A narrative
The chill of the air outside swept the room with an ice that had much to do with his own trepidation, if he was honest. His hand hovered over the telephone. Such an insignificant box of plastic and cords but intimidating as it sat, innocently, on a box that he'd never unpacked. It drew back, hovering above and then with a sigh like a gust of frustration, grasped and dialed. The bleat-bleat of the keys was unnecessarily loud; an unwelcome reminder that yes, you were placing a phone-call, and each digit seemingly invoked an increase in sound as he edged toward the final scratched number on the tattered paper napkin.
A beat. Alex palmed over his face, the rasp of day-old beard pulling unpleasantly at his skin. Kind of designer thing you wore accessorised with a crisp shirt and jeans, not the hollowed circles and dead eyes he could see in the piece of glass, nailed to the wall. Didn't look so good when it was the real deal, untouched by the thin, shiny veneer of sophistication. He neglected to examine that metaphor more closely. Instead he watched his reflection, trying to pace but tied back by the cord, as the low hums of the connection echoed in his ear.
"Hullo?" The voice was low and uncertain. Startling, still. He didn't recall the last time he'd spoken to a woman before the past week, who had that edge of knowledge to her voice; a reason to learn caution. Now he was speaking to the second in so many days.
He cleared his throat and tried to find some sound in the air of his throat, which seemed to be escaping with each passing second.
"Hi. It's me." Silence. A beat. "Uh. Chase. Alex. I-"
"I know who you are." Wryly. There was an absence of humour in her voice, as though it had been dried out and turned to dust.
"Lise," the shape of her name was familiar on his tongue and he caught it gratefully. "I want to-"
"Ask for more proof?" Bitter. An accusation, slid beneath his skin like cutting through butter. Meant to shame him. Alex winced and his reflection echoed it. His silence was interpreted. "I don't know what more you want. She's your kid." A beat, and then with a weariness that carried with it aching feet and ill-fitting uniforms and long shifts without a forseeable end. Quietly, "I need the help." A pause, then as though summoning sharpness from a pool of inexhaustable rememberances of caused pain. "You're such an asshole, you know that? She's seven months old, you shit."
His reflection clasped the phone to his ear as Alex sagged against the wall, resistance fading. It was deserved, he knew, tiredly.
"I'm not," he tried. Sounded awkward, tried again. "I'm not calling about that. I don't need the tests, Lise."
"What?" she spoke quickly, the question out of her mouth before he'd quite finished speaking. Suspicion bled through her voice. And again, "What?"
"I don't need the tests." His mouth felt thick, unable to find more words to explain, to make himself understood. "I'll - She's mine. My daughter. I'll take the responsibility." The words fell into the space between them, and Alex was made aware of just how vast that space was, and how little comfort the words, in the silence that followed.
"This isn't just about the money, Alex." A sighing draw-in of breath; she thought he only meant the responsibility he'd known in Kentucky. Peel off a couple of notes from the billfold, dismiss the incident as a bad joke. There was a low churning in the pit of his stomach, and he broke in before she could speak.
"I know." And then, "She's my ki- my daughter," Alex corrected himself. "It's about her." He sounded sure.
"If you mean it," uncertain, and wistfully, "Momma's been helping out some. We could really use the help."
"Done," he said hastily, "Done. And," he said, the words quavering in his mouth, fearing being said, "I want to meet her."
A pause. Then, carefully. "Why?" It stung with a resilience Alex couldn't shake off and dismiss, like plunging a hand into nettles as a boy and pretending it didn't hurt as his skin prickled red and tingled for days long after. He closed his eyes, too heavy to keep open and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, gently. He couldn't blame her. He'd done it so badly.
"Because. I'm her father," the word twisted his mouth strangely; he could, was claiming that? Now? "She should have one. Even if..." He stopped, the words unsaid shouting between them.
"Even if her dad is a jerk." Flatly. He nodded to no-one, head heavy. Heart heavy.
"I'll think about it." The phone rattled, as though she were hanging up, and then, a second later, quickly, a reprieve. "Alex. Thanks for at least owning up to it." The phone clicked off.
He sat back carefully, the room dimming with the last of the winter sunlight, and sighed.