The Top Up
by Kat Echevarría Richter
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Phoebe was on the bus to Knightsbridge when her grandfather finally had the decency to die. His nine grandchildren, of which Phoebe was the youngest, had been making their way back to New York in fits and starts for the past three days, ever since he had decided to drive himself to the hospital while having a heart attack and crashed his car on the way there. Train tickets were purchased and then canceled, flights booked and then rescheduled, as the grandchildren, all grown now, jockeyed to be the first to arrive without inadvertently spending any more time in upstate New York than was absolutely necessary. But the old man, as far as Phoebe could tell, relished the attention and kept them all in suspense: rallying and then flagging again, almost but not actually dying.
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Photo by Thai Nguyen on Unsplash
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She had always hated him. It might have started with the teal nail polish she loved to wear in third grade—he disapproved—or it might have been something else, but by the time Phoebe turned ten, she’d grown brave enough to flip him off from the back seat of the rental car during their annual visit to the retirement community. If she did it just right, none of the grownups could see her in the rearview. But she was a grownup now, living in London, and the only one, by her estimation, who was doing anything interesting with her life: a postgraduate course (as graduate degrees were called in the UK) in textile conservation. She was, in fact, on her way to the Victoria and Albert Museum to visit the new Ballets Russes exhibit, which had been mounted to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the dance company’s London debut in 1910. Bartosz from the coffee shop hadn’t wanted to accompany her, but she told herself it didn’t matter. He had been distracting her from her dissertation long enough.
For the past three days, Phoebe’s mother had been sending updates. The first text came on Monday morning and instructed Phoebe to come home immediately because her grandfather was dying. But then, an hour later: No, don’t book the flight just yet. On Tuesday: He might come through. Then, on Wednesday: It doesn’t look good, and your father’s a mess.
Each of the texts from her mother cost Phoebe £0.05 to receive, and another £0.05 to send a reply. By the third day of her grandfather’s stay in the ER, she had already gone to the corner shop twice to top up her mobile: first adding £10 to her account, then another £5. Like most international students, she had a pay-as-you-go plan, and in London her life had come to revolve around top ups: her mobile, her Oyster Card, even electricity for the flat she shared with three undergraduate students in the southwestern outskirts of the city, halfway between the university in Roehampton, where she was on scholarship, and the shopping center in Putney, where she worked part time at a shop called Julian Graves that sold dried fruit and nuts.
Each of the texts from her mother cost Phoebe £0.05 to receive, and another £0.05 to send a reply. By the third day of her grandfather’s stay in the ER, she had already gone to the corner shop twice to top up her mobile: first adding £10 to her account, then another £5. Like most international students, she had a pay-as-you-go plan, and in London her life had come to revolve around top ups: her mobile, her Oyster Card, even electricity for the flat she shared with three undergraduate students in the southwestern outskirts of the city, halfway between the university in Roehampton, where she was on scholarship, and the shopping center in Putney, where she worked part time at a shop called Julian Graves that sold dried fruit and nuts.
"She had grown accustomed, martyr-like, to sacrificing her time. It was the only way to make the numbers work." |
They were either drunk or hungover, the undergrads. And it had been no different on Tuesday morning. Although they were all meant to take turns topping up the electric, £10 each, the lights wouldn’t turn on when Phoebe woke up and everything in the fridge was spoiled.
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“Regina!” Phoebe had shouted down the hall. Sometimes Phoebe felt bad for Regina—she wasn’t very bright and their two other roommates mispronounced her name on purpose to make it rhyme with “vagina”—but it had been the girl’s turn to top up the electric and she had forgotten.
“Whaaat?” came Regina’s muffled response. There had been an undergrad bop the night before—“Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes” was the theme—and when Regina opened her bedroom door looking like a feral raccoon in a pleated miniskirt, Phoebe saw that she hadn’t even changed out of her clothes or taken off her makeup.
But it didn’t matter. “It was your turn to top up,” Phoebe informed her.
“Now?” Regina whined. “It’s so early. It’s still dark out.”
“It’s not dark out! We have no lights because you forgot to top up!”
“Whaaat?” came Regina’s muffled response. There had been an undergrad bop the night before—“Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes” was the theme—and when Regina opened her bedroom door looking like a feral raccoon in a pleated miniskirt, Phoebe saw that she hadn’t even changed out of her clothes or taken off her makeup.
