Last Call

Last Call

By 11:30 p.m., the hospice wing had settled into the kind of quiet Simone Carter had learned not to trust.

Hospice was never truly quiet.

There were oxygen machines whispering from dark rooms, medication pumps clicking at steady intervals, rubber soles moving softly across polished floors, families speaking in murmurs because grief somehow convinced people they had to whisper.

And there was breathing.

Always breathing.

Some deep and steady.

Some shallow.

Some irregular enough that Simone could tell, before ever looking at a chart, when a person was getting close.

She had been a nurse long enough to recognize the sounds.

She knew what it meant when a patient's hands became cooler.

She knew what it meant when the pauses between breaths stretched longer.

She knew the strange rally some people had before death, waking up suddenly, asking for food, talking clearly after days of confusion, making their families believe a miracle had happened.

Simone had learned not to call it a miracle.

Sometimes the body simply borrowed one last bit of strength before letting go.

Room 214 belonged to Evelyn Harper.

Eighty-two years old.

Metastatic cancer.

Comfort measures only.

No resuscitation.

No aggressive treatment.

No family at bedside.

No visitors listed.

No flowers.

No cards.

No stuffed animals crowded into the windowsill.

Nothing except one old photograph that Evelyn kept facedown on the nightstand.

Simone had noticed it on her first shift with her.

She had also noticed something else.

Every night, at exactly 11:45, Evelyn asked the same question.

"Did anybody call?"

The first night Simone had checked the desk.

"No, ma'am."

The second night Evelyn asked again.

"Did anybody call?"

"No."

The third night, same thing.

By the fourth night, Simone didn't even have to look.

"No calls tonight."

Evelyn would nod, stare toward the telephone on the small table near her bed, and say nothing more.

Simone assumed she was waiting on somebody.

A son.

A daughter.

An old friend.

Maybe one of those relatives who had promised to call and kept putting it off because they couldn't handle hearing sickness through the phone.

People avoided death in strange ways.

Some stayed away because they were scared.

Some because they were angry.

Some because they had already said goodbye years ago and didn't know how to say it twice.

Simone had seen all of it.

She had also learned not to ask too many questions.

A hospice nurse could become part nurse, part witness, part priest, part stranger who knew more about the end of a person's life than people who had known them for fifty years.

Still, Evelyn made her curious.

Not because she was difficult.

She wasn't.

Evelyn was polite.

Soft-spoken.

Sometimes funny.

She hated applesauce and complained every time someone hid crushed medication in it.

"If I wanted to die tasting applesauce, I would've requested an orchard," she'd muttered once.

Simone had laughed so hard she nearly dropped the cup.

But when 11:45 came, Evelyn changed.

Her eyes went toward that phone.

Her mouth tightened.

"Did anybody call?"

And every night, the answer was no.

On Thursday night, Simone knew things were different before Evelyn said a word.

Her breathing had changed.

There was a wetness in it now, a faint rattle deep in her chest.

Her skin had taken on that waxy tone Simone recognized immediately.

She checked her vitals, adjusted her oxygen for comfort, repositioned her carefully and sat beside her for a moment.

"Evelyn?"

The older woman's eyelids fluttered.

"I'm here."

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"I know."

Evelyn gave a weak smile.

"You nurses always say that like you personally arranged it."

Simone smiled back.

"Union rule."

Evelyn closed her eyes again.

Simone watched her chest rise.

Fall.

Pause.

Rise again.

She knew.

Maybe hours.

Maybe less.

There was no clock inside the human body that announced the exact minute, but experience came close.

She reached over and smoothed Evelyn's blanket.

"Do you want me to call anyone?"

Evelyn's eyes opened.

For the first time, something like fear moved across her face.

"What time is it?"

Simone checked the clock.

"Eleven forty-two."

Evelyn stared toward the phone.

Three minutes.

Simone understood.

"You want to know if anybody called?"

Evelyn nodded.

"No," Simone said gently. "Nobody called."

For several seconds Evelyn stared at the ceiling.

Then she whispered, "Then I need to make one."

Simone leaned closer.

"You want me to get the phone?"

"Please."

Simone moved the telephone from the table and placed it beside her.

Evelyn didn't reach for it.

"My hands don't work like they used to."

"That's okay. Just tell me the number."

Evelyn began reciting it.

Not from a contact list.

Not from a piece of paper.

From memory.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Simone dialed.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

On the fourth ring, a woman answered.

"Hello?"

Evelyn inhaled.

For a moment, no words came.

Then, very softly, she said, "It's Evelyn."

Silence.

The voice on the other end changed.

Harder now.

"What?"

"Please don't hang up."

The line went dead.

Evelyn closed her eyes.

Simone slowly lowered the phone.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

Finally Simone said, "I'm sorry."

Evelyn shook her head.

"No. Don't be."

She stared at the ceiling again.

"I earned that."

Simone didn't know what to say.

Evelyn turned her head toward her.

"Call again."

Simone hesitated.

"Evelyn, she hung up."

"I know."

"She may not want to talk."

"I know that too."

"Then maybe we should respect that."

