While Daktari Christ MacIsaac learned to crawl and babble, his mother learned how to get herself thrown in solitary. She claimed that another patient was plotting to assault her in the dining room, and told her doctor that she could hear his children crying because of the things he says to their mommy.

Meanwhile, Peggy heard that they just punted Allie out of the General Hospital and into the fumbling hands of her father and brothers. “But don’t worry,” they said. A “Rural Community Mental Health Team” will be there to answer her questions and support her wellness plan for recovery on Mondays or Wednesdays from nine a.m. to one p.m.

Whenever my phone sings The Bangles’ “Hazy Shade of Winter” at me, I brace for bad news. About Allie or Char or Willy or myself. Or maybe somewhere deep down in the abysmal pit of my winter-numbed soul, I’m wishing for it. Anything to break up the monotony, the bleakness, the darkness, the cold. But there are only ever two kinds of calls:

“Hello?”

“Hello, Stacey Fortune?”

“Sure.”

“I’m calling on behalf of Allied Collections regarding —”

Click.

But I have to make the click sound myself. Which I do.

And the other kind of call goes like this:

“Hello?”

A rustle, a faint buzz, a pause, and then the sound of a foghorn blasts me in the ear.

“Congratulations! You’ve won a cruise!”

Click.

And when the house phone rings, there are only two kinds of calls: one is Peggy calling with the latest dirt I pretend I don’t want to hear. Allie Walker, out of the hospital and spotted hanging around Down North with The Wendigo. Duke the Puke and Becky Chickenshit’s marriage is on the rocks over him being a philanderer. Sarah Spenser’s picture in the paper, snuggled up next to some oily-haired suit from Alberta. Chrissy Parsons had a miscarriage.

And the other is Dr. Divyaratna’s office, calling to schedule MRIs. Or cancel MRIs. Then rescheduling the cancelled MRIs. Cancelling the rescheduled MRIs, and looking to re-reschedule. Asking if I’ve made up my mind about chemo or radiation.

I still answer both those phones every damn time they ring, hankering for a scrap of something new, something nourishing. Something with a dash of flavour, even.

Be careful what you wish for.

My phone sings. I answer. But this time, it’s Dave. Talk about nerve.

“Hey. Sorry to bug you,” he murmurs. “You were the only one I could think to call.”

Ami left him. Already. For her yoga teacher. And her yoga teacher’s wife. Because polyamorous yogic orgasms are the new kombucha-flavoured artisan glass dildos, apparently.

“You were right. About everything,” he says. And then he starts to sob. “I’m a pathetic piece of shit. Ever since we split up, my life has been a disaster. I never should have . . .”

And on and on he goes about what an idiot he was to ruin our beautiful life. How, deep down, he always felt like he didn’t deserve to be happy, to have a woman like me. How all his dysfunction springs from the distant superficiality of his own mother. And I just listen. By the time he gets around to asking about my shitshow of a life, a solid year of stony resentment feels like it has been dampened and softened by his