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Before: The Call


Ashley

Nick didn't call me.

Those first hours after I got home from Las Vegas - via bus because that was the fastest way back to LA that I could afford - I waited and I prayed and I hoped. I sat beside the phone like a sentinel, begging him with every ounce of my body to prove me wrong and call.

I imagined the entire conversation. I pictured him saying something like I'm calling about a follow-up or something. I don't know. Whatever it was would be terribly witty and I'd laugh and he'd laugh back and he'd come by and never go away again. I imagined our entire future together as I sat there, staring at the phone, waiting... and, later, when I got bored of sitting, staring, waiting, I carried it in my back pocket, listening, waiting, and doing things to keep my mind busy.

I listened for the phone as I unpacked my suitcase, folded my clothes and hung the dress I'd worn home in the closet in the garment bag it had come in. I listened for it as I made dinner and set my table for one and popped the lid off a beer. I listened for it as I sat in front of my TV, watching sappy chick flicks that made me cry for hours on end - The Notebook, Pretty Woman, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Pretty in Pink. You know. The classics. I listened for it as I did the dishes, cleaned out my fridge, reorganized the cabinet, and scrubbed the inside of the microwave clean. I listened as I ate an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

But the phone never rang.

On Wednesday night, the 30th, I was laying on my couch and I had a strange feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on. I had been watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother on TV when I muted the sound and sat up on the couch, trying to figure out what the itching feeling inside me was. I hesitated, then reached for my cell phone, half expecting it to ring. But nothing happened. I glanced at the clock - it was almost ten-thirty.

I turned off the TV set and stood up, hugging my blanket around my shoulders. The phone sat there silently on the coffee table. I gnawed my lip.

Then I remembered that the next day was the one-year anniversary of Leslie Carter's death. I wondered if Nick was okay, and for a split moment I almost picked up the phone and dialed his number, forgetting for just a second about everything that had happened. I caught myself in the motion of reaching for the phone and hesitated.

But what if he needs you? I asked myself. But then, No, I thought. He has to call you first. If he needs you, he will call you.

I forced myself to put the phone down.

I went to bed a couple hours later. It took me a long time to fall asleep, fighting that itching inside of me, that urge to call him. And even as I finally did drift off, I was still listening, waiting.

A small part of me will always wonder what would've happened if I had called. If things would have turned out differently that night. If things would've turned out differently in my entire life.




Nick

I had a late night flight to Buffalo for the memorial ceremony for Leslie.

I took my time getting ready, hoping that maybe I could get the balls to call Dogface and ask her to come with me. I couldn't imagine making it through the next 24-hours without her. I'd done nothing but think about her since Las Vegas. I felt like a tool, and I didn't know how to tell her so. I didn't know what to tell her at all, about any of it. I was afraid she'd ask me what the sex had meant to me and I'd gurgle out some stupid, half-thought answer, or worse, a joke of some sort. I didn't know what the sex had meant, I didn't know what the feelings I was having were.

I only knew that what I'd done had been incredibly, unbelievably stupid.

I couldn't blame her if she never spoke to me again, ever, for the rest of either of our lives. I had no idea how she could ever forgive me for what I'd done.

Ever.

But it was tempting to call just to hear her voice, no matter how angry she might be with me. I almost gave in around ten-thirty, when this explosive amount of bravery took over me. I got halfway through dialing her number before I stopped and hung up and chucked the phone into the couch cushion in frustration. Why the hell was this so hard? I'd called Dogface a thousand times.

Because this time you've hurt her and you know it, a voice inside my head whispered.

I paced, cracking my knuckles, frustrated. I grabbed the phone again, fully intending to call Dogface but instead, I called Chris and asked him to watch the dogs for me. "I gotta thing," I told him. "I'll leave the key in the usual hiding spot."

"Okay," Chris agreed.

"And hey, if Ashley calls let me know?" I requested.

"Course," Chris said.

"Thanks. I have some stuff I need to talk to her about."

"Got'cha," Chris answered.

I packed my suitcase with a heavy feeling in my stomach. The prospect of going to a memorial service of any kind sounded tedious and heart breaking and I felt like I'd been through enough heart break for a hundred lifetimes. I didn't need anymore. If I didn't feel obligated to go, I wouldn't have. I mulled around the house until I finally couldn't wait any longer to leave before ending up missing the flight.

I headed out to the car. The city lights were cool against the dark sky overhead. It was nearly one in the morning by the time I got to LAX and printed off my boarding pass. I clutched my ticket as I walked to the security check point and took off my shoes and checked in. At my terminal, I tried to ignore this old couple who were holding hands and kissing softly by the window. I tried to ignore the two little kids - a boy and a girl - who were playing with plastic airplanes, making them take off and land smoothly on the chairs of the waiting area.

We boarded the plane.
I buckled my belt.

The pilot announced we were ready for take off.

The girl next to me was from Iran, she said. She had a shroud around her head. A maroon shroud.

