Missed Connection

by K Larsen

“You don’t have to get up. I just wanted to talk. “

  “Might as well since you’ve woken me.”

  “I’m sorry that you feel like my mental health has been such a burden and a disappointment. Sometimes I just wish you would accept it as part of me. I might still do all of those ‘crazy’ things, even if I weren’t sick.”

  John goes into the en suite bathroom and shuts the door on me. Not a word of forgiveness or reassurance or even common courtesy. I don’t think John loves me. I don’t know if he ever has.

  Angie and I have been looking forward to the “Hooking Up” episode. We’ve collected just about every type of hook in every possible material, stainless steel, iron, ceramic and glass. We even found some wooden peg hooks that would go well with more country-style interiors. We’re planning on going over simple mounting and stud finding, then decorating ideas and creating patterns out of hanging towels and jackets. At the end of the segment, we take phone calls from listeners. It’s our favorite part of the broadcast because Angie and I have to think on our feet and come up with some spontaneous and off the cuff answers.

  I remember when I first brainstormed the show. It was born organically out of people always asking me how I got something to look like this or like that in my own house. I found I always enjoyed explaining the process to others, almost as much as I enjoyed creating the object. Whenever we’d have company, the wives would always wander around the house. “How did you make these whimsical bookcases?” “Did you frame all of these quilt squares yourself?” I’d find myself popping a frame off and deconstructing the piece to show the admirer how they could do it themselves in their own home.

  John was lukewarm about my idea from the very first mention.

  “John, what if I did a podcast about some of the decorating projects? I can have Angie join me because she’s got such a great eye and a magnetic personality.”

  John looked up from his paper, his glasses sliding down his nose.

  “Who would listen to a design show? Isn’t that something that people would rather view on the television?” He looked down at his paper without giving it much thought.

  “Have you ever heard of “Car Talk?” I asked him, ever so casually.

  “Of course. Loved it! I was a loyal listener to that show for years,” he said and took a bite of his Danish.

  “You listened to it?” I asked him.

  He huffed, shook his paper and lifted it up in front of his face.

  “Where are we with groupings, Mom? Do you want to do bathroom hooks first and then move onto hallway coat racks? Let’s just start with stud finding because no one ever gets that stuff right.” Angie says, waving some notes in my face.

  “Sorry, I was daydreaming, Honey. What were you saying?”

  “So did you really respond to the letter Black Coffee sent or that’s just what you told me to get me off your case?”

  “I responded. I swear! Already two days ago!” I say, pinning my microphone to my lapel and handing the other to my daughter.

  “Why do you think he hasn’t written back yet if he was so eager to find you?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question. I suppose it could be too emotional for him, or maybe he’s shy. Who really knows? Maybe after all of this hoopla, he’s just changed his mind?” I shrug it off, as if it were any old email, but really my heart squeezes in my chest with a burn that feels almost like rejection.

  We really do look just alike, my daughter and me. Today, my hair is twisted up into a hasty French twist, secured by a number two pencil. Angie’s topknot is being held together with a Bic pen. We’re both wearing white button up, cotton shirts, and the V on the chest is a gateway to thousands of freckles. We’ve got the coloring for redheads but without that final detail.

  “Let me go see if Catherine has screened the callers.”

  “Already did it, Mom,” Angie says, then sort of steps in my way.

  “Well, aren’t you industrious! You never deal with Catherine, if you don’t have to.”

  Angie just shrugs and then bites on her fingernail.

  “Ladies, you’re live in two,” Catherine says stepping into the studio. “Do you need any water or coffee?”

  “Thank you, Darling. I think we’re set.” I wink at my daughter as the theme music starts to play.

  “And on in ten, nine . . .” I hear Catherine’s smooth voice over the intercom.

  “Titan?” the woman’s voice is nasal and does nothing to calm me.

  “Here,” I answer.

  “You’re up next. Do you have your question prepared?” she asks.

  “I do. Yeah.”