But it didn’t matter. “It was your turn to top up,” Phoebe informed her.
“Now?” Regina whined. “It’s so early. It’s still dark out.”
“It’s not dark out! We have no lights because you forgot to top up!”
She retrieved Regina’s coat from the floor and sent her down to the corner shop. Julian Graves was like a smaller version of Harry & David back home, which had been one of her favorite stores in the mall because they gave free samples in little paper cups. Now, Phoebe was allowed to take home anything she found that was past its expiration date. She now kept an emergency bag of macadamia nuts in her room (they were high in protein) along with a private supply of toilet paper because she was the only one who ever bothered to restock the bathroom.
Phoebe had just boarded the bus on Thursday afternoon when the latest bevy of text messages from her mother arrived. Her grandfather was finally dead. Officially this time. And she needed to come home. There was a flight out of Heathrow the next morning that would get her to JFK. From there, they would all drive upstate together. But because Phoebe would be flying at the bereavement rate, she would have to call the airline herself to book the ticket, and there were only two seats remaining.
Phoebe sighed. She knew she ought to feel sad, and she did feel genuinely bad for her father, but mostly she was annoyed because when she clicked through to the last of her mother’s texts, she saw she had only £4.90 remaining.
Phoebe sighed. She knew she ought to feel sad, and she did feel genuinely bad for her father, but mostly she was annoyed because when she clicked through to the last of her mother’s texts, she saw she had only £4.90 remaining.
The quickest way to get from Roehampton to the V&A was to take the bus to Putney and then the District Line to South Kensington. But this route would have deducted £4.55 from her Oyster Card, so Phoebe had caught the 430 bus instead, which cost only £1.75. The journey would take over an hour because there were thirty stops between Harbridge Avenue and the museum, but she had grown accustomed, martyr-like, to sacrificing her time. It was the only way to make the numbers work.
From her seat in the front row of the upper deck, Phoebe dialed the airline. She now had £4.85 remaining on her mobile. She pressed one to Make a New Booking. £4.75 remaining. Pressed two for International Flights. £4.50 remaining. Pressed zero to Speak To a Representative. £4.25 remaining. Got bounced back to the Main Menu. £3.50 remaining.
The bus inched along the Putney High Street. The V&A, like most museums in London, was free to visit. But special exhibitions cost extra and Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, on top of her mobile, on top of her Oyster Card, on top of electricity for the flat, was going to cost her £18.
From her seat in the front row of the upper deck, Phoebe dialed the airline. She now had £4.85 remaining on her mobile. She pressed one to Make a New Booking. £4.75 remaining. Pressed two for International Flights. £4.50 remaining. Pressed zero to Speak To a Representative. £4.25 remaining. Got bounced back to the Main Menu. £3.50 remaining.
The bus inched along the Putney High Street. The V&A, like most museums in London, was free to visit. But special exhibitions cost extra and Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, on top of her mobile, on top of her Oyster Card, on top of electricity for the flat, was going to cost her £18.
As she waited on hold, Phoebe wondered if Bartosz was at the coffee shop already. His full name was Bartłomiej, which no one in the shopping center could pronounce. As such, he always introduced himself using an Anglicized abbreviation of his last name, but Phoebe knew better. Her best friend in high school had been Polish, so she could pronounce both his first name and the proper nickname without having to be told: Bartosz, the “sz” translating on her lips to a soft “sh.”
On mornings when her shift at Julian Graves coincided with his at Café Nero and neither of their bosses were around, he’d slip out after the breakfast rush and bring her a cappuccino, served in a white ceramic mug atop a white ceramic saucer. He would wear his boyish smile, the one that made her forget that he was nearly twice her age. And his blue eyes would twinkle, and his biceps would bulge in his flannel button-down shirt as he set the mug down on the counter, leaving her to wonder what on earth he was doing working at a coffee shop.
On mornings when her shift at Julian Graves coincided with his at Café Nero and neither of their bosses were around, he’d slip out after the breakfast rush and bring her a cappuccino, served in a white ceramic mug atop a white ceramic saucer. He would wear his boyish smile, the one that made her forget that he was nearly twice her age. And his blue eyes would twinkle, and his biceps would bulge in his flannel button-down shirt as he set the mug down on the counter, leaving her to wonder what on earth he was doing working at a coffee shop.
