You Have Reached
By Alice Kinerk
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
The telephone was ringing. The phone which had rang countless times over the years, for she’d raised five children in this home, was ringing. Every neighborhood kid used to call their number. At the worst moments, too. She’d be flipping pancakes. Ring-ring! Can Andi come over? We’re going swimming and Mom told me to ask. She’d be running a bath for the little one. Ring-ring! Is Bailey there? I caught a snake bigger than last time.
Now she picked her way across the linoleum to where the phone hung beside her kitten calendar. That was something of which her husband never would have approved (he was cat-intolerant, claiming allergy), but even he was gone now, for a long time. She’d purchased the calendar because now she was free to do as she pleased.
But not really. She was conscripted by doctor visits, fatigue, vertigo, her bladder. She was rarely free. She would have preferred to remain snoozing as she had been, not startled awake by the phone.
In sleep, she’d returned to their old summer home on the other side of the mountains. There was a lake there, the name of which escaped her. Often in dreams she’d traveled back to that house on the nameless lake. She felt the station wagon rumble as she crested the bare hill overlooking golden fields. She heard children’s joy erupt from the back seat as they pulled in at last. She smelled the dusty air while opening her car door.
Good times. It pained her to think how much of her life was in the past, how much practical knowledge, wisdom and stories she’d accumulated and kept inside her, destined to die when she did.
But the telephone was ringing. It might be one of her kids. They didn’t call often. Occasionally they sent texts. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time the phone rang. She missed the cheery sound of it, the hopefulness.
It was Andi who’d purchased the cell for her, claiming it was a gift from all.
She knows how to use it, but only begrudgingly. She knows how to check her texts, and theoretically she knows how to send a text too, meaning she has done so in the past and might recreate the process, if it was life or death.
A year ago, when Andi visited, she tried to talk her into giving up her telephone.
“But what if one of you needs to get in touch?” she’d said.
“That’s what your cell is for!”
“But emergencies. You never forget your childhood phone number.”
“We’ve got your cell number programmed. You won’t have to rush to the phone before the machine picks up.”
“Only if I keep it on me.”
“Which you should.”
“Something else for me to remember then.”
On they’d gone like this, endlessly.
So she’d kept the telephone, paying $26 a month for a line mostly unused. She’d never admitted her fear. What if one of you lands in jail? You only get one call.
And reaching the telephone before the machine was a good challenge. The machine allows exactly five rings. The sixth cuts off with a click. Hello. You have reached--She hates that. Hearing her warbly old lady voice.
Now the phone has rung five times. She’s close. The sixth ring begins. She grabs it.
“Hello?”
“Good morning!” A male voice. Chipper.
She pauses. If she had to select the child most likely to call her from jail, it would be Bailey. As a teen he’d had brushes with the law. Now he is married, kids, homeowner, small businessman. He’d even bought a boat. Still, Bailey had a bit of a devil in him. He’d just learned to hide it.
“Bailey?”
“Haw! You guessed it. How you been, Mama?”
This was odd. Her kids did not call her Mama. There was something hippy-dippy about the name, reminiscent of stoned teenagers with flowers in their hair. Her husband would not have approved. And the grammar. How you been. That was not Bailey, even at his worst.
But Bailey might be in jail. Perhaps his style of speaking had been influenced by the surrounding lowlifes.
“Bailey.” Her downbeat tone was full of disappointment. “What’d you do?”
“Haw! Nothing, Mama. Just enjoying this beautiful morning. Figuring I’d call and see what’s new.”
“Oh.” Now, this generosity of heart did sound like Bailey. She studied her calendar. Two gray cuties popped up from a basket, a blur of flowers behind. “Last I heard Andi got a new pick-up. It’s low enough for me to ride. You know my balance is bad.”
“Andi has a pick-up!” Bailey’s voice was full of warmth. “How’s he doing now?”
He. The man on the phone had said he. So it was not Bailey. This pained her more than it should have. She held the phone away from her ear. A tightness constricted her. She stayed silent, fearing she might cry. Then she did cry, whimpering like a wounded pet. She was frustrated to have walked all the way to the phone, allowed herself to get her hopes up, then been fooled. It upset her that this was not Bailey. She missed her second child very much. She wished to be in the old station wagon with him, pulling up to the nameless lake.
“Mama, don’t cry. Tell Bailey what’s got you down.”
She swallowed. She thought about how this man was surely working her for some personal gain. He was seeking her money, not caring a whit about her feelings, not in truth. She’d received scam calls before. But then she thought about this man’s mother, whoever she was, out there alive or dead. She wondered if any of that woman’s children came around anymore, or if the better part of a year went by before someone visited her. She felt unbearably sad, thinking about this other person she did not even know.
She settled onto the little stool by the telephone. She sighed.
And she began.
Now she picked her way across the linoleum to where the phone hung beside her kitten calendar. That was something of which her husband never would have approved (he was cat-intolerant, claiming allergy), but even he was gone now, for a long time. She’d purchased the calendar because now she was free to do as she pleased.
