“Hello?”
Her voice sticks in her throat; comes out as a shrill little gasp. “Is that Isabel Ryan?”
“Yes, who’s that?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid not. Who are you?”
“It’s Suzanne Sidney.”
There was a long pause. She had expected it. She waited. There was no answer, but she had not heard the receiver replaced. Perhaps she had laid it quietly on a table and gone away. She could not imagine Jim’s house. He had never described it. She did not know where the phone was, in the living room or in the hall; or perhaps Mrs. Ryan was lying on her bed, talking over an extension, and the receiver now suffocated in Jim’s pillow. But somehow she sensed that Mrs. Ryan was still there; breathing, breathing quietly, gathering her wits. When the silence had gone on for a long time she said, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice sounded very far away. “Yes, I remember, I know who you are.”
Suzanne waited. Then she said, “I think we ought to meet.”
“You want us to meet? Why?”
“I should have thought it was obvious. We have things to talk about.”
“I can’t imagine what things. Suzanne, how old are you now?”
“I’m eighteen. Don’t you know?”
“I couldn’t remember. I’m not sure that I ever knew your age exactly.”
“What
“Not much.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Suzanne, is something wrong?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I see, and are you…distressed about that?”
Mrs. Ryan’s voice had a strangely detached, professional note; as if the whole thing had nothing to do with her. What a cold woman she must be, Suzanne thought. Everything Jim has said is true.
“No, I’m not distressed.” She licked her dry lips, tasting their salt. “I’m rather proud, actually. I just need to talk the situation out with you.”
“Well…that’s all right, I suppose.” She sounded puzzled. “Have you talked to other people about this? Your father?”
“Oh, he thinks I should have an abortion. Nobody seems to understand.”
“You certainly should have proper counselling before you make your decision.”
“I want to meet you. Alone, or all three of us, it doesn’t matter. I think we ought to talk this out.”
“Suzanne—no, calm down now—I can’t think what to say, this has come upon me out of the blue. You see, how can I advise you? I don’t know you at all. I suppose he’s told you that I was a social worker…but really I can’t imagine what he’s told you.”
“He’s told me a lot. Everything that matters.”
“But there’s nothing left between us. It’s been over for years.”
“That’s exactly what he said.”
“Oh, so you think that an uninvolved person could help to sort out your problem?”
“You’re hardly uninvolved.”
“Look, have you tried the British Pregnancy Advisory Service? Their number must be in the book—”
“How can you be so callous? That would be very convenient for you, wouldn’t it, if I got rid of it? You don’t know how it feels, because you’ve never had any children.”
There was a silence. She sensed that Isabel was deeply shocked by her remark. Perhaps she had gone too far; though it was no more than the truth. After a long time, the woman spoke.
“Suzanne, listen carefully. Much as I regret the situation in which you find yourself, I don’t see how I can help you. What you do doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other. And even what your father thinks, that can’t matter now. I have troubles of my own.” She hesitated; a long hesitation. “Perhaps in some way I’m missing the point?”
“I think you’re missing it by a mile.” Fright made Suzanne aggressive. “You do know who I am, don’t you? You do know about our relationship?”
“We’re not related,” Isabel said. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Oh, very clever,” Suzanne said. Her voice was shrill with exasperation. “He did tell me about you, how crazy you were, how you didn’t give a damn for anybody but yourself.”
“He said that?”
“And more. He said he sometimes wished he’d never set eyes on you.”
