Decades

Unfinished Business

Lindsey's telephone notified him of a new text message. "K," was all it said. He scoffed. That's about all the communication he could hope for these days. He'd sent a long message to his oldest daughter that morning telling her about a weekend getaway that he was planning and wanting to alert her of the dates so she could put them in her calendar. The kids were doing their own thing most of the time. He and Kristen saw each other briefly for dinner once a week and in counseling sessions that usually took place online.

He was lonely. He didn't bother trying to get anything else out of LeeLee. A "k" was at least a response, which was better than on other days. He hadn't slept well the night before; the memorial service had done a number on him. He couldn't help but think about his own mortality, his own life choices, and, of course, his former lover.

As he put down his phone to pour himself another cup of coffee, the phone dinged. He finished doctoring up his coffee and took a sip before he reached for the telephone. It notified him of a text message from an unknown number. It said, "Hi Linds I," that was the complete text.

He tried not to get his hopes up, but nobody called him "Linds" except Stevie. And the weird, cryptic "I" with nothing following it screamed Stevie, too. She could have meant to say, "I miss you," or "I love you," or "I hate your guts," or "I want to see you," or "I hope I never see you again."

He quickly typed back, "Hi, who is this?" hoping beyond hope that it was who he thought it was.

Another text came through after a ridiculous pause. "twas god to see you yesterday," was all it said. Maybe the "I" was connected to the "t." Because nobody says "'twas." The text took too long to come through, and the mistakes made it seem like it could have been Stevie. She didn't really use a phone the last time they'd been close enough for him to know things about her; he doubted that changed.

Maybe he was getting his hopes up, though. He'd often thought about the possibility of Stevie reaching out to him. He'd written her enough emails. He held out hope that if she'd read them, she'd respond. There had to be something there. Something he'd said that could touch something inside of her. He'd expressed anger, love, sadness, heartbreak, disappointment, longing, and every other emotion on the spectrum. He couldn't believe she could be so detached from him that none of that would touch her.

Things had ended badly, impersonally, and abruptly. She lived in such a bubble that it was impenetrable, so he stood no chance of getting to her without her choosing to allow him. Seeing her yesterday made it feel inevitable that they'd speak again soon.

He waited and watched the dots on his screen that signaled the mystery party was typing. Then, nothing. He began to type, first erasing what he was writing, then starting again and finally deleting it as well. He had no idea how to begin. In his mind, he was messaging with Stevie. But, in reality, it could be anyone. He didn't know the number, but it was a local one, so that was encouraging. It could be her.

The dots stopped. And there was no reply. So, he typed, "I don't recognize this number. Who is this?"

When a text came through that confirmed his suspicions, his heart lept at the letters that appeared on his screen, "Stevie."

Lindsey couldn't decide what he should write next. Maybe seeing him and being in his arms briefly woke something up inside her, or at least that was Lindsey's hope.

—---------------

"This way, Stevie."

"Can you smile, Lindsey?"

"Chris, can you turn your body to the left?"

"Get closer to John."

"Mick, can you stand in the center."