He came home that evening and listened to his voicemails.

When he got to the third

one he froze…

Miles came home that evening and listened to his voicemails. When he got to the third

one he froze. It was his mother, offering to take his daughter, Jemma, for the night so he could

go out with his wife for their anniversary.

Miles stood frozen with the phone in his hand, his eyes watering, and body shivering. He

froze not because he forgot his anniversary, like anyone would expect a husband to do; he froze

because his mother has been dead for five years.

On the day Jemma was born, his mother walked into the delivery room with such pride

that it seemed as though she herself had just given birth. She held her first granddaughter. This

little being that her own son had created gifted her a passion beyond any love she had ever felt.

She quietly passed while in the waiting room later that evening due to a heart attack. Her heart

was too full with love for her new grandchild. There wasn’t enough room. With the beginning of

one life comes the end to another.

Miles was still shaking... so badly that each finger had its own heart beat; a tingling

sleepiness that radiated throughout his body. After he listened to the message on repeat, totalling

three times, his muscles suddenly felt weak and immobile. It was surely her. It was the same

calm, squeaky voice he heard only five years ago, and the same humming, contagious laugh he’d

hear every time someone cracked a joke. He could feel her dimpled, warming smile radiating

from the phone, and he could see her rosy, wrinkled cheeks and soft graying hair. He shed a tear,

and realized the message said she would come to pick up Jemma at 6:00. It was 5:30.
 He remembered how his mother always liked a clean house, and how every time she

visited him and his wife he had to have everything organized and tidy to her liking. Although he

began to feel lightheaded, he returned to this routine. He felt all the stress he endured melt away

at the thought of doing what his mother did so often for him. He remembered watching her

rummage through the cabinets and sorting out all the tupperware and stowaway utensils she

never used. The cleaning calmed him and almost made him forget that today was supposed to be

more important than a little phone call.

His wife, Melissa, came home while he was organizing the cabinets, “What are you doing

Miles? You should be getting ready. Our reservation is at 7:00.”

He was boiling hot and could feel beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He

could find no words to explain what had happened. He pointed at the phone. Melissa picked it up

and listened to all the messages. Her face was blank and Miles saw nothing in her eyes. His heart

began to sink.

“Miles, what am I supposed to be hearing? It’s just messages from Jemma’s school

counselor, and my uncle Pat reminding us about Thanksgiving,” she seemed annoyed. “Why are

you cleaning the cupboards anyway? You only do that when your mother comes to visit,” she

was more confused now.

“There’s a third message,” Miles said frantically, “There’s a third message. My mother

sent it. She wants Jemma for the night, so we can go out,” Miles buzzed by the phone and

quickly dialed to the voicemails… finding only two; two measly messages just like Melissa had

said. She looked up at him with a scowl. He wouldn’t let her speak, for he knew the frightening

words that would come out of her mouth like a wrecking ball crushing its next victim.
 “There were three. There were three. I swear there were three! It must have been deleted,

but I never even pressed delete, I just hung up the phone! I swear it was there! I just--”

“Miles!” Melissa yelled, a look of worry and astonishment on her reddening face, “Your

mother is dead.”

Miles’ hands and feet suddenly felt like pins and needles, everything numbing to the touch. “She

called me.”

“She can’t call you. She is dead Miles.”

“She called me Melissa! She left me a voicemail and she’s coming to pick up Jemma in ten

minutes!”

“Damnit, Miles. Your mother is gone. Dead. In the ground. Don’t do this today. Not on our

anniversary. Jemma is going to the neighbors’ house tonight. Your mother couldn’t come up

from the grave and get her. Go get ready.”

Miles frowned, “She’s coming in ten. I’ll get ready once she’s gone.”

“Miles don’t--”

“Go Melissa! Just go! I’ll only be ten minutes for Christs’ sake!” She stormed up the stairs to

their room yelling for their daughter, leaving Miles standing by the phone hopelessly waiting…

waiting for his mother to call again, for her to knock at the door, for her to show her face and tell

him that this was real, that this wasn’t just his mind playing tricks again.