On mornings that he remembered, on mornings that he was paying attention—on mornings when he wanted her to meet him in the storeroom on the second floor of the shopping center during her lunch break or invite him back to her place after work—he would pile the saucer with extra treats: a square of dark chocolate wrapped in gold foil and a cube of caramel-colored raw sugar instead of the usual white. But when he was distracted, as he had been ever since finding out his ex-wife back in Poland was pregnant, he brought her milk chocolate instead of dark, which she didn’t like, and white sugar instead of raw.
Phoebe told herself it didn’t matter. Seated on the bus, she pressed two again for International Flights. £3.25 remaining.
Phoebe told herself it didn’t matter. Seated on the bus, she pressed two again for International Flights. £3.25 remaining.
She had seen the ex-wife once, when a photograph slipped from the pages of a book on Bartosz’s nightstand. It had been a few weeks ago, the first and only time he’d invited her back to his place. He shared a room with another Polish immigrant, so there was never any privacy. But Bartosz had told her he had plans: when he first arrived in the UK, he’d had to share not just a room, but a bed. They had slept with their heads at opposite ends—this he repeated several times to Phoebe, gesturing with his hands to make sure his meaning was clear: nothing gay going on here—but now he had his own bed. And he was going to get his own room soon. And then his own flat.
He had explained to Phoebe that he was already making extra money on the side as both a personal trainer and a tutor. He taught Polish students who wanted to learn English and English students who wanted to learn Polish. Taped to the wall above his bed was a piece of green construction paper where he doled out grammar lessons to his roommate. The top line asked, “IS she hot?” The bottom line replied, “She IS hot.” In English, he explained with pride, you only had to reverse the order of the words to answer the question.
Bartosz’s ex-wife, by all accounts, was hot. Phoebe had tried not to stare at the photo.
“I am sorry,” he said, scooping the picture up from the floor and tucking it away out of sight. “I forget—I forgot I have this.”
But Phoebe had already seen everything: the woman’s pale skin, her straight black hair, her bare breasts, which weren’t nearly as impressive, size-wise, as Phoebe had feared. She was wearing a lacy thong, though, and white heels with laces that criss-crossed all the way up to her knees, like trashy pointe shoes. She was thin too—definitely thinner than Phoebe—and lying on her side, facing the camera, her lips just barely open. Had Bartosz taken the photo?
“I am sorry,” he said, scooping the picture up from the floor and tucking it away out of sight. “I forget—I forgot I have this.”
But Phoebe had already seen everything: the woman’s pale skin, her straight black hair, her bare breasts, which weren’t nearly as impressive, size-wise, as Phoebe had feared. She was wearing a lacy thong, though, and white heels with laces that criss-crossed all the way up to her knees, like trashy pointe shoes. She was thin too—definitely thinner than Phoebe—and lying on her side, facing the camera, her lips just barely open. Had Bartosz taken the photo?
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Phoebe couldn’t fault him for keeping it. She had kept letters, necklaces, and the odd photograph too. But she had left them all behind in the States instead of dragging her baggage to London along with her. Sometimes, in small moments, Phoebe allowed herself to wonder just how much of an ex his ex-wife really was.
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"She suspected her classmates were right when they warned her that this wasn't going to end well." |
She suspected her classmates were right when they warned her that this wasn’t going to end well. Hadn’t Bartosz already told her that he was never going to fall in love again? But Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She met him after work sometimes at the Green Man in Putney Heath: the journey cost £1.75 on the bus, or, better yet, nothing at all deducted from her Oyster Card if she walked there and back. In the weeks since they’d first met, Bartosz had grown, if nothing else, quite protective of her, and would always insist on walking her home after they left the pub. She would use her student ID to swipe them both in at the university’s gate so they could take the shortcut to her flat, then kiss him goodbye, and swipe him back out again once he’d seen her safely inside.
On Monday night, she had found him at the bar reading the Evening Standard to pass the time. He was wearing jeans, slightly flared, slightly out of style—but perhaps not in Eastern Europe?—and his usual Adidas sneakers. She wondered what she was doing with a man who wore flared jeans and Adidas sneakers. He wasn’t even particularly tall. But then he shifted his weight, and his thigh muscles bulged and his broad shoulders strained against his shirt and she remembered.
