Page 36 of The Perfect Son
“I’ve just explained it all to one of your colleagues.” I sigh, wishing I didn’t sound so whiny and desperate. “I’m getting hang-up calls and I want them to stop. I think it’s a call center or one of those recorded messages. I want to know if there’s a way to block them, please? And also, there was a call made to the house at one this morning and I’d like the number.” My heart flutters in my chest. Do I want the number of the man who makes my insides twist every time I think of his voice? No.
“Well,” Paul says. “I can see from our computers that your husband is the account holder. I’m very sorry, but you’re not listed as a named person on the account, so I’m unable to give out any information regarding your account. If you can ask your husband to give us a call and tell us it’s fine for us to speak to you—”
“I can’t do that.” Oh God, I’m going to cry again. I can feel the tears and hear the rupture of emotion tugging at my voice.
“I’m afraid without—”
“He died,” I sob, feeling pathetic and stupid for crying down the phone to some kid, some stranger, who doesn’t care about me and my problems.
“I... I’m very sorry,” he stammers in my ear.
There’s a long pause and I picture the teenager scrambling for his script and finding the page about the death of an account holder. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for myself.
“So in that case, Mrs. Clarke, what we’ll need you to do is send a copy of your husband’s death certificate to an address I can give you, and once we’ve received it we’ll be able to transfer the account into your name.”
“Please,” I say. “I just want the calls to stop.”
Another pause.
“What I can tell you, Mrs. Clarke, is that we have a nuisance call system for all of our customers. If any call comes in from, for example, a double glazing company and you don’t want them to call anymore, you hang up and dial 1572 and that company will go on a list of people who can’t call you anymore.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “That’s all I wanted.”
“Except...” he says, lowering his voice, “it won’t work if the caller has a blocked number.” The way he speaks, his tone, the slowness of his words, I know he’s trying to tell me something. The calls I’m getting are blocked. The code won’t make a difference. Damn.
“Mrs. Clarke?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a pen and paper there? I’ll give you the address to send the certificate to. Once we’ve put the account in your name I would suggest you call back. It may be that you decide to change your phone number.”
“Right, yes, hang on.” I dash out of the dining room and into the kitchen and grab the first thing I see—the notebook from Shelley. I’ll change the number. That’s what I’ll do.
After the call I move through the downstairs, the notebook openin my hands, slippers scraping and slapping on the floors. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something to do probably. It’s ten a.m. The day is stretching out ahead of me. Five hours of nothing until Jamie comes home.
The antidepressants must be working, because I don’t want to lose myself in the fog today. There are so many boxes still to unpack. You were supposed to help me sort through your mum’s stuff. You were supposed to hire a dumpster.“It’ll all be done by Christmas,”you told me back in October when we moved. But it wasn’t. You kept putting it off and now it’s just me and the job is too big.
I guess I should speak to Ian. I’m sure he looked through the house soon after your mum died, but I can’t just throw it all away without checking. What do I want with old ornaments and photo albums of your uncles and aunts and people I’ve never met?
I drop into a chair in the kitchen and sigh. The notebook is open on the table and I stare at the address from the phone company again. Your death certificate is stuffed in the drawer in the kitchen, buried amidst the take-out menus and the old phone chargers we’ll never need. I can take a walk to the post office and get a copy to send off today, get some fresh air too.
My eyes fall to the window and I watch the rain rolling down the glass. Or tomorrow. I can do it tomorrow after I’ve dropped Jamie at school. My gaze moves to the draining board where our breakfast bowls from this morning are sitting, turned up and clean.
Panic shoots like bullets through my body. I don’t remember washing them up this morning. Are they even from this morning? Or are they yesterday’s? It has to be this morning. I wouldn’t have sent Jamie off to school without any breakfast.
How can I not remember, Mark?
The blue cardboard box from the doctor’s is sitting on the windowledge and I reach out to grab it. I can’t remember if I’ve taken my tablet this morning. I usually do it first thing with my breakfast, but I don’t remember breakfast.
My hands shake as I pop out a tablet and wash it back with a gulp of water.
It’s tiredness, that’s all. You’ve always been forgetful, Tessie. Remember when Jamie was four weeks old and you hadn’t slept for days? You drove to the supermarket and forgot where you parked the car?
That was awful. It took an hour to find my car, and that was with the help of two shop assistants. I’d forgotten the car park had been full and I’d parked on the street nearby instead.
You’re right. It’s tiredness.
I flip to the back page of the notebook and draw a grid. The lines are wobbly but it will do. I write the days of the week down the side and put a tick in the box next to Thursday. I’ll put a tick each day when I take a tablet; that way I can check back if I forget.
