The phone finally rang and I rushed to it. There were sounds of pots and pans banging against each other in the kitchen and the boisterous energy of my family filled the house, but I could still hear my own heart thumping loud, as if it was going to jump out of my chest. The telephone almost fell from the table when I grabbed it.
“Dranreb,” I said, sniffling, all my emotions coiling into a tight wire in my throat. “It’s me!” “Hello?” A familiar, delicious tone answered. “Cassandra?”
“It’s me! Good thing you called, you are on time when you said in your message that you’re calling before new year!” I almost shouted, I wanted to make sure he heard me.
My family was getting noisier in the dining room and in the kitchen. “It will be 2023 in less than a few minutes!”
“Yes, sorry,” Dranreb replied.
I could imagine him running a hand through his hair. It was kind of quiet from where he was calling from. We haven’t talked on the phone for a while and I knew, out of pity, he’d call me.
I was spamming his Facebook Messenger account. But what could I do? I was 17 and I was losing my mind.
He was nearly 25 but my family said they didn’t care, as long as he waited until I was at least 18, then we could officially go out.
They said that before Covid-19, before Dranreb flew to Singapore to work. He didn’t make any fancy promises, but I felt that somehow he did feel anything for me.
He didn’t say anything specific though.
I gripped the phone tighter like it would be crushed in my palm. I’d cherish this. I’d think that he called on the phone because he wanted to make it seem that he spent money on long distance rates.
“You turned 17, sorry I just sent a lousy happy birthday GIF,” he told me. I closed my eyes and vividly remembered his thin, tall frame.
His prominent jaw was squared by his long, dark hair that he sometimes pulled upward with a scrunchy. His sparkling eyes would look into mine each time we were together around my
brothers, around our friends. We’d laugh together and everything felt so genuine, like he was certainly my future.
He grew up with my brothers and when they went to a summer camp, he sent me letters and souvenirs. Such a sweet, pretty boy.
“I was planning on sending you a gift but I’m sorry I missed sending one, work and studies and stuff.”
I felt like since I met him when I was 13 that he was that knight in shining armor, equipped to protect me and sweep me off my feet.
As a bonus, he was great at Math and Science, and he was a big help with any of my school projects.
“It’s okay,” my voice broke. I sent him tons of selfies, I posted so much on my social media as my way to scream, “I’m a lady now,” but he was not that active. “Gifts or no gifts, it’s okay. Speaking with you on the phone now is the best gift ever. Best day ever. How’s work? School? I hate school. Online classes are not working for me. Too much stress, but I’m doing my best, so I can also land an IT job and fly to you.”
Did I just paint him my dreams?
I heard him laugh. He’d probably laugh more if he saw me now. I’d grown taller, became curvier.
A boy here and there would ask my brothers if they could ask me out but they’d say, “Ask her,” and I’d go running into the house.
I would complain to my brothers and tell them, “What would Dranreb say if I say yes? All this waiting would be put to waste.”
My brothers would just shrug their shoulders or pat me on the head.
“You’re taking an IT course in college?”
“Uh huh,” I nodded proudly, bringing my feet up on the couch, making sure that my thighs were still covered by my skirt.
I wore a purple dress tonight, they said it was 2023’s color, maybe luck would take him back to me.
“Then you can send me your notes so I can enroll there and work there, too, so you know? We can be together.”
There was silence and I was scared that it was a preamble to my heart’s misery. “Dranreb? Should we continue the call on Facebook? It’s free.”
He cleared his throat. He sounded more like a man than the boy I grew up with. Tears threatened to fall, but I abruptly closed my eyes and blinked fast, hoping they’d forget to cry at least for tonight.
He was on the phone with me, what could go wrong? He called me.
“No, we can talk here, listen, Cassandra,” he began to speak and my head was beginning to ache and spin as the anxiety shot through the roof.
“It’s almost 2023 and I shouldn’t have left you hanging for so long. You are my precious one, it’s like you know me inside out, but we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
My eldest brother walked past and mouthed, “Reb?” I slowly nodded, knowing any sudden movements would send me down to the floor.
My hand shook so much I had to wipe them off my skirt one at a time. Brother gave me a quick smile and continued to the kitchen to bring out more food.
“I cannot understand you,” I said annoyed, afraid. Dying. “Why aren’t you on Facebook or IG so much?” I tried to change the topic.
He gave a long, long sigh. I knew he was upset. “My wife didn’t want me there, she didn’t want me speaking with you.”
My ears began to hurt. “Wife? What?”
“My girlfriend got pregnant,” he paused to take another deep breath, “and her parents wanted us to get married and so we did. She just actually gave birth moments ago and I’m calling you from the hospital.”
“But you regularly gave me flowers, wrote me letters, walked me to school, and we held hands?” I tried to ask him calmly, trying to understand why for me he was my world but for him I was just a part of it, the part he didn’t want.
“I’m sorry,” he just said, and the anguish shot into my chest, my hands losing its grip. My head spun.
The phone fell on the floor altogether, one of its accessories coming off.
Then in slow motion, I felt my body falling face first on the floor and the voices of my brothers echoing, like a surround-sound in a movie, “Cassandra! What happened! What’s wrong?!”
“Everything,” was my last thought before I gave in to fainting, the sound of “Happy New Year!” radiating off the television.
Follow and Connect with Mikka Robelle CT
About
Mikka Robelle CT is a Filipina writer from Pampanga, Philippines, whose stories explore the emotional complexities of human connection and the choices that shape our lives. She is also the founder of an independent bookshop, Spelled by Paperbacks, dedicated to fostering a thriving community of readers. Her first published work, The Role Unwanted, appeared in an anthology by 8Letters Publishing. The Call is her latest short story.
Social Media
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mikkarism
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mikkarism_?igsh=MXRsNjR5YzR4eWIyaQ==
Leave a comment