Twenty-three
Dan called me around three o’clock on the afternoon of the day AM was induced into labor. I don’t remember why I missed the call, but when I saw it was from him, I forgot all about email and deadlines and new mockups in my rush to call him back; after all, she’d been in labor since around nine, and that meant maybe there was a baby!
There was no baby. In fact, he explained, if I’d listened to the message he left me, he was just calling to tell me there was no baby yet.
“Um, well, you see,” I said, “I have a lot of voicemail messages.”
“And?”
“And now I’m kind of scared of them, so I can’t listen to them, so they’re growing. Like tribbles.”
And then he made his I’m-being-patient-with-this-nut face. He was at Piedmont Hospital, I was at work, but I know he made that face.
Tonight I dug around for some courage and finally listened to my voicemail. Twenty three messages. As in Michael Jordan’s jersey number. As in the number of times Caesar was stabbed. As in DAVID BECKHAM’S jersey number.
Now, lest you judge me too quickly, I’ve already returned almost all of these calls. Just because I didn’t listen to the message doesn’t mean I didn’t see the missed call on my phone. It only means I suck.
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