  I couldn’t respond to the email. I didn’t know how. I suddenly had no words to write. Nothing made sense. Nothing was good enough. Jess. My Jess wrote to me. After the initial shock of actually getting a response from the intended person, Luke had slapped the side of my head and told me to look at the monitor. He had pictures of Jess right before my eyes. Luke had Googled her in mere seconds, once he had a first and last name. And there she was. There they were. Blue eyes. The eyes that I had only imagined for the last twenty years were the clearest azure I’d ever seen and before I could stop it, a sigh escaped my lips. I never wanted to look away from those eyes again. I wanted to right every wrong in the world, just to see her smile. I wanted to hear her laugh and know that I made it happen. I wanted to be there when she cried, so I could kiss the tears away. I wanted it all. I want it all with her. And I realized I had officially lost my marbles. She’s married and happy. Of course, then I really couldn’t form a response that made any sense.

  It’s been two days and I haven’t contacted her. I feel off-kilter but I’m going to go through with this. Luke said to just do it because she must be cool if she does podcasts. Apparently, they’re hip. So here I am, on hold, about to speak to her.

  “You’re on the air, caller.”

  I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. “Jess?” I ask. “This is Ty.” That’s all I can muster. There’s nothing.

  No sound.

  “Hello?” I say.

  And I know it’s him. It should be impossible to remember his voice. I met with him for a few hours over coffee, more than twenty years ago. Everyone knows that acoustics are strange in restaurants. “Ty” might be short for Tyson or Tyrone or any number of T names on the planet. But, it’s him. I can feel it, I know it, and suddenly I have no words left in my brain. Why is he calling the show? Wouldn’t a letter have been easier? What the hell do I say now? I’ve never in my life been left speechless on my radio show. The vision of him hovers before me in my mind’s eye, a combination of memory and input from the photo on the television just the other day.

  “Hello, Ty. Thanks for calling Interiors Made Easy with Jess and Angie! What can we help you with today?” my daughter pipes in. Thank God for Angelina! I had no words in my mouth, or thoughts in my head. Just the standard answer we give to every caller, it flowed out of her naturally. Except, Lord knows this isn’t any old caller to me. Angie yelps ever so quietly and we make silent eye contact, eyes wide, wondering if it’s even possible. My heart pounds with anticipation. I don’t want to make it hard for him, yet at the same time, I loathe to air our laundry so publically. I’ll let Angie take over, I can’t deal with this situation.

  “It’s H-I-M,” Angie mouths at me.

  “I know!” I mouth back.

  “What the hell do I say?” Angie mouths. Then immediately follows with her perfect on-air voice: “So Ty, did you need us to help you hook up today?”

  The construction trailer is packed with every crew member. Ear buds are plugged into smartphones streaming the live podcast. I swear I only told Luke and now, all of a sudden, my closest friends know and my crew apparently knows. This is getting out of control. I’m already nervous enough, I really don’t want or need the strain of having fifteen burly men watching and listening in on this very personal moment.

  “So, Ty, did you need us to help you hook up today?” Ri
ght. I was supposed to ask a question. About hookers. No, hooks. Yes. Hooks.

  “Uh yeah, I did.” Coughs covering up laughs, begin to fill the trailer. Oh, crap. “No! No, I don’t need help hooking up,” I stammer flustered. This whole idea has already spun viciously out of control into a pathetic scene and I’m the star.

  “You had a question though, yes?” She asks. I did dammit, but now I’ve forgotten my fake question. Hooks. Okay, bathroom hooks. The Vanderbilt’s house. Jacuzzi! Yes.

  “Oh, yes, I did. I was calling for Jess, this is Jess right?”

  “This is Angie, her daughter. What’s your question, Ty?” Jess’s daughter says. Her daughter, right. I wonder what she looks like, if they are close, and if she knows about me.

  I fumble for the right words. “I um, never mind, I won’t keep you.”

  “Hello,” it comes out timid. “This is Jess,” an incredibly sexy voice croaks out at me. The boys in the trailer all whoop with excitement for me. “Tell us your question, Ty.”

