Unknown Caller

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.Text copyright © 2023 by Lisa UngerAll rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattlewww.apub.comAmazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.ISBN-13: 9781662509490 (digital)Cover design by Caroline Teagle JohnsonCover image: © Jens Schwarz / EyeEm / Getty Images; © Lana2011 / Getty Images 1.The call comes in just as my shift is about to end.It’s been a slow night and I’ve already packed up my things, getting ready to go. If I don’t answer, the call will bounce to Espo, my supervisor, who is by far the best among us here at the Crisis Center. He’s calm, steady, soothing, his voice like a warm blanket wrapped around you. He’s been doing this a long time. Most people burn out, move on to other, less intense work. But he’s still here.Even though some folks from the next shift are already arriving, sitting down in their cubicles, donning their headsets, I don’t even consider not answering. That’s why I’m here. The only reason. To answer when someone makes the last call she might ever make.I click the flashing green button on the phone in front of me, put my headset back on. A number appears on the ID screen right away. Sometimes the caller’s name is listed there as well, but not tonight. Just Unknown Caller.“Hey,” I answer. Keep it light, keep it casual, like I’m hearing from an old friend. “You’ve reached the Crisis Hotline.” I offer the standard statement about confidentiality. Then, “This is Charlie. I’m listening.”There’s a pause, and I wonder if the caller hung up already. Or if it’s one of our regulars, gearing up to put me through my paces. Our incel, after another failed Match.com date; he usually asks for me, but he’ll take one of the other young women on duty in a pinch. The vet with PTSD, who has bouts of insomnia; that call usually goes to Bruce, who specializes in counseling veterans. The elderly lady who calls when her cat doesn’t come in right away at night. She knows us all by name.“Hi, Charlie.”A young voice, deep. Male, I think, but you can never be certain, and you should never assume. That’s one of the first things Espo taught me. Assume nothing. Be a blank slate for every call.“Who’s this?”I glance at Espo, whose large, round-shouldered form fills his chair in the glass-walled supervisor’s office, and wish I could take the words back. But he’s not listening to my call; he’s probably tied up with Darren, who’s still training. Darren’s sitting in another cubicle on the far side of the room. I can hear the low tones of his voice.What can I call you? or Who am I speaking with tonight? That’s what Espo would have said.Who’s this? or What’s your name? Those are confrontational, put pressure on the caller, who is obviously under enough pressure. Sometimes people don’t want to give their names, and that’s okay.Another long pause; I sink into it. Learn to wait. Patience saves lives. More Espo-isms, as we like to call them here.“I’m no one,” the unknown caller finally says.I try to put a smile in my voice. People can hear kindness; it has a tone and timbre. So do judgment, fear, panic, anger.“I can’t call you that, can I?”Another pause.I listen to breath every night. It tells you so much—ragged, shallow, faint, sobbing, waning. His is none of these. His is slow and measured. In the background, I hear music, low and tinny. Something I almost recognize, but I can’t quite hear it well enough to pin it down.“It’s okay,” I say when he doesn’t answer. “You don’t have to give your name. We can just talk.”Here’s the thing.Some people just want to die.They have their reasons. Grief. A lifetime battle with depression. A terminal diagnosis. And those folks? You can’t stop them. Every cop will tell you that there are suicide-hotline phones at the top of most high bridges. Those who really want to die—they park their car, run, and leap. They pull the trigger, double-check the noose, take all the pills, and they walk through that doorway and don’t look back. They don’t pick up the phone, because they don’t want to be talked out of it.But the people who linger on the edge, looking down, the people who pick up the phone and reach out for help? Most of the time, you can talk them down. They are looking for a way back to the light.If they’ve called—Espo taught me—you can reach them. They want to take the hand you’re offering; they want to be drawn out of the darkness. Much of the time.“So, how are you?” I say into the sound of his breathing.Another stupid question. But sometimes it’s enough. Because that’s a question that gets asked a lot in life, but people rarely wait for the real answer. It’s more like a greeting, and we’re expected to answer quickly—Fine! Great! Howaboutyou?—and move on.“I called a suicide hotline,” he says flatly. “How do you think I am?”“Good point,” I say lightly. “So, what’s on your mind?”More breathing, growing deeper. I’m pretty sure he’s going to hang up. I’m sweating a little, feeling uncomfortable, nervous, like I’m fucking it up. I measure my own breath. Wait. Finally, he speaks again.“Have you ever lost anyone?” he asks.“Yes,” I answer truthfully.“Does it ever go away? The pain.”I draw in a deep breath, release it. “It changes. You find ways to live with it. Your life grows around it.”I sense his surprise at the honesty. Maybe he was expecting the