Calmly, I lessened my grip on the phone, turned it over, and looked at the screen.

3 Missed Calls.

The first call had been placed while I was on the plane. The phone had been turned off so it did not register as missed, but a message had been left, so I knew that there had been a call. Why couldn't the phone companies work that one out? I had still missed the call, whether the phone was off or on.

Below that message, another read out:

Voicemail.

Was it just one voicemail? My phone came just short of accurately counting missed calls – why did it never tell me how many voicemails I had? It seemed like that would have been even easier than registering missed calls when the phone was off.

Yes, my mind was definitely wandering. But that was good. It calmed me. I tapped one finger against the nightstand as I clicked through the passcodes unlocking my phone and and slid over to the recent calls.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Two of the registered calls read 'Eleanor.' The first from 11:32 pm and the second from 11:40 pm. The third call read 'Home' and displayed a time of 11:42 pm. Home? We never used the home line. Back when we had it installed everyone still had a landline and cell phones had still meant emergency car phones. They had been big, bulky, and far from portable at that point. Now, however, cell phones had become miniscule and had taken over, while house phones had become antiquated, kept out of tradition and little more. Why would Eleanor have been calling from home?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

And what about the first call? I had landed just after eleven pm, and turned on my phone only a few minutes thereafter. The call had to have been placed before 11:10 pm at the latest. Yet I had no way to know for sure what time the call had come in.

Tap. Tap.

I swiped over to the voicemail tab. There were five voicemails: four from Eleanor and one from home. She had left a voicemail with each call. Each. Call. Each of five calls. She had called twice while I had been on the plane.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I couldn't stop drumming my fingers. My hand had a life of its own, tapping out my nerves on the lacquer of the nightstand. I had to calm myself before I called home. Screw that. Calming myself would have to wait. Five calls. Five voicemails. Something was wrong.

I played the first message. The digital voice service informed me that it had been left at 8:25 pm.

"Hi, Nelson. It's me." God it was good to hear her voice. I hated leaving her for these trips.

Tap. Tap.

"I know you're probably on the plane. I still can't figure out why you didn't just drive. Two layovers for a Raleigh to Charlotte flight just doesn't make any sense."

She was right; it didn't. But the company wouldn't front me the rent-a-car and the mileage. Instead they booked me on the cheapest flight they could find – an afternoon flight from Raleigh, NC to Philadelphia, PA to Newark, NJ, then back down Charlotte, NC for touchdown right after eleven pm. Somehow that came in cheaper than a one-hour direct flight. I could have driven in less time.

Tap. Tap.

"Your nerves must be shot. Have you taken your... your pills?"

She knew about those did she? Damn. I didn't remember telling her about the psychiatrist. Dr. Smith had recommended him. He had thought that medication might be necessary for my condition. I hadn't wanted Eleanor to know, but she always knew everything, eventually.

"You should have told me. I found... well, this isn't the time. I think it's a great idea, Nelson. It shows that you're trying."

Oh God, not this again. She always went there, but of course I was trying. Why wouldn't I try to be better?

Tap. Tap.

CRASH!

What was that? It had definitely come from her end of the line.

My stomach lurched. This was it. This was the emergency. This was the reason for the later calls. A clatter erupted on the other end of the phone, followed by shouting.

"Oh fuck! Marie!"

The voicemail ended. No goodbye. Just a crashing noise, then those last words... oh fuck! Marie! Then nothing.