Not pretending not to.
The phone rang four times.
Five.
Then her mother’s voice.
Cautious.
Recognizing the number she had not seen in twelve years.
“Hello,” he said.
Silence.
“I know,” he said.
“I know it’s been—”
“Twelve years,” her mother said.
“Yes.”
“She’s there,” her mother said.
Not a question.
“Yes,” he said.
A long silence.
The kind that carries twelve years in it.
“Is she alright?” her mother said.
“She saved my life,” he said.
Another silence.
“She knew,” her mother said.
“About the blood type.”
“Yes,” he said.
“She tested herself two years ago.”
“Without telling me.”
“She’s eleven,” he said.
“I know how old she is,” her mother said.
He was quiet.
“I should have called,” he said.
“Years ago.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You should have.”
“I was—”
“I know what you were,” she said.
Not unkind.
Just certain.
The way people are certain.
About things they have had twelve years to think about.
“What happens now?” he said.
She was quiet for a long time.
“That depends,” she said.
“On what you want to happen.”
He looked at the girl in the corner.