Evelyn's jaw tightened.

The effort of talking was already wearing her down.

"You sound like a nurse."

"I am a nurse."

"You know what I mean."

Simone almost smiled, but Evelyn didn't.

"Please," she said.

Something in her voice stopped Simone.

Not entitlement.

Not anger.

Fear.

Pure fear.

The kind people had when they finally realized time wasn't theoretical anymore.

"Evelyn," Simone said quietly, "who is she?"

The old woman looked away.

"My daughter."

Simone glanced at the telephone.

"Your daughter?"

"Yes."

"Does she know you're here?"

"Yes."

"Has she been to visit?"

"No."

"Has she called?"

"No."

Simone waited.

Evelyn let out a shaky breath.

"I left her."

Simone said nothing.

"She was six."

That answer changed the room.

Evelyn continued.

"I packed a suitcase and left."

Simone's expression stayed neutral, but inside, something shifted.

She had expected estrangement.

Arguments.

Maybe an overbearing parent.

Maybe an adult child who had stopped speaking to her mother because of some old family dispute.

She hadn't expected this.

"You left your daughter when she was six?"

"Yes."

"With who?"

"Her father."

"Why?"

Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.

And for the first time since Simone had known her, she didn't seem eighty-two.

She seemed much younger.

Smaller somehow.

"I wanted another life."

Simone waited for the rest.

It didn't come.

"No abuse?" she asked.

"No."

"You weren't sick?"

"No."

"You weren't in danger?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

Evelyn swallowed.

"I was selfish."

The word sat between them.

Most people nearing death became excellent storytellers.

They rewrote old mistakes.

Changed motives.

Added explanations.

Turned abandonment into sacrifice.

Cruelty into survival.

Betrayal into circumstance.

Simone had listened to people soften the sharpest parts of their past until even they could live with the revised version.

Evelyn didn't.

"I met a man," she said. "I thought I deserved more than the life I had. More excitement. More freedom. I convinced myself her father was better with her anyway."

She laughed once, bitterly.

"I told myself a lot of things."

"And then?"

"I stayed gone."

"For how long?"

Evelyn turned her head toward Simone.

"Seventy-six years."

Simone almost thought she had misunderstood.

"Seventy-six?"

"I wrote letters at first."

"Did you send them?"

"No."

"Did you call?"

"No."

"Did you ever try to go back?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because the longer I waited, the worse it became."

Evelyn's breathing hitched.

"At first, I told myself I'd call when I had the right words. Then I told myself I'd call when she was older. Then after enough years passed, I thought maybe I had lost the right."

She looked toward the clock.

11:52.

"I kept thinking I'd call when I knew what to say."

Simone looked at her.

"And now you know?"

Evelyn's mouth trembled.

"No."

A tear slipped into the crease beside her ear.

"I just ran out of tomorrows."

Simone looked down at the phone.

That sentence stayed with her.

Ran out of tomorrows.

Every person on that floor had.

They just hadn't all realized it yet.

Some people lived as if tomorrow was a savings account.

I'll apologize tomorrow.

I'll call tomorrow.

I'll forgive tomorrow.

I'll leave tomorrow.

I'll come home tomorrow.

Until one day, tomorrow stopped arriving.

Simone picked up the phone.

"I'll call her again."

Evelyn closed her eyes.

"Thank you."

Simone dialed.

The woman answered after one ring.

"I said I don't want to talk to her."

Simone spoke this time.

"My name is Simone Carter. I'm a nurse at Meadow Ridge Hospice."

Silence.

"I'm sorry to call you like this."

"Is she dying?"

The question came fast.

Like she'd already known the answer.

"Yes."

Another silence.

"How long?"

"I can't give you an exact time."

"But not long."

"No."

The woman exhaled.

"She waited until now."

Simone looked at Evelyn.

"She asked me to call."

"Of course she did."

There was anger in the woman's voice, but something underneath it too.

Pain didn't always get softer with age.

Sometimes it simply learned better vocabulary.

"What's your name?" Simone asked.

"Claire."

"Claire, I understand if you don't want to talk."

"No, you don't."

Simone accepted that.

"You're right."

Another pause.

Then Claire said, "Put her on."

Simone handed the phone to Evelyn, then remembered and held it beside her ear.

"Claire?"

"I'm here."

Evelyn began crying immediately.

"I am so sorry."

Claire said nothing.

"I should have called you years ago."

Still nothing.

"I should have come back."

Claire's voice cut through hers.

"No."

Evelyn stopped.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't use your death to make me responsible for your peace."

Simone lowered her eyes.

Evelyn's face crumpled.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're dying and suddenly I'm supposed to give you whatever you need so you can close your eyes feeling better about what you did."

"No."

"Then what do you want from me?"

Evelyn opened her mouth.

Nothing came.

Claire continued.

"Do you want me to say it's okay?"

"No."

"Do you want me to say I understand?"

"No."

"Do you want me to tell you I forgive you?"

Evelyn looked toward Simone.

Simone saw something settle in her.

Not peace.

Maybe honesty.

"No," Evelyn said.

The anger on the other end softened only slightly.

