Page 3 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Callum

Unplayed Voicemails: (15)

PTSD is the bitter aftertaste of tragedy. Something you can’t just wash out of your mouth. And after eleven years of it, my tastebuds are completely numb.

At least therapy gets me out of the house.

“And what would you like to be different in your life right now, Cal?” Dr. Jain gently asks.

Everything and nothing.

“I just want my family to worry less about me.”

I’m twenty-seven years old. And they treat me like I’m still that terrified teenager, yelling out for help I know won’t come.

She hums thoughtfully and peers over her tortoiseshell glasses. “So, what goal can you set for yourself over the next week? Remember, let’s focus on something specific.”

I mull it over as my gaze sweeps across her office. The light blue walls with the oceanic art that I could recognize in the dark. The small succulents on the shelves, her degrees on the wall, and the beige furniture. My gaze finally settles on the box of tissues I’ve never used.

Part of me wants to say the “right” thing, something I know Dr. Jain will readily approve of. The other part of me is sick of lying to therapists and to myself. I want to get better. I’ve always wanted to get better. It’s just really, really hard.

“My sister invited me to her boutique’s grand opening afterparty. I guess I could go to that and stay for an hour. Be present for Cait.”

Dr. Jain smiles, crinkling the fine lines around her eyes. “That’s a wonderful goal, Cal. I look forward to hearing all about how it went in our next session. Consider journaling after and writing down how you felt.”

I throw her a look, and she gives me a knowing grin. She’s well aware of how much I hate journaling. Freestyle writing isn’t my thing. Checklists and scoring grids are where I’m most comfortable.

Dr. Jain sets down her notebook. “Are you ready to listen to another voicemail?”

I swallow. After finally listening to the first one in January, it doesn’t hurt any less, but it does feel the slightest bit easier. Even though my jaw still clenches, my hands don’t get clammy, and I stopped having a panic attack following each voicemail after month three. Each message played is a five-pound weight off my back.

“Sure. We can listen to one.” My voice comes out higher than normal.

“You’re making great progress, Cal. You might even want to consider listening to a voicemail on your own, outside of our sessions.” She picks up her mug on the side table, taking a sip of tea.

My stomach lurches at the suggestion. Sometimes, I wish I could listen to them all at once. Get it over with. But I know myself, and I’m not there yet.

Shaking my head, I mumble, “I’m not sure I can.”

“And that’s completely okay.” Dr. Jain nods reassuringly. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

I retrieve my phone from my pocket and study the little divots in the case, the tiny crack in the glass. I got a new number years ago, mostly to avoid constant check-in calls from old acquaintances, but I couldn’t bear to give up my former line, the one with years of inconsequential text messages between two people who saw each other every day.

I enter the passcode, and a picture of my family lights up the screen. Frozen in time, from over a decade ago. My parents’ auburn hair was darker then. Cait’s rocking a neon orange bucket hat, which she’d probably burn today, and Carter’s oddly muscular for a fourteen-year-old boy. The twins are kindergartners—cheesing for the camera instead of their current teenage pouts. And Christopher, our token blond, looks as switched-at-birth then as he does now. The only trait he shares with the rest of us is the first letter of his name.

Their smiling faces give me a boost of encouragement as I navigate to my phone app. But when I see the red series of digits in my voicemails, my throat goes dry. I stare at the phone number I have memorized, though it’s no longer saved as a contact in my phone.

“Deep breaths, Cal. Like we practiced,” Dr. Jain gently reminds me.

I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, trying to focus on how far I’ve come. The number in the corner was much higher and more daunting last year.

I don’t listen to them in order. There’s just certain ones—certain dates—I can’t bring myself to confront. This message was left two years ago.

Bracing myself, I click play and put my phone on speaker. The inviting voice that fills the room is one I’m extremely familiar with.

“Hi, Cal, it’s Tammy.”

“And Jeff!”