His blue eyes were bright and attentive as he leaned forward, eager, as always, to improve his English. “Is this why you bring me cappuccinos?” She asked. She had learned of her grandfather’s heart attack earlier that afternoon.
Bartosz had looked up from the paper, startled. Stood to pull up another stool.
“Do you like me because I speak English?” she repeated, needing suddenly, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, to pick a fight.
“No. That is not all,” he hurried to assure her. “You are young and pretty and men like pretty girls.”
Bartosz had looked up from the paper, startled. Stood to pull up another stool.
“Do you like me because I speak English?” she repeated, needing suddenly, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, to pick a fight.
“No. That is not all,” he hurried to assure her. “You are young and pretty and men like pretty girls.”
She told herself that was enough—that she was content to be young and pretty and capable of correcting his grammar—but that hadn’t stopped her from hoping she meant more to him when he asked if there was going to be a funeral, if she would need to fly home, if she had told her parents about him.
“No,” she replied. She had not told her parents about him. She was a student, yes, but not a child. “Why? Did you tell your mother?”
“What, that you—that I have a friend? A girlfriend?” He shook his head. “No, it would be a bad idea. She would ask how old you are.”
“No,” she replied. She had not told her parents about him. She was a student, yes, but not a child. “Why? Did you tell your mother?”
“What, that you—that I have a friend? A girlfriend?” He shook his head. “No, it would be a bad idea. She would ask how old you are.”
She had kept their relationship a secret for that very same reason: he was nearly 40, and she was only 24. Still, it was better this way. The stolen kisses. The darkness of the storeroom on the second floor of the shopping center. His arms, his hands, her back against the cardboard boxes. Pulling her black blouse back into place before hurrying downstairs.
"But if Bartosz said something nice, if he held her, then Phoebe might finally cry and she didn't want to give either of these men--Bartosz or her grandfather--the satisfaction of her tears.
Now, as the bus crossed Putney Bridge, Phoebe was still on hold with the airline. A recorded voice thanked her for waiting for the next available representative. She had £2.95 remaining. She considered getting off at the next stop, walking back across the bridge, back to Putney, and finding Bartosz. She could top up her mobile, go to the storeroom, and make the call in private. He would meet her as soon as he could slip away, and he would take her in his arms and whisper something in Polish to make up for the night before, which she wouldn’t understand. In the two months that they had been together, she had only learned to say “proszę” which meant “please,” “dzień dobry” which meant “good morning,” and “dziękuję” which was how she thanked him for her daily cappuccino. But if Bartosz said something nice, if he held her, then Phoebe might finally cry and she didn’t want to give either of these men—Bartosz or her grandfather—the satisfaction of her tears.
It had been fun, this thing with Bartosz, as long as he winked at her behind her boss’s back, leaning forward on the counter, his blonde hair coaxed into the gelled spikes that always made him look younger. It had been fun as long as he waited for her to close shop, greeted her with a kiss, and coaxed her, glass after cheap glass, to abandon her studies for the night. It had been fun as long as she cooked the frozen pizzas he paid for and they ate in her room, with pound coins fallen from his pocket and half-drank bottles of red wine framed by dark crimson circles on her desk.
But all that had changed the night before, because on Wednesday,after he’d walked her home from the Green Man for the second time that week, she finally asked him to stay. She hadn’t been planning on it—it was the wine talking—but she was glad that she had shaved her legs and worn her good underwear just in case: black briefs with lace at the waistband, bought on clearance at the H&M in Oxford Circus. Still, they had stopped just shy of having sex, and this was more his idea than hers, which didn’t make sense. Bartosz had been unable to sleep, even after he pulled the second-hand duvet cover up over them in her twin bed. Phoebe had fallen asleep listening to the rise and fall of his chest but awoke to feel his fingertips tracing the curve of her hip.
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.
“I can’t sleep,” he complained, “You are too sweet, I swear.” His stilted English made
everything he said sound quaint and old fashioned. He was almost charming in his distress. But Phoebe, on account of the Green Man, on account of Bartosz, had started falling behind her classmates. She knew she needed to stop.
“Close your eyes,” she suggested, turning onto her side to face the wall. But he turned with her, pressing his body into every fold of her tall frame, his knees into hers, his sweaty chest to her back. He wrapped his arms around her. The tenderness of it surprised her—delighted her, even—but suddenly he pulled away.
