budgie."

         "That's nice, dear. How's work?"

         "Okay." No, it's mundane, grey, monotonous, worthless... "It's going well, Mum."

         Our conversations are always the same. Nothing's said but just knowing we care about each other is what matters. So I'm surprised when Mum changes the topic; takes it in a direction close to prohibited.

         "Will, these phones - I don't think they're a good thing."

         "Mum?"

         "Sorry, Will. I've been thinking lately that maybe there's reasons for us to not contact each other."

         "No, Mum. The technology is great..."

         "But maybe the dead should just stay dead."

         The line hasn't cut out but, like me, she knows we mustn't discuss this.
"Mum... Should I call back another day?" I don't know how I'll afford it. She sounds so apprehensive. I can't leave her like this.

         "No, Will. I love you, baby. But maybe... maybe this is wrong."

         "It's just technology. There no right or wrong. Only people have that option. Right, wrong, good, bad... you don't get 'bad' microwave ovens, do you?"

         She ignores my joke. "What if having these phones are just... it's... Will, what if this is the icing on the cake? I mean, Hell..." still the phones were connected. "What if this is part of the punishment? Life is dirty and ugly enough so how can Hell compete and truly be worse? What about coming up with these phones so that you can call your lost loved ones and keep on grieving the loss over and over? What if this is part of Hell's punishment - prolonging the sadness and offering a false hope of reunion?"

         I can't let myself believe this. "No, it isn't true."

         "Just tell me these calls make you feel better, Will. I love to hear from you but afterwards it's so very, very hard. Is it the same for you?"

         "No." I lie. Can she tell? I don't want her to thinking about where she is and falling into despair. I want her to be happy and not dwelling on the awful place she lives. That's why I call her. I want her to have hope. "Please stop talking about this, Mum. They'll cut the call."

         "But Will," her voice was urgent, upset, on the verge of tears, "Since you died..."

         "Since... since what? Me...?"

         The phone line went dead...













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