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Illustration by Chelsea O'Byrne
It’s spring and I am walking in the woods near a friend’s home. The carpet of old pine needles beneath my feet is soft and the sound of the wind in the high trees reminds me of the sea. I turn off the main path and enter a stand of cedar trees. I see what looks like a phone. I approach cautiously. It is a payphone, with an inscription that welcomes people to use it to talk to loved ones who are gone and very much missed. I look around. I have heard about these “wind phones” before. It was during a radio documentary about one in Japan, which comforted me soon after my parents died. I lift the receiver and hold it to my ear. Nothing. Of course. I replace the handset and walk away, feeling sheepish.
For years, I held onto a phone message from my dad. He had called to congratulate me on a good gig and I loved it. Phone calls from Dad were rare things. I listened to that message hundreds of times before it disappeared. I sure wish I could hear it now.
For a brief while, after my parents died, I hoped to hear the echoes of their voices. I often get up in the middle of the night. In the first years after their deaths, I would look into the corners of the darkened house and wonder if I might see a shadow move, see the blue of Dad’s eyes, the white of Mom’s hair. It has never happened.
In their later years, I often enjoyed visiting with my parents in the small garden at the front of their care home; it was shaded by soft trees. On one of those good days, Mom talked more and more about knowing that she and Dad were nearing the end of their lives. That day, she was almost light-hearted about it. I smiled at her and asked, “But after you leave, will you ever come back to see us?” She laughed, “Well, hardly, it’s taken me so long to get out of here, I don’t plan to ever come back.”
When I was small, Mom would be on the phone with her sister or mother every morning for what seemed like hours. They lived just across the river. Mom would pour a cup of tea, whiten it with evaporated milk, light a cigarette and sit down to visit on the phone. Most of the conversation consisted of a lot of “mmm hmm” and “uhhuhs” and the aspirated affirmative that is part of the Maritime rhythm of speech. Her cigarettes would burn down in the ashtray on the kitchen counter before she finished.
When I was 24, I backpacked around Europe, staying in youth hostels, trying to do everything on the cheap. One Sunday afternoon in Penzance, England, the wind and the rain were reaching hurricane strength. The hostel closed at 9 a.m., and didn’t open again until 5. I spent most of the day drinking tepid tea at McDonald’s and as the late afternoon approached, I gathered my things and headed back to the hostel. I was dripping wet and cold to the bone. I was miserable. Passing a payphone, I took a chance and made a collect call to my parents. To my great relief, Dad picked up and accepted my call. He shared the call with Mom. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do recall the warmth of hearing their voices, of connecting.
In her room in the care home where Mom and Dad lived for their last two years, Mom would sit in one of her armchairs and talk for hours on the phone, often to her sister, growing old in Ottawa. Dad would doze. Making my way to visit them, I would call and tell her when I would arrive. She would call me back at least twice in the two-hour drive, sometimes more. Every evening, we’d talk by phone, every morning the same.
Weeks before she died, Mom forgot how to use the phone. My husband, James, and I tried to teach her how to use it but, time and again, she was confused. One day, Dad took me aside to tell me that this had been going on for a long while. From then on, I arranged with the staff to be in the room at particular times so she would get my calls.
The evening before she suffered a massive stroke, Mom talked to me on the phone to tell me that she was resting well and she loved her room.
A few days after my first visit to the wind phone, I return to it. I lift the receiver; I quiet my heart and hold my breath. I picture my parents in the times that were good and I imagine them turning to the phone as it rings. I pause and speak into the receiver, “Everyone’s fine. We sure miss you. I wish you’d come and tell us you’re okay and that we did good.”
I pause again and hang up, feeling a little silly, feeling a little good.
Linda E Clarke lives in Guelph, Ont.