"Then why did you call?"

Evelyn took a breath that rattled deep in her chest.

"Because you deserved to hear me say that what happened to you was my fault."

Claire didn't respond.

"You were six years old," Evelyn continued. "And I left you believing there had to be something wrong with you."

Simone felt her throat tighten.

"There wasn't."

Evelyn's voice cracked.

"There was never anything wrong with that little girl."

Silence.

"I was your mother. I was supposed to stay. I was supposed to choose you. I didn't."

Claire began crying.

Simone could hear it through the receiver.

Evelyn did too.

"And I am not asking you to forgive me."

Claire took a shaky breath.

"I don't."

"I know."

"I don't know if I ever will."

"I know."

"You missed everything."

"I know."

"My graduation."

Evelyn closed her eyes.

"My wedding."

"I know."

"When Dad died."

Evelyn's lips trembled.

"I know."

"You didn't even come to his funeral."

"I was ashamed."

"That didn't help me."

"No."

"My children don't know you."

"I know."

"You have grandchildren."

Evelyn opened her eyes.

Something shifted in them.

"How many?"

Claire cried harder.

Then laughed through it.

"Three."

Evelyn smiled.

"Three?"

"Two boys and a girl."

"What are their names?"

Claire hesitated.

Then told her.

Evelyn repeated each name as though committing them to memory she would not have long enough to use.

"Are they happy?"

"Mostly."

Evelyn smiled faintly.

"That's all anybody gets."

For the first time, Claire laughed.

A small sound.

Barely there.

But real.

Evelyn's breathing changed again.

Simone noticed immediately.

A longer pause.

Then a shallow inhale.

Claire heard it too.

"What's happening?"

Evelyn didn't answer.

Simone gently took the phone.

"Claire?"

"Is she okay?"

"She's still here."

"Why is she breathing like that?"

Simone looked at Evelyn.

"She's getting closer."

There was a long silence.

"How close?"

"I can't say."

"Can she hear me?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Simone placed the receiver near Evelyn's ear.

Claire started talking.

Not about abandonment.

Not about forgiveness.

Not about the past.

She told Evelyn about her oldest grandson.

He was sixteen and learning to drive.

"He almost took out the mailbox last week."

Evelyn smiled.

Claire told her about her granddaughter, twenty-eight and engaged.

"She's getting married in October."

Evelyn's eyes opened.

"Tell her..."

Her voice disappeared.

Simone leaned closer.

"Tell her what?"

"Beautiful."

"I'll tell her."

Claire talked about her youngest grandson starting college.

About the tomatoes growing badly in her garden.

About her husband snoring.

About the neighbor's dog digging underneath the fence.

Ordinary things.

Small things.

The pieces of a life Evelyn had missed.

And somehow those were worse than the anger.

Evelyn listened.

Her breaths became farther apart.

Claire kept talking.

Simone held the phone beside Evelyn's ear.

A breath.

Pause.

Another.

Pause.

Then nothing.

Simone watched.

Waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

She placed her fingers gently against Evelyn's neck.

Nothing.

Claire was still talking.

"...and I keep telling him if he doesn't stop parking halfway in my driveway, I'm gonna have the car towed myself."

Simone closed her eyes.

Then lifted the receiver.

"Claire."

The talking stopped.

"Yes?"

"She's gone."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Simone waited.

Finally Claire asked, "Was I the last person she heard?"

"Yes."

Claire inhaled shakily.

"Good."

Simone thought the call was over.

Then Claire said, "Wait."

"I'm here."

"Don't hang up yet."

Simone sat back down beside Evelyn.

"I won't."

Neither woman spoke.

A nurse and a stranger.

One sitting beside a dead woman.

The other seventy-six years too far away.

Minutes passed.

Finally Claire whispered, "Okay."

Simone looked at the clock.

12:17 a.m.

"Are you ready?"

"No."

Simone waited.

Claire breathed in.

"But I think that's all the time we get."

The line disconnected.

Simone sat there for another moment.

Then she placed the phone back on the table.

She closed Evelyn's eyes.

Straightened the blanket.

Turned off the television that had been playing silently in the corner.

Then she picked up her computer and began documenting.

Time of death.

12:09 a.m.

Respirations absent.

Pulse absent.

Physician notified.

Funeral home pending.

Family contacted.

She moved through the boxes automatically.

Clinical language for the most unclinical thing a human being ever did.

Then she reached the final section.

PERSON PRESENT AT TIME OF DEATH:

Simone typed:

Nurse.

She stared at it.

Then deleted the word.

Slowly, she typed:

Daughter — by telephone.

Simone looked over at Evelyn.

The old photograph was still facedown on the nightstand.

She picked it up.

A little girl stood in the picture.

Maybe six years old.

Pigtails.

Missing front tooth.

Grinning at whoever held the camera.

On the back, in faded blue ink, someone had written one word.

Claire.

Simone placed the photograph against Evelyn's chest and folded her hands over it.

Then she turned off the bedside lamp.

Some calls don't come in time to repair a life.

Sometimes they come just in time to tell the truth before it ends.