Calling Out by Rae Meadows

perturbed scowl.
    â€œHey, beautiful. I thought you might be in. How are
you today?”
    Scott’s intimate manner catches me off guard.
    â€œHi there. I’m fine, thank you. Would you like to see a
lady today?”
    â€œYou know who I want to see. I was wondering if you
like to golf. We could shoot off to the driving range and
hit a few balls. Then some dinner. What do you say?”
    â€œThat sounds lovely. Now I do have Jezebel today,” I
say.
    â€œI’m driving up from Provo right now. I could be there
in forty minutes. Come on. A late-lunch-break date.”
    I hope I sound cooler than I feel. I like this despite its
eeriness.
    â€œThanks, baby, but you know I can’t,” I say. “Besides, I
don’t know how to golf.” The other line rings. “Scott, hold
for just a moment.”
    I pick up and McCallister asks, “Did I ever tell you
about the time when I went home to live with my mom
after I came back from Aspen? I had no money, no job,
nothing to do. It was really snowy upstate that winter. I
wore this bright red one-piece pajama suit every day for
four months. You know the kind with the butt flap? I slept
in it, then got up and did a bong hit, layered on snow
clothes and shoveled obsessively. I even shoveled out the
neighbors’ cars. Then I’d go inside, transfer to the couch,
my mom would make me nachos and hot chocolate, and
we’d play Scrabble.”
    I see that Scott has finally tired of waiting on hold and
has hung up.
    â€œJesus, McCallister. You must have been in bad
shape,” I say.
    â€œAre you kidding? That was the best time of my life.”
    I hear him exhale cigarette smoke.
    â€œFeeling nostalgic?”
    â€œI wish I understood why I was happy then.”
“You had no worries and you had limitless timewasting activities.”
    â€œYeah,” he says, sounding flat and melancholy.
    â€œSo when’s she moving in?” I ask.
    â€œCouple weeks.”
    Sounds of calamitous New York City intrude through
his cell phone.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I ask.
    â€œGoing to my shrink.”
    â€œDo you tell him you call me?” I ask.
    â€œMaybe,” he says. “Sometimes.”
    â€œDo you tell what’s-her-face?”
    â€œNo. She wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œNo, I bet she wouldn’t.”
    â€œHow are the whores?” he asks.
    â€œFine,” I say. “It’s a slow day.”
    â€œHow are you, Jane?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œFine?” he asks.
    â€œFine,” I say.
    â€œI think you’re being aggressively distant.”
    â€œI think it might snow today,” I say.
    I went to a therapist for a few months a couple years
ago at McCallister’s urging, or more as a condition of our
continued involvement. She was an older woman who
worked out of her Upper East Side apartment, with
soothing cream-colored carpeting, soft beige walls, and a
Lithuanian doorman who used to give me a solemn smile
and a slight bow because he knew who I was going to see.
    I brought up my father’s drinking often because I
knew she liked me to talk about it. My dad is all about
control and his alcohol consumption is no exception.
Scotch on the rocks, his glass perpetually filled. When my
dad drinks, he becomes even more reserved.
    â€œAbsent while present,” the therapist said, nodding.
    It’s not that I thought she didn’t know what she was
talking about. I just dreaded going because I began to fear
that all this overanalyzing of a comfortable life was a silly
indulgence. Besides, I was always defending my involvement with McCallister, to the point that I conspired
against her at all angles. So I quit. I told her I was moving
to Seattle and then I stayed away from the Upper East Side
as much as possible.
*
    I meet Ember for the first time as she’s coming out of my
bathroom in one of my towels. She has a slight, angular frame, wavy dark hair,
and hazel