The Call
Miriam had finished lunch, washed the dishes, and settled down for a nap. Her husband, Philip, had gone to his friend’s cottage in the countryside to help mend a fence. He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening—Monday, his workday. Miriam had retired a year ago, while Philip still had two years left.
A sudden ringtone jolted her awake. It took her a groggy moment to realise it was the phone.
“Yes…?” she croaked, still half-asleep, not even glancing at the screen.
Who else would call her but their daughter or Philip? He hated phone calls, so it must be their daughter. She lived in another city with her husband and was expecting a baby soon.
“Miriam? Asleep, were you?” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” Miriam asked warily.
The line crackled with an exaggerated sigh.
“Don’t recognise me? How long’s it been?”
“Alice…? How did you get my number?” Miriam was surprised, though not exactly pleased.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mum a few years back—gave it to me.”
Miriam vaguely recalled her mother mentioning something like that.
“You’re in town?” She already knew the answer—why else would Alice call? “There were rumours you’d moved to America,” she added.
A laugh crackled down the line, abruptly cut short by a pained groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Miriam’s voice sharpened.
“In hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? Need to tell you something. And don’t bother bringing anything.”
“In hospital? Are you ill?” Miriam was fully awake now.
“Can’t talk much. I’ll text you the address.”
“But—” The line went dead.
A moment later, the hospital name flashed on her screen. “Oh God, Alice has cancer!” Miriam clutched the phone, rereading the message in shock.
She checked the clock—half past five. By the time she got there, visiting hours would be over. She hurried to the kitchen, pulling a chicken from the freezer for soup. Alice had said not to bring anything, but showing up empty-handed felt wrong. Homemade broth wasn’t just food—it was medicine. She set the chicken in the sink to thaw and sank into a chair. Their daughter was twenty-eight now—meaning it’d been just as long since she’d last seen Alice.
As she’d grown older, Miriam had learned to greet even good news with caution. The call had left her unsettled, and Philip wasn’t home to talk to. Maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the soup, visit Alice, and find out what was wrong. But for now, she couldn’t shake the unease.
Alice had been raised by her paternal grandmother since she was ten. Affection wasn’t part of that household, so she’d often stayed late at Miriam’s, doing homework together. The grandmother brewed moonshine, supplying the local drunkards, and naturally, Alice’s parents drank too. The wives of those men often threatened to burn down the makeshift still. Maybe someone had, or maybe—as the police believed—her father had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, Alice’s parents never made it out of the burning house. Her grandmother had vanished somewhere, and Alice, as usual, was at Miriam’s. They survived.
After the fire, the grandmother and Alice were given a room in a boarding house. No more moonshine brewing in the shared kitchen. The woman grew bitter, counting every penny and scolding Alice for every scrap of food. So Alice ate at Miriam’s.
The grandmother had despised Alice’s mother, calling her a witch, claiming she’d cursed her son into ruin. The free-flowing hooch in the house went unmentioned. Alice’s mother had been stunning—rare was the man who didn’t glance twice, no matter his age. Her father’s jealousy had been violent.
Alice grew up to look just like her—tall, slender, with a riot of ginger curls, dark eyes, and full lips. The freckles dusting her face only made her glow brighter.
Right after school, Alice ran off with some out-of-towner. “Hopeless, just like her mother,” the grandmother sighed.
Miriam’s mother never approved of the friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Alice disappeared, she’d been relieved. Always afraid she’d lead Miriam astray. What had bound them together? Miriam wasn’t sure herself, though life had never been dull with Alice around.
Miriam finished college, got a job, met Philip, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Alice only resurfaced in gossip.
When Philip was home in the evenings, Miriam was too embarrassed to ask for help. She juggled it all, collapsing from exhaustion.
Back then, all she craved was sleep. Nursing her daughter, she’d drift off mid-feed, jolting awake in terror that she’d dropped the baby or smothered her. The little one would sleep peacefully in her arms. Miriam would tuck her in, then pump milk, cook, scrub soaked nappies—fighting to keep her eyes open.
It was during this chaos that Alice reappeared, more striking than ever, just like her mother.
“Look at the state of you,” Alice said without greeting. “Always knew marriage and kids would ruin you. Never having any myself.”
“Never say never,” Miriam smirked.
Alice then confessed to too many abortions, leaving her unable to have children. But maternal instincts lingered. She gladly helped with the baby, taking her for walks while Miriam napped or cooked.
Soon after, Alice left the man she’d run off with—her first abortion had been his. Next came an older man who rented her a flat in central London, visiting twice a week.
“Living the high life,” Alice reminisced.
“Almost?” Miriam asked. She found Alice’s tales tedious but humoured her.
“Ancient and vile. Not that he was stingy—loads of cash, gold, fur coats.”
“What about his wife? Kids?”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Alice waved her off.
When he found out about her other men, he threw her out. There were others after, even a foreigner—hence the America rumours, though he’d been Norwegian.
“Enough about me. How’d you end up like this? A milk factory? You call this happiness? Not for me.”
Philip eyed Alice warily.
“Didn’t know you had friends like this,” he muttered after their first meeting.
“Quiet! She’ll hear,” Miriam cut in. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go—grandmother’s dead. She’s kind, just rough around the edges. You’ve no idea how much she helps with Annie.”
Then Annie spiked a fever that wouldn’t break. On the third day, an ambulance took her to hospital. Miriam chased after them in her dressing gown and slippers.
Philip froze, but Alice brought fresh clothes, toiletries, shampoo… A week later, they were discharged. Miriam returned to a spotless flat, soup in the fridge, meatballs in a container.
“Did you cook this? Mop the floors?” she asked, stunned.
“Alice did,” Philip mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
“And you called her a slag. Where is she?”
“Gone. Why d’you care? How’s Annie?”
That night, Miriam curled into Philip, missing his touch. Her milk had dried up from stress. Now, at least, her breasts didn’t ache like before.
But Philip muttered something indistinct and turned away. The same the next night.
“Philip, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted, but I never refused you,” she said, hurt.
He fumbled excuses. With time, things smoothed over. Miriam slimmed down, no longer force-feeding for milk supply.
Annie grew up, married. She and Philip lived quietly, peacefully—unlike their younger years.
And now, this call…
Miriam couldn’t picture Alice facing death. A mistake, surely. She spent the night tossing, memories swirling. Exhausted, she rose at dawn to make soup.
She couldn’t wait for visiting hours, pouring the broth into a thermos and heading to the hospital. She’d bribe the guard if needed.
The narrow ward held two beds. One held a gaunt figure in a headscarf—from a distance, an old woman.
Miriam almost asked if she had the wrong room, then the woman opened her eyes. It was Alice, barely recognisable. Sunken cheeks, skin stretched thin, freckles faded. Her once-vibrant curls were gone, her hands frail as twigs. Those dark eyes, once full of fire, were dim.
Miriam’s shock must’ve shown.
“Don’t recognise me,” Alice rasped.
Miriam forced a smile, stepping closer.
“What’s happened to you?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Alice nodded to the bed’s edge.
Miriam perched, remembering the thermos, fumbling to unpack it.
“Put it away. Won’”She placed the thermos on the nightstand, stood silently for a moment, then turned and walked away without looking back.”
