Call me anytime, on the line — Pittsburgh Lesbian Correspondents

My voicemail can handle about three messages before it is full. I am frequently being told “Your inbox is full” or “Delete some messages” or some such advice. I try hard to stay on top of the three spam messages that inevitably fill those slots, but I’m only human.

The rest of the voicemail slots? Those are calls from my mum. She called me on my birthday and Christmas and other random times.

“Hello Susan, it’s Mum. I miss you. I’m checking on you. I want to wish you a happy birthday. Call me when you can. I love you. Okay, bye-bye. Mum.”

If I listen to all of the messages, I can her her voice weakening, her thoughts scattering mid-call, and even the voice of the staff member who was helping her make the call.

Her voice sounds much more like the voice of her mother. My grandmother fueled her raspy voice with booze and cigarettes for God knows how long. My mother did neither. She just aged.

The thing is that I didn’t call her back. I should feel shame and guilt for that, but I just feel sad. Sad for both of us. The pain of our shared trauma was not surmountable in this lifetime. That’s not either of our fault. When she died at age 79, I felt many things but the strongest emotion was relief that she was finally free of her tormentors…