The Sound of Their Voice

Maria was making her famous meatballs when her landline started ringing. It was her daughter, Hope. “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Hope said, “but I was in a car accident. I only had two drinks, I swear, but I hit someone, and they might be dead. The police said I needed $25,000 to make bail. Please, Mom, help me.”

Maria dropped a raw meatball on the floor.

“Are you there?” Hope said. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m here,” Maria said. She dried her eyes with the bottom of her apron. “Sorry…I just never expected this. It’s uncanny, really. You sound just like Hope.”

“What?” Hope said. “Mom, it is me! I am Hope. Please, I need you to send me the money. I can’t go to jail!”

Maria closed her eyes. She pictured her sixteen-year-old’s dark brown hair. Her pale blue eyes. The slight lisp she found embarrassing, but nobody noticed. Maria put down the phone. She took a breath and picked it back up. “You’re not my daughter,” she said calmly. “You are not my daughter.”

“Yes, I—"

“No, you’re not,” Maria said. “Because if you were my daughter, then I would have loved to get a call from you telling me you killed someone.”

Crackle, pop.

Maria twirled the cord around her finger and smiled a little by mistake. “It’s a much better call to get,” she said, “than the one I got two years ago. The police said Hope was killed by a real drunk driver.”

“Oh shit,” said a man’s voice. “I didn’t kn—”

“It’s fine,” Maria said, moving the phone to her shoulder. “But whoever you are, whatever terrible technology you’re using to scam me, I’d like to give you some advice if you don’t mind.”

She rolled her last meatball and stuck the tray in the oven.

The man didn’t make a sound.

“Hang up the phone,” she said, grabbing two porcelain plates and two sets of silverware. “Call someone you love. Tell them you love them. Tell them you will always love them. No matter what they’ve done wrong.” Maria went to the dining room. She placed a fork, knife, and plate on the table, in front of the seat where Hope used to sit. “Because one day your phone will ring,” Maria set a thirty-minute timer and took a seat, “And that’ll be the last time you hear the sound of their voice.”