Wrong Phone

I woke late in the night to the jarring sound of the wrong phone ringing.  My land line clamoring metallically in this singing cellphone world of ours.

Always trouble when that phone rings late at night. 

I sprang from my bed, raced to the kitchen, and picked-up the handset.  “Hello,” I blurted.

“Vietnam calling,” a heavily accented male voice responded.  “Tung.  You remember me?  We met at Uyen’s brother’s house.  I am calling to say that Uyen’s sister has died.”

There.

Bad.  Very bad.

My wife gone first…now her older sister.

I did not know Uyen’s sister, really.  I knew her mostly from the occasional wandering letter she sent Uyen from home.  Uyen translated the lovely Vietnamese cursive for me—each letter always punctuated at the end with the simple phrase: “Please send more money.”

I enjoyed sending the money.

I met Uyen’s sister in person on only two occasions in 2009.  Tiny and frail, she clung to my arm speaking words I could not understand.  She told Uyen that I was handsome.

“She is crazy,” everyone capable of speaking English told me.

At one time she had been stunningly beautiful.  Absolutely, stunning.

I did not know her.  But I know death all too well.  And I knew how Uyen would feel.

After the phone call, I wobbled out and sat on the sofa in the dark, sobbing.

--Mitchell Hegman