“I can’t sleep,” he complained, “You are too sweet, I swear.” His stilted English made
everything he said sound quaint and old fashioned. He was almost charming in his distress. But Phoebe, on account of the Green Man, on account of Bartosz, had started falling behind her classmates. She knew she needed to stop.
“Close your eyes,” she suggested, turning onto her side to face the wall. But he turned with her, pressing his body into every fold of her tall frame, his knees into hers, his sweaty chest to her back. He wrapped his arms around her. The tenderness of it surprised her—delighted her, even—but suddenly he pulled away.
“No,” he said. “I cannot stay. I must go home now. You need your rest. You are working
tomorrow. And you have class, yes?”
“Fine,” she had told him. “But I’m not walking you out.” This meant he wouldn’t have her student ID to take the shortcut through campus, so he’d have to climb the gate and jump back down again. With any luck, he’d split the crotch of his stupid Eastern European jeans.
The next morning, which was Thursday, Phoebe stopped at Starbucks on her way into work and bought her own cappuccino. Then she decided to skip her afternoon lecture—she hadn’t done the reading anyway—and go to the V&A instead.
tomorrow. And you have class, yes?”
“Fine,” she had told him. “But I’m not walking you out.” This meant he wouldn’t have her student ID to take the shortcut through campus, so he’d have to climb the gate and jump back down again. With any luck, he’d split the crotch of his stupid Eastern European jeans.
The next morning, which was Thursday, Phoebe stopped at Starbucks on her way into work and bought her own cappuccino. Then she decided to skip her afternoon lecture—she hadn’t done the reading anyway—and go to the V&A instead.
At the start of her shift, she put the cappuccino next to the cash register on the counter where she knew Bartosz would see it because all of the shops had big glass windows and Julian Graves was directly across from Café Nero. She refused to look at him, but neither the Starbucks cup nor her own resolve made any difference because as soon as the breakfast rush died down, he appeared with another cappuccino and two squares of chocolate.
“Those are milk chocolate,” she said. “You know I don’t like them.”
“Yes. You tell me this every time. But this is why I bring you two.” He winked at her.
When she didn’t respond, he set the saucer down and lowered his voice. “You are angry with me, yes, for last night?”
She shrugged and reached for the Starbucks cup.
“You are young. It is complicated. How can I make it up to you?”
She shrugged again. “I’m going to the Ballets Russes exhibit this afternoon if you want to come.”
“I thought you have class, no?”
“Yes. You tell me this every time. But this is why I bring you two.” He winked at her.
When she didn’t respond, he set the saucer down and lowered his voice. “You are angry with me, yes, for last night?”
She shrugged and reached for the Starbucks cup.
“You are young. It is complicated. How can I make it up to you?”
She shrugged again. “I’m going to the Ballets Russes exhibit this afternoon if you want to come.”
“I thought you have class, no?”
“I’m skipping it.” She hadn’t meant to tell him, but now that she thought about it, a proper date might make a nice change to the storeroom and the Green Man. And why shouldn’t he come with her?
He sighed. “Don’t skip your classes, Phoebe.”
“I’m an adult,” she informed him. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”
“Fine, fine. As you like. What is the exhibit? The Ballets Russes?”
“Yes, the Russian Ballet.” She allowed herself a sip from the Café Nero mug. “They performed in Paris mainly, but the dancers, the choreographers, they were all from Russia.”
“This was when, recent?”
He sighed. “Don’t skip your classes, Phoebe.”
“I’m an adult,” she informed him. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”
“Fine, fine. As you like. What is the exhibit? The Ballets Russes?”
“Yes, the Russian Ballet.” She allowed herself a sip from the Café Nero mug. “They performed in Paris mainly, but the dancers, the choreographers, they were all from Russia.”
“This was when, recent?”
“No, not recent. Not recently. The exhibit is for the 100th anniversary of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. But the Ballets Russes performed all the way through the 1920s. With costumes by Picasso and Coco Chanel. And backdrops by Henri Matisse and Léon Bakst.” She was about to list the composers—not just Stravinsky, but also Debussy and Prokofiev—when Bartosz interrupted her.
“Proszę, you go,” he said. “Please. I must work. And you will like it more if I am not there.”
“Proszę, you go,” he said. “Please. I must work. And you will like it more if I am not there.”