  My question, what is my question? I have so many. I want to say a thousand things to her but I don’t know if now is the appropriate time. So, I relay the only question that seems appropriate. “Oh, ok. Um, let’s say you are building a Jacuzzi room in a master suite, one that will have a flat screen TV mounted across from the tub so one can really relax. What kind of robe hooks would you put up?” Robe hooks? Shoot me now. SHOOT ME NOW.

  That might be the lamest question ever asked. I can’t take the embarrassment. The guys are all staring at me like the dunce I am. Wide eyes. Hands slapped over mouths. I wave them all out with a hand gesture and one by one, they file out of the trailer, leaving me alone before I end up firing them all.

  “A Jacuzzi room. Hmm, well . . .” That’s all I can take. Her voice. The hesitation in it. I hang up the phone. I can’t believe I thought calling in would be the right move. I throw my phone on the desk, uncaring if it cracks or breaks. The thud it makes on the desk is strangely gratifying. From the small trailer window, I see the crew start to scatter and I can feel myself turning red as a Fuji apple. I throw open my laptop while simultaneously slamming my rear in the chair. Before I know it, I’m logged into my personal email and typing away. Well, typing is a stretch, I’m more a hunt and peck typist. So I’m hunting and pecking furiously, which frustrates me even more.

  Jess,

  I am incredibly sorry for calling into your show. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was unprofessional and I’m sure caught you off guard.

  I delete the message.

  I re-type another message.

  I delete that one, too.

  My desk phone rings.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Dad.”

  “Luke?” I say. Shouldn’t he be in class?

  “You really goofed that one,” he says.

  “You were listening?!” I crow.

  “Of course, I was. Listen, I know you, you’re probably attempting to apologize. Don’t. Back away from the computer and just do your work today. We can figure out what to do tonight—together.” I imagine Luke posed like a police negotiator, trying to talk someone down from jumping off a ledge. His words are clear and soft. He probably has an active stance, arms planted apart, arms up, ready to lunge out and grab the back of my shirt as I start to go down.

  “How in the fu—hell did you get so damned smart?” I ask.

  “Mom,” he says. And I smile.

  “Love you, kid.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  I hang up and drag a palm down my face and squeeze my eyes shut. Work normally would be fine, but right now, I have to exit this trailer and deal with a bunch of men who will never let me live down the gaff I’ve just made. This is going to be brutal.

  “Caller, are you there?” Angie asks, in full control. My breath has all but whooshed out of me and my heart is pounding full-force.

  “I guess we got disconnected—what a shame, Ty. But, we’d be happy to answer that question via email. Ceramic hooks are our go-to for bathrooms, but since it’s in the bedroom, which sounds delish, by the way, we’d need to know what kind of décor we’re working with there. Also let us know if you’re willing to remove tiles. We’ve got an easy trick for that with barely any clean up time. Right, Mom?”

  “Yes,” I chirp out.

  “We can help one more caller hook up and then it’s time to wind up this episode.”

  Angie is unfazed and so good at her job. Tears squeeze out of my eyes in gratitude and I feel so incredibly proud of how good she’s become at this. She could run Design Made Easy perfectly well without me.

  I’m in a daze through the last question, thinking about Ty and his voice and the image he left with me. I’m imagining him hanging up his robe and stepping into the Jacuzzi. God, he was built back then, the outline of his physique visible through the button up shirt he was wearing, strong arms, broad shoulders. I see myself dropping my robe and clasping his hand to step into the warm, bubbling water with him. How divine it would feel to pull him into my arms, feel his chest against my chest, like I’ve ached to do for so long.

  “Thanks for tuning in! And until next week, remember, the only thing standing between you and a gorgeous home, is the misconception that you can’t do it yourself. You can, we did!”

  “Phew! That was an averted disaster!” Angie says unclipping her microphone.

  “That’s a wrap, ladies. Episode Two-sixty going into the archives. The Jacuzzi caller hung up, we didn’t drop it.”

