His Last Attempt

Darius called from a blocked number almost a year after I left. By then, I had spent enough time with Andre to stop searching ordinary kindness for a second meaning.

I was expecting a work call and answered without looking up from the papers on the table. For a second, neither of us spoke.

"Maya," Darius said.

My chest tightened at his voice. I sat back in the chair, my feet flat on the floor. He was on the phone. He was not in the room.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"You sound different," Darius said, almost to himself.

A television played behind him. A woman asked him something, then asked again, louder. He neither answered her nor covered the phone.

"I asked a question," I said.

He had been thinking about me, he said. He had finished school. The business was moving. His health was better. He paused after each accomplishment, leaving room for me to congratulate him. Then he said he knew who had truly been there for him and who had left when things got difficult.

There it was. I had left, and he had called to collect.

"Are you sober?" I asked.

He said nothing. The television filled the pause.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Darius said.

"Then why are you calling?"

"Because I loved you. I still got your name on me."

"That was your decision."

"You act like none of it was real."

"Some of it was real. That was the problem," I said.

He breathed into the phone. I pictured the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, the gesture that had so often brought me across a room to him.

"Grandma said you with somebody," Darius said.

"Tell your grandmother to stop asking about me," I said.

"So it's true."

"I'm not discussing my life with you."

He gave a short laugh. "He know who you really are?"

Once, I would have started listing what I had paid for, what I had forgiven, how long I had stayed. I would have taken him through the days before I left, trying to find an account he would accept. Even then, I knew how the conversation would end: with another charge to answer.

"Yes," I said. "Do you?"

His voice hardened. "You always thought you were better than me," he said. "Using your money like a leash." He accused me of disrespecting his service, of treating his health crisis as an inconvenience. Corinne, he said, knew how to forgive. I kept my eyes on the papers spread across the table, my finger beneath a line I had already read. Then he lowered his voice. "Lena asked about you." I lost my place.

"Do not use your daughter to keep me on this phone."

"She loved you."

"I loved her too. You brought me into her life. You owed her more care than that."

"You left."

"I left you. You made yourself the only way I could reach her," I said.

He went quiet. I lifted my finger from the page and waited.

In other conversations, I had waited for him to admit one plain fact, then another, keeping us on the phone long after there was anything left to say. Now I heard his breath against the receiver. I let it be the only sound.

"I hope you'll learn to tell the truth," I said. "Not for me. For Lena."

"You don't get to talk about my daughter," Darius said.

"Then don't bring her into this conversation."

I ended the call and set the phone facedown beside the papers.

Andre stood in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel hanging from one hand. At some point he had stopped drying. He leaned against the frame and waited until I looked up.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

He asked nothing about Darius. He folded the towel once, bringing the corners together, and waited for my answer.

"Water," I said.

The tap ran in the kitchen. Andre brought me a full glass, then drew out the chair beside mine, lifting it slightly so the legs cleared the floor.

My hands did not shake.

Later, at the same table, I opened a blank email and entered Darius's address.

Do not contact me directly or through anyone in my family. Do not use Lena, medical updates, repayment, or the ring as reasons to contact me. Necessary communication about the lease must be in writing and concern only the lease.

His reply filled three pages.

I did not read them.

I filed the reply with the rest of his correspondence, then blocked his address.

I opened my sent message once more. I had not softened the last sentence or asked him to understand. I changed nothing.

I closed the laptop. Beside it, the water glass stood inside a pale ring on the wood.