“Couldn’t you change your shift? There’s a piece in the exhibit—a costume—that’s from Poland actually!” She had read all about it in The Guardian: a dancer by the name of Leon Woizikowski had been the last to perform the role of the “Chinese Conjurer” in the ballet Parade, which was choreographed by Léonide Massine and designed by Pablo Picasso. During the war, the dancer had buried the costume in a trunk in his native Poland to keep it safe from the Nazis. Now, for the exhibit, it had been dug up and restored to its former glory: a brilliant kimono-inspired jacket with a quilted applique of gold spirals set against bold, triangular rays of yellow sunlight. The matching pants featured an asymmetrical design of swirling black and yellow stripes, like snakes slithering in the sand. Phoebe couldn’t wait to see it.
“Don’t you want to come?” she pleaded. “Don’t you want to see what I’m going to be writing about for my disserta—”
“Don’t you want to come?” she pleaded. “Don’t you want to see what I’m going to be writing about for my disserta—”
"Upstairs, though, in the rain, London revealed itself like an Impressionist painting: gray skies over the Thames suddenly awash in monochromatic glory." |
She stopped. She had crossed a line. Though she couldn’t say exactly why, she knew he didn’t care about her dissertation, and she didn’t really want him to. It was bad enough that she had overslept last week and nearly missed the lecture at the London College of Fashion, “Choreographing the Avant-Garde: Sergei Diaghilev, Bronislava Nijinska, and the Jazz Aesthetic of the Ballets Russes.” Phoebe knew that she lived her life in separate worlds: there was the university, and there was the shop; there was his place, and there was hers; there was her family back home in the States, and there were her classmates here in London. When the lines between these worlds blurred, as they did wherever Bartosz was concerned, things got messy.
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“Come here, maleńka.” He had said, glancing quickly over his shoulder before he leaned across the counter and nuzzled his chin in her hair. “You go to your museum, and you have fun, and you tell me all about it after, okay?”
She had finished her shift at lunchtime, left the shopping center without saying goodbye, and gone home to change before boarding the bus to Knightsbridge.
She had finished her shift at lunchtime, left the shopping center without saying goodbye, and gone home to change before boarding the bus to Knightsbridge.
Now, it was raining. Phoebe was still on hold with the airline, £2.50 remaining, but the rain made everything better because the 430 bus was a double decker and she had managed to snag a seat in the front row of the upper deck. There was simply no novelty in sitting down below. No romance. Upstairs, though, in the rain, London revealed itself like an Impressionist painting: gray skies over the Thames suddenly awash in monochromatic glory. Pastry shops with blurry pastel confections in the window. Haberdasheries with wide-brimmed hats and chic, asymmetrical feathered fascinators she could never afford. It was enough to make Phoebe forget all about Bartosz. To make her feel that there was something quite magical, after all, about the life she was living in London.
Of course, Phoebe always queued politely with everyone else, but then, after swiping her Oyster Card, she would make a beeline for the stairs. Only two things could keep her from the front seat on the top deck: alcohol and children. If she was coming home from a night out dancing at Tiger Tiger in Picadilly Circus, neither she nor any of her girlfriends could make it up the steps in their stilettos. And if there were children queueing for the bus, Phoebe always let them go ahead of her, because it was the mature thing to do.
Now though, as the bus crawled through Fulham and West Brompton, Phoebe didn’t bother to look out the window. She had £1.50 remaining. By Earl’s Court, she was down to £0.75.
Her phone buzzed with a text. She clicked on the message icon, hoping it was Bartosz texting to apologize, but it was only Regina.
R there any loo rolls??
Her phone buzzed with a text. She clicked on the message icon, hoping it was Bartosz texting to apologize, but it was only Regina.
R there any loo rolls??
“Fuck’s sake,” Phoebe muttered under her breath. It had cost her £0.05 to open the text and she wasn’t going to waste another £0.05 on sending a reply, not when Regina was perfectly capable of buying her own toilet paper. If only she had gotten off the bus in Putney. Then she could have walked back to her flat and booked the flight on her laptop instead of wasting all of her remaining credit on hold with the airline. Surely she could have found some way to complete the bereavement paperwork online? Her father was going to be heartbroken if she didn’t make it home in time for the funeral. And her mother was going to kill her.