But not really. She was conscripted by doctor visits, fatigue, vertigo, her bladder. She was rarely free. She would have preferred to remain snoozing as she had been, not startled awake by the phone.
In sleep, she’d returned to their old summer home on the other side of the mountains. There was a lake there, the name of which escaped her. Often in dreams she’d traveled back to that house on the nameless lake. She felt the station wagon rumble as she crested the bare hill overlooking golden fields. She heard children’s joy erupt from the back seat as they pulled in at last. She smelled the dusty air while opening her car door.
Good times. It pained her to think how much of her life was in the past, how much practical knowledge, wisdom and stories she’d accumulated and kept inside her, destined to die when she did.
But the telephone was ringing. It might be one of her kids. They didn’t call often. Occasionally they sent texts. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time the phone rang. She missed the cheery sound of it, the hopefulness.
It was Andi who’d purchased the cell for her, claiming it was a gift from all.
She knows how to use it, but only begrudgingly. She knows how to check her texts, and theoretically she knows how to send a text too, meaning she has done so in the past and might recreate the process, if it was life or death.
A year ago, when Andi visited, she tried to talk her into giving up her telephone.
“But what if one of you needs to get in touch?” she’d said.
“That’s what your cell is for!”
“But emergencies. You never forget your childhood phone number.”
“We’ve got your cell number programmed. You won’t have to rush to the phone before the machine picks up.”
“Only if I keep it on me.”
“Which you should.”
“Something else for me to remember then.”
On they’d gone like this, endlessly.
So she’d kept the telephone, paying $26 a month for a line mostly unused. She’d never admitted her fear. What if one of you lands in jail? You only get one call.
And reaching the telephone before the machine was a good challenge. The machine allows exactly five rings. The sixth cuts off with a click. Hello. You have reached--She hates that. Hearing her warbly old lady voice.
Now the phone has rung five times. She’s close. The sixth ring begins. She grabs it.
“Hello?”
“Good morning!” A male voice. Chipper.
She pauses. If she had to select the child most likely to call her from jail, it would be Bailey. As a teen he’d had brushes with the law. Now he is married, kids, homeowner, small businessman. He’d even bought a boat. Still, Bailey had a bit of a devil in him. He’d just learned to hide it.
“Bailey?”
“Haw! You guessed it. How you been, Mama?”
This was odd. Her kids did not call her Mama. There was something hippy-dippy about the name, reminiscent of stoned teenagers with flowers in their hair. Her husband would not have approved. And the grammar. How you been. That was not Bailey, even at his worst.
But Bailey might be in jail. Perhaps his style of speaking had been influenced by the surrounding lowlifes.
“Bailey.” Her downbeat tone was full of disappointment. “What’d you do?”
“Haw! Nothing, Mama. Just enjoying this beautiful morning. Figuring I’d call and see what’s new.”
“Oh.” Now, this generosity of heart did sound like Bailey. She studied her calendar. Two gray cuties popped up from a basket, a blur of flowers behind. “Last I heard Andi got a new pick-up. It’s low enough for me to ride. You know my balance is bad.”
“Andi has a pick-up!” Bailey’s voice was full of warmth. “How’s he doing now?”
He. The man on the phone had said he. So it was not Bailey. This pained her more than it should have. She held the phone away from her ear. A tightness constricted her. She stayed silent, fearing she might cry. Then she did cry, whimpering like a wounded pet. She was frustrated to have walked all the way to the phone, allowed herself to get her hopes up, then been fooled. It upset her that this was not Bailey. She missed her second child very much. She wished to be in the old station wagon with him, pulling up to the nameless lake.
“Mama, don’t cry. Tell Bailey what’s got you down.”
She swallowed. She thought about how this man was surely working her for some personal gain. He was seeking her money, not caring a whit about her feelings, not in truth. She’d received scam calls before. But then she thought about this man’s mother, whoever she was, out there alive or dead. She wondered if any of that woman’s children came around anymore, or if the better part of a year went by before someone visited her. She felt unbearably sad, thinking about this other person she did not even know.
She settled onto the little stool by the telephone. She sighed.
And she began.
Twelve years ago, Alice Kinerk planted bamboo in her front yard, despite neighbors who claimed she’d regret it once it grew out of control. It has grown out of control, but she hasn’t regretted it yet. Read more of Alice’s fiction at alicekinerk.com.
Author’s Note:
I am a few decades younger than the protagonist in “You Have Reached,” but I have friends and family in their senior years. When I wrote this story I had been thinking about how our culture devalues our elders, how we tend to ignore them, chuckle about them, take advantage of them, etc. America is in the throes of a loneliness epidemic, and seniors experience that acutely. This story is an exploration of an unlikely connection, a reaching out. I believe writing and reading fiction is also a way of reaching out, of finding connection in this lonely time.