Day 1
Jazz
music filled the room. It surrounded me in a warmth blanket of
comfort as I worked the paintbrush across the canvas, streaking it
with shadow gray. I flicked my hazel eyes up to the xeroxed photo of
Monet's Boulevard
des Capucines and
I squinted at it then the canvas. It still needed a touch of green. I
moved the brush in my left hand to the blob of teal blue on my
palette and brought it up to the canvas. I focused on light flicks of
my wrist, catching the gray I'd just put there to create the right
shadow tone for the trees.
The phone rang.
I
straightened up and stared at the phone that was hung on the wall. I
glanced at my watch and slowly turned my head back to the phone. It
was far too late for Christina to be calling me and there was nobody
else it could be. Nobody had that number. Panic started to hit me and
I could do nothing but stare. I did not want to find out who was on
the other end of the line.
But
the phone wouldn't stop ringing and something inside me told me that
it would only carry on until I picked up. With goosebumps sending
shivers throughout my body I bent down to settle the palette and
brush onto the newspapers that covered the floor. Not once did I peel
my eyes away from the phone, not even when it stopped ringing
briefly. I shuffled in the vague direction of the radio to turn the
music down when it started again.
I bit my tongue, made sure the music was nothing but a dull lullaby
in the background and took measured steps towards the phone. I
stopped in front of it and just stared, my breath caught in my
throat. All I had to do was lift my hand, a few inches, grab the
phone and lift that just a little more.
I didn't want to. I was afraid to. My heart pounded and I swallowed
back my fear and grabbed the phone. The ringing stopped when I lifted
it off the cradle and I hesitated a second before I pushed the
receiver to my ear. Forced confidence leaked into my voice as I said,
“Hello?”
“Laura?” My mind did a quick mental assessment before I could
help it: Male, American with a hint of roughness to his voice.
“No,” I managed after a pause and I pressed my free hand against
the wall to stop my shaking nerves, “sorry. You've got the wrong
number.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Did a Laura used to live there?”
“No. Sorry.”
“My fault Ma'am,” and he hung up.
The
seconds ticked by before I pushed the receiver back in its place, my
heart painfully thumping in my chest. It drowned out what little
music I should be able to hear and my legs felt as though they were
ready to give way. Did somebody know? Had somebody said something?
But to get this
number and to ask for Laura. That was the worst part. She wasn't a
topic of conversation, anywhere. At least, she wasn't supposed to be.