Finally a pleasant voice greeted her from the other end of the line.
“Hello? Yes, yes, I am here.” Phoebe stammered.
“How can I help?”
“I’m trying to book the 10:00 a.m. flight to JFK. From Heathrow,” Phoebe hurried to explain. Then, remembering her mother’s directive, she added, “It’s a bereavement flight.”
“Of course,” the voice replied. “Very sorry for your loss, ma’am. I’ll just need to verify your details to get started on the booking. Can you please spell your surname for me?”
“Yes, it’s Williams. Phoebe Williams. W-I-L-L-I-A-M-S.”
“Hello? Yes, yes, I am here.” Phoebe stammered.
“How can I help?”
“I’m trying to book the 10:00 a.m. flight to JFK. From Heathrow,” Phoebe hurried to explain. Then, remembering her mother’s directive, she added, “It’s a bereavement flight.”
“Of course,” the voice replied. “Very sorry for your loss, ma’am. I’ll just need to verify your details to get started on the booking. Can you please spell your surname for me?”
“Yes, it’s Williams. Phoebe Williams. W-I-L-L-I-A-M-S.”
Her phone buzzed with an alert: £0.50 remaining.
“Please, is there a direct number where I can call you back if we get disconnected?” She dug through her purse for a pen. “I’m almost out of credit.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a direct line,” the woman replied, “but you’re always welcome to book your ticket at our website. Would you like the address?”
“No, I’m on the bus. Please, just keep going.”
She rattled off her date of birth. £0.35 remaining. Her passport number. £0.25.
“We’ll need a copy of the death certificate,” the woman explained. “Or a coroner’s statement?”
“Yes. My mom is having them sent over from the funeral home.”
“Please, is there a direct number where I can call you back if we get disconnected?” She dug through her purse for a pen. “I’m almost out of credit.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a direct line,” the woman replied, “but you’re always welcome to book your ticket at our website. Would you like the address?”
“No, I’m on the bus. Please, just keep going.”
She rattled off her date of birth. £0.35 remaining. Her passport number. £0.25.
“We’ll need a copy of the death certificate,” the woman explained. “Or a coroner’s statement?”
“Yes. My mom is having them sent over from the funeral home.”
“Very good. I’ll just add a note to the booking. Now, would you prefer the window seat or the aisle? Oh, actually—” the woman paused. Phoebe could hear her nails clicking against the keys of her computer like a miniature hailstorm. “I’m sorry. There’s only one seat remaining. It’s in the middle. Will that be alright?”
“Yes! I don’t care. Can you please just process my payment?”
“Of course, ma’am. Bear with me just a moment.”
“Yes! I don’t care. Can you please just process my payment?”
“Of course, ma’am. Bear with me just a moment.”
£0.05 remaining. But she was almost there. All that Phoebe needed to do was to pay for the flight and get the confirmation number, then she could find somewhere to top up on her way into the museum and text her parents to let them know that she had done it. Maybe she would stop at one of the charity shops near the museum and buy a hat. Yes, an obnoxious black hat to wear to the funeral. No one would know that she’d bought it second hand, and wouldn’t that show them? Her parents, her cousins, her late grandfather, and especially Bartosz. She would come home from London victorious.
But then, as Phoebe pulled her debit card out of her wallet, her phone buzzed with a text.
i am sry we fight. come by after museum. chocolate u like back in stock and boss not here. xx
She had opened the message icon without thinking and just as Phoebe realized her mistake, an automated voice greeted her from the other end of the line: We’re sorry but your call has been terminated. Zero credit remaining.
i am sry we fight. come by after museum. chocolate u like back in stock and boss not here. xx
She had opened the message icon without thinking and just as Phoebe realized her mistake, an automated voice greeted her from the other end of the line: We’re sorry but your call has been terminated. Zero credit remaining.
Kat Echevarría Richter (she/her) is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Rutgers-Camden. Her work explores themes of matrescence, Puerto Rican identity, and American historiographies, often with a side of humor. Prior to returning to school, Kat danced professionally for two decades and taught dance studies at Stockton University. Her research has appeared in numerous peer-reviewed journals and edited anthologies and her creative writing has appeared in Apiary, Glamour, and Skirt! magazine. She lives in Philadelphia with her spouse, their child, and a neurotic but loveable rescue dog.