Somewhere on board, a baby let out a cry.

Two businessmen were tucking away their iPads for take off.

A woman was nervously clutching her husband's hand.

The girl next to me, the Iranian, said, "I am nervous to fly," her accent was thick.

The plane began its taxiing on the tarmac. It rolled and thumped along until it had positioned itself perfectly for the launch.

The plane's velocity climbed as it moved forward down the runway.

"I hate this part," I told the Iranian girl.

She nodded in agreement.

The plane hit the speed it needed to lift off, and the pilot lifted it nicely off the ground. A moment of gravity suspended took over, and then we were climbing through the air, up.. up.. up.. toward the clouds overhead.

And suddenly there was a lurch, like turbulence.

I clutched the arm rest.

The plane shuddered again.

A tugging, heavy feeling that I cannot describe accurately rushed through my body. I'm assuming it rushed through everyone else's body, too. The Iranian girl grabbed my hand and squeezed, and a general murmur of whooaaa went through the cabin. The baby that had been crying before was now downright shrieking.

And there was this breathless instant that lasted probably less than a couple seconds but felt like a lifetime in which the plane seemed to hover weightlessly and the angle turned from straight upward...to downward...in a smooth, graceful arch. In my mind, I pictured the graceful turning of an Olympic diver.

And then it plummeted.

The Iranian girl crushed my fingers in her hand. Literally. That's how tight she squeezed.

People screamed.

Bags fell out of the cargo holds.

Warning sounds and alarms went off, the lights dimmed, oxygen masks fell from the ceiling, waving so violently as the plane shuddered it's way down that nobody seemed able to catch hold of them. My hand hurt so bad I saw stars.

There was a ripping sound and I looked out my window and saw the wing of the plane detach itself.

The city lights were visible out there, too. I stared at them as my mind wrapped itself around what was happening. This plane is crashing, I thought, And we're all going to die. I'm going to die on the same day as my sister... and somewhere out there, I thought, Ashley is waiting for me to call her. And I wasted my chance. I wasted my chance to call her and to tell her I'm sorry and to tell her -- to tell her --

And to tell her that I fucking love her.

That's what my problem is. I love her. I love Ashley.

It was the reason I couldn't take that the sex had meant nothing to her was because I loved her and it meant something to me, God damnit.

Maybe that was the reason that I had never given a shit about the follow up because I'd already found her.

Maybe that was why I could never find anyone that was right for me, why I bounced from girl to girl to girl to girl because none of them were ever, ever as perfect for me as she was.

I wanted the follow up.

I wanted to be with her forever.

I wanted to have babies with her and grow old with her and die with her.

I love Ashley.

I struggled to get my cell phone out of my pocket with my free hand. I had to tell her before I died.

I dialed her number and was about to hit send when the plane hit the ground.

The metal crunched loudly and I felt myself snap against the seat buckle. I smashed against the window, a suitcase flew by. The grip on my hand relaxed.

I was shaking, suspended by my seat buckle against the chair, my face pressed to the window. I could taste blood in my mouth. Breathing was really hard, the belt crossed my windpipe and was tight across my chest. Every muscle in my body ached. With a trembling hand, I tapped send, and I brought the cellphone to my ear.

This is gonna be the last thing I do before I die, I thought to myself. I'm going to hear her voice.

The phone rang. Her ring back tone was Free Falling.

She's a good girl...

Please pick up Ashley... you need to know...

She loves her momma...

Please.

"I was literally just thinking of you."

It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful, magical, musical sound I'd heard in my entire life. My eyes filled with tears because I'd never see her again and I felt like I was gonna throw up. I struggled to get the words to my mouth to tell her what I needed to tell her. Things were going black around me, like an old Polaroid photo beginning to fade from the edges.

"Ash..ley.." I struggled.

"Nick?" her voice pitched with concern.

I tried to say her name again, but all I could get out was the shhh part. My nerves were trembling, I could hear my heart beat in my head, throbbing. Could feel myself seizing up. Jesus, I really was going to die.

"Nick?" Her voice sounded so far away. I could feel the distance and I hated it. I hated every mile between her and I.

"Hi," I choked.

"Hey," she said. "You okay? It's like three in the morning."

I couldn't wait any longer. If I didn't say it right now, if I didn't get it out of my mouth, I wasn't ever going to. I couldn't see. Everything had faded away. My breaths were short, far apart, and the pain in my body was further away than she was. It was almost like she was right there...

"I love you," I said.

I closed my eyes.

There was a brilliant flash of light, so bright I could see it right through my eyelids. The phone slipped from my hand, fell, clattering down through the seats ahead of me. I opened my eyes, and outside the plane was a funny... flashing... glowing sort of light that shimmered and shook and trembled...

Fire? I wondered.

I squinted.

"Nick."

I knew that voice.

"Nick."

I hadn't head it in over a year.

It was Leslie.