He could hear Melissa yelling at Jemma to get her things together from upstairs. It was a

low, thunderous mumble through the walls. A yell he heard quite often; especially when Melissa

came home from work. She always had to get her anger out, and she almost never missed a

chance to let it out on Jemma. His mother never did that. His mother was a sweet, sympathetic
caregiver. She always tucked him into bed, cut the crust off his sandwiches, and left him little

notes in his lunch box every Friday. She always made him come give her a hug and a kiss before

he left the house even after he moved out. She would come home from work at the post office

and bring him charming, little stamps for him to stick all over his school notebooks and she

always lounged in the recliners with him to watch MASH before bed: their favorite thing to do.

She was his best friend. How could she possibly be alive? How could she possibly ring him and

leave a voicemail? There was no way she would ring the doorbell and come in for a cup of tea at

6:00. She was dead. She couldn’t be resurrected.

Miles limped to the front door. His legs were stiffening, his vision was blurred, and he

was still dripping sweat. He took some Tylenol and blocked it out. He glanced at the clock and

saw that it was 5:55: five minutes. Five minutes to comprehend that his mother might not be

dead and that his whole life was a lie planned out for him by the big man in the sky. He could

remember how gentle she was everytime she dropped him off for school, “I love you Miles in a

million,” she would always say, and touch his cheek, warming his whole body. His legs began to

shake and he could no longer stand on his numbing feet. He laid on the floor, hands covering his

face, sweat dripping down his nose and soaking his shirt.

5:56. He remembered his wedding day. She showed up in a blush colored dress, the color

of her rosy face. She shed not one tear the whole ceremony. Only when they began walking back

down the aisle was when she stood up and whooped and whistled and broke down into tears,

clapping for her son. She smiled her dimpled smile one you could see for ​miles. ​Miles’ heart

began to quicken and his knees no longer felt like they were attached to his body.
 5:57. On his graduation, his mother bought him a huge cake with a little cap and gown in

blue and white icing. It read ​Congratulations for a million Miles ​on it. It was so embarrassing

that Miles didn’t want to leave his room and acknowledge anyone at the party. His mother

stormed up to his room, grabbed his ear, and dragged him down the stairs to his cake. She

pointed at the ​for a million Miles​ and motioned for him to scrape it off. He did so and she shoved

all the icing right in his face causing the both of them to burst out laughing. Miles remembered

how fun that day was. How his mother helped him feel not so small.

5:58. Christmas morning rolled around. Miles was 8. It was the day his father left the

house for good. He had made both his parents an ornament for the tree, with the words ​#1 Dad

and ​#1 Mom​ on them. He still had red and green paint on his fingers. He waited for his father,

but he never saw him walk out of the bedroom door. His mother insisted they begin opening

presents without him and that it would be alright he would be home soon. He watched his mother

open his ornaments; she wiped tears from her eyes and said, “This is lovely Miles. Your father

will love these.” He never came home. For the first time, Miles saw his mother’s heart breaking

instead of overflowing with affection. He wanted more than anything for her to be happy and

more than anything for her to forget that Christmas day. Miles could no longer contain his

shaking, numbing body. He became short of breath, and could only handle small gasps of air. He

pulled his knees up too his face and tried to rock the pain away.

5:59. Miles recalled the day Jemma was born. The day his mother died. She sat in the

waiting room, after holding her first grandchild, her cheeks were bright and her face glowing and

full. She was the liveliest she had ever been and the liveliest she ever would be. Miles walked

back into the waiting room to check on his mother a few minutes later and found her lying on the
floor, her head lay crooked, but she looked peaceful, and calm, like she had planned her death all

along.

6:00 hits. Miles’ shaking stopped suddenly and his heart began to throb making a rhythm

with the door: someone was knocking. He yearned to open it, but he was nailed to the floor,

suffering, his body aching, convulsing, blood pumping, drowning in a pool of sweat. He felt the

clawing hands of every sin he had committed pulling him to his grave. The door was thumping,

each knock shook every inch of the house, and with each thump, the light behind the door

brightened.

6:01. The door opened. A fluorescent light beamed from the doorway. A woman with

illuminating blue eyes, rosy red cheeks, and a magically dimpled smile reached out a hand to

Miles, and he found that he was no longer victim to the floor. He rose up to the heavens, and

looked down upon the vibrant city he once knew so well. He looked at the woman; she smiled

and warmed Miles with a touch on his cheek, “I was wondering when you would open that door

my Miles in a million.”