Unawares
A short story published by Heather Douglass
Copyright 2012 Heather Douglass
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
UNAWARES
Tension. There was tension in the day, because the air hung on me like my three year old granddaughter in a mood. When I pulled back the curtains I saw mounds of bruised cloud boiling up over the sun. I heard the sky grumble as I pulled my coat from the closet.
And tension in me, because it was my first day. So I forgot my umbrella, my training notes and my herbal teas (trying to cut down on caffeine, for my nerves' sake). All told, I made three return trips to the house, during which time the rain started. Gently at first, but that didn’t last long. Soon I was pushing through a diagonal barrage of water, rain better to go naked in and not trifle with foolish attempts at protective clothes.
Suicidal weather. Thunder tantrums over my head, flashes of temper erupting in the dark sky. I don’t know, perhaps my trainer was thinking of a day like this when he said, “Your first session on the Crisis Hotline will be your worst.”
Here I was going to make an early start (I couldn’t see my wristwatch; I had to hold my umbrella like a shield). Here I was going to keep myself relaxed (I stepped on a loose paving slab and said good-bye to one dry foot). I arrived at the office better prepared to have a crisis than handle one. I shook myself off in the foyer, reacquainted myself with my watch, which told me I was six minutes late. Without removing my hat or my coat I slogged upstairs to the call center.
Mabel the supervisor greeted me by saying, “We need you on the phones. I blame the weather. Let me take your wet things.”
She stripped me while I stood, then steered me to a desk that faced the large first floor windows, looking out at a sky so low it threatened to set its weight on the roof. While I rolled my foot uncomfortably inside my wet shoe, she brought me another cardigan from somewhere and a cup of my tea, before signaling to the switchboard girl to send me a call.
“Hello,” I said, wiping rain off my nose, “Crisis Hotline. How can I help?”
“Hello.”
It was such an arresting voice. Low in register, and not scary exactly but powerful.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
A pause, during which the rain hammered the glass, as it must have been doing while I was getting myself sorted, but either I’d not noticed or, as I felt, it had grown louder.
“I don’t know,” the voice said finally.
“Is there something on your mind?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Yes. Hundreds of things. Millions of things.”
“So you’re under a lot of stress right now?”
“Of course!!”
Said as though I should already know. But I remembered my training notes. ‘Take nothing personally. You are merely the sounding board for someone’s feelings. It is important never to react with emotion yourself.’
“Do you get a lot of stress in your job?” I asked.
He sighed. At the same time, a hurtle of wind grabbed the building and gave the structure a good shake.
“Would you consider God’s job stressful?” he asked.
My intestines buckled. Stooped over, I turned my chair and waved at Mabel. When she saw me I pointed at my headset, mouthing the word ‘Help’. She nodded, pressed a button that allowed her to shadow the call. Somewhat relieved, I turned my chair back to the window.
“So you, sir,…you…so I am talking to God, then?”
“Yes. Yes you are.”
“And you are feeling very stressed. Right now.”
“Yes.”
Overhead, directly overhead, the clouds beat their drums.
“What in particular causes you stress?”
“People,” he said, “people who don’t believe in me.”
Guilt pinched me hard in the stomach. Don’t be stupid, I told myself. I mean, I never really didn’t and I never really did, and in any case that wasn’t the point. This was a person, I reminded myself, just an ordinary person needing help.
“So it causes you stress when—“
“You don’t believe in me either, do you?”
That froze my liver. I turned and saw Mabel stirring the air with her hand, mouthing her words, ‘keep talking, keep talking’.
“Ieuhh," I tried, "I wouldn’t…,”
“You don’t believe in me.”
While the wind wailed like a banshee looking for a way inside, something cold went straight through both my cardigans. I cursed the active imagination.
“Perhaps I could be convinced,” I said, “after all, you’re on the phone now.”
“Ah yes,” he said, “the telephone. Something tangible. That’s always the way with you. You’d rather have something you can get between your fingers, something you feel you control. Something that reminds you more of yourself.”
“Well,” I tried to sound chipper, “I suppose it has advantages.”
An explosion. Either simultaneous thunder and lightning, or a quieter atomic weapon. It super lit the office, while half the flourescent bulbs in the call center flickered. A woman behind me screamed. Then more thunder, sounding for all the world like a giant tin opener crunching its way through our breezeblock, insulation and plasterboard. I crouched at my desk, half expecting the roof to flip off and expose us like sardines.
Of course, I thought, I knew what I’d done wrong. I’d forgotten what was written in my training notes, and given him a personal opinion. I called myself stupid again, and gave myself a lecture on the importance of remaining rational and cool headed. I listened to the line once more. I could hear nothing, not even breathing.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“I think I may have given you the wrong impression,” I began.
“What’s new?” he scoffed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it, “You…you deserve more respect than that. I’d like to try again. I’d like to understand you better.”
“What do you know,” he said, “a convert. I don’t get many of them these days.”
“Yes. But…but I need to know more about you. About what causes you stress.”
Mentally, I crossed my fingers. I turned in my chair to see Mabel; she was giving me a thumbs up sign, and switching off her listening device. The wind outside, though it still howled, howled just a little less.
“Well,” he began, “I can’t seem to get anyone’s attention.”
“You have trouble getting attention. Do you mean in telephone conversations?”
“In anything! I’ve tried miracles. They used to work. Now,…well, now it doesn’t matter whether you understand them or not. I mean, do you know what happens with miracles these days? Scientists come, analyze the living daylights out of them, and if they can’t come up with an explanation, do you think they believe? Do you think they even make the suggestion…?”
“Do they?” I asked.
“No!! They insist that a ‘natural’ explanation exists, and the problem is purely that their knowledge doesn’t extend to it yet. And so they go away, and I’m no better off than when I started. I tell you, miracles are wasted on the 21st Century.”
“So you feel you are wasting your time?”
“Time? I have plenty of time. But how much do you need?”
Thunder crackled again. I shifted in my seat, but could not get comfortable.
“Have you…have you tried anything else?” I asked.
“What? Oh, well, I suppose I did try making personal appearances to religious leaders.”
“Oh? And how did that go?”
“I don’t know. They’re still discussing it.”
“With
each other?”
“They don’t talk to each other!!!” he shouted. The sky rumbled again.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t—“
“They’re the biggest family feud going. Each one of them thinks they have exclusive rights to me; the last thing they want to do is share.”
“I see.”
“They’ll hash and rehash the experience with their cronies. If the ordinary believer is lucky, something might filter down. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
A sympathy started in me. My first thought was to rebuke it, but then I relented, thinking it might be useful, just to get me through the call. But I warned myself, not to let it go too far. Outside, the rain was easing up.
“I suppose you’ve tried appearing to the ordinary believer?”
“A few times,” he said quietly. “Lovely for them, of course, but utterly useless. Who are they going to convince? Sometimes it just gets them in trouble, makes them unpopular with the upper echelons, if you understand me. So what’s the use? You know, at times it gets me really depressed—“
I thought I heard a choke.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“..oh,--“
Then nothing. The rain resurged in a rush of big, hard drops against the window.
“I really want to understand how you feel,” I said.
“I don’t know what use it