  “Thanks, Catherine. That’s what we figured.”

  “Did you put him up to that?” I ask, suddenly glaring at my daughter. “You are a scoundrel, Ang! How could you do that to the poor man?”

  “I didn’t, Mom. I swear to God! Maybe I kind of, sort of, recognized his name when I screened the log but I swear to you that I did NOT ask him to call! He did that on his own. He wanted to hear your voice and then he flipped out at how sexy you were.” Angie says, a huge smile overtaking her face. She wags her eyebrows at me and I can’t help but burst out laughing.

  “Holy Mother of God was that sexy!” Angie yells.

  “Pipe down, Angie!” I beg.

  “Oh, like Catherine, AKA Lady Elaine Fairchild or Bob the sound guy, care! Mom, he wants to do it in the hot tub with you! I swear, if only my life was that sexy!”

  “He wants to hang a hook!” I proclaim.

  “Pfffft. Yeah. That guy is so crazy about you—he hung up the phone like a kid!”

  “I thought it was kind of adorable that he came up with a question,” I say. I pull a plastic storage bin off of one of the stainless steel shelf units and start to put all of our hooks away.

  “Oh, my God, Mom. Your face, it was priceless! Can you believe that Black Coffee Guy actually called the show? Did you ever think you’d hear his voice again in your life? What are the odds?” Angie stands up from her swivel chair and shoves our notes from the episode in her briefcase. She’s in charge of uploading all of the content to the website for our archives.

  “I honestly never thought I would, but now that I have—I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.”

  “You have to meet with him. You’ve got to see each other. You owe it to yourselves to see where this goes.”

  “Darling, did you forget that I’m married to your father?”

  “Grrrrr, that again? Barely! You’re barely married to him.”

  “Angie, could you elaborate? Your father and I are together as we’ve always been.”

  “Oh, you mean living in the same house? Look, Mom, sure, I love Dad. He’s been a great dad and a great senator, but let’s face it, he hasn’t been a good partner. I know you’ve sucked it up and put your energy elsewhere, but you deserve to be happy. You could use a little love in your life.”

  I just nod my head because there’s nothing I can say. Angelina is right.

  Ty’s next email says:

  Dearest Jess,

  I feel like a fool for my call into the show toda
y. Fool is actually a tame description for how I feel right now. My call was a surprise that was too much for live pod casting (is that what it’s called?).

  I couldn’t find the right words to respond to your email and after two days of thinking it over, I thought calling was the right way to go. If I’m honest, I wanted to hear your voice.

  Is that strange? Is this entire situation strange?

  I wanted to apologize and let you know that I promise not to call into your show again and disrupt your podcast.

  Now, on to the next topic. Would you please tell Angie that I am sorry for catching her off guard, as well? I can’t even imagine the consequences of explaining my call to your daughter. I hope it didn’t cause a problem.

  I’m sitting here having a black coffee and thinking about the way your freckles formed constellations across your shoulders. It’s a ridiculous detail to remember twenty years later but there it is—in the forefront of my mind.

  Tell me something about yourself now. About what gives you joy. What are your passions, Jess?

  I have to ask . . .

  Why did you leave without saying goodbye that night?

  Very Truly Yours,

  Ty

  Gravel flies when I pull into the driveway. The Vanderbilt house is nearing completion and quite frankly, not holding my interest at all these days. Luke is at football practice and won’t be home for another hour.

  I blow through the front door and drop my work folder on the entryway table, while simultaneously toeing off my boots. In an effort to show a modicum of self-control when I saw her email come in on my phone today, I willed myself to wait and read it when I was home for the day. I practically skid into my desk chair. Using my hands under the desk to pull me back to center, I open up my email and read.

  Dearest Ty,

  Never feel a fool for speaking your truth. It was an absolute delight that you called in. I was rendered speechless, too. After twenty years of reliving a memory, it’s difficult to come up with any real thing to say. Know that I’ve spoken to you a thousand times in my head. I hope that doesn’t sound too crazy.