Seven

“Answer the f*****g phone!”

“What?” I tried to sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. It was a while before they adjusted to the dark.

“Elliot! Answer your phone! It’s pissing me off!” Stephen was screaming from upstairs.

I groaned, and, in my attempt to get off the couch, fell off it instead. “Alright! I’m coming! Keep your hair on! Christ...”

I shuffled over to the light switch and flipped it on. I then promptly screamed and stumbled backwards, clutching my face, as the light had burned my eyes. After my melodramatic moment, I walked up the stairs slowly, clunking my way up. My phone was still ringing, which was only causing Stephen to scream louder.

“I am getting it!” I shouted, once I was finally on the second floor. In my room, the offending phone was sending out shrill rings from where I had left it: on my bed.

I sat down beside it.

I picked it up.

I answered it in the customary fashion that is traditionally accepted by most of the world: by saying “Hello?” (Admittedly, my “hello” might have been a bit more annoyed sounding than most others, but that’s probably because the phone call in question was happening at 4:30 in the morning.)

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“Hello.” I answered, mentally preparing myself for a long and largely repetitive conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

“Hello, is someone there?”

“No, actually, Someone is not here. He’s been gone for a few days now, and we’re starting to get worried.”

A sigh.

“Is this Elliot Kieselstein?”

“Maybe. Who’s asking?”

“This is Basil Simmons.”

The name meant nothing to me. “And?”

“I was told by your mother to contact you immediately.”

What? “What?”

What? “What?” And then came those dreaded words that every kid was terrified of hearing. Even me, whose loathing of my mother would most likely cloud my judgement and opinion, was scared of hearing them.

“There has been an accident.”

“What?”

“Who’s on the phone?” Stephen asked, coming into my room, his flannel pyjamas wrinkled and his hair in cowlicks.

“Basil Simmons.” I said.

He sat down on the bed beside me. “Who?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well, tell him to piss off; it’s like 4 am.”

“He says there’s been an accident.”

“What? Put him on speaker!”

I put him on speaker, and lay the phone down on my bed, where we both stared at it.

“Hello?” Basil said, and I began to wonder whether his vocabulary contained any more words.

“Hi. It’s Elliot and Stephen Kieselstein. What do you want?”

“Your mother has been in a very serious accident involving several vehicles colliding.”

I swore. Stephen swore. Basil Simmons remained silent.

“And?” Stephen finally asked, giving my phone a dirty look, even though it hadn’t done anything wrong.

“She is in critical condition.”

“So... what do we do?” asked Stephen, showing no visible reaction to the news that our mother was in the hospital. Not that he would. She wasn’t the best mother, after all. And it’s not like she’d actually care if it were us. Sure, she’d pretend. Who wouldn’t? Society expects parents to care for their children. But honestly, genuinely, CARE? No. She did what was required of her and nothing more.

“She has not specified.”

“Cool.” I said. “Bye.”

“Wait!” Stephen yelled, grabbing the phone before I could get to it. “Where’s our mom?”

“She is currently in the emergency surgery room at Aspen Hospital. I trust you know where that is located?”

I nodded, and Stephen did too. Basil didn’t reply, probably because he couldn’t hear us nodding over the phone.

“So I guess we’ll be going then.”

“I am sorry to wake you gentlemen up at this hour.”

“No problem.” Stephen hung up the phone and threw it back on my bed. He looked at me, his young eyes open wide.

“What now?”

And as I looked back at him, my alarm clock screaming 5:00 in neon red digital numbers, I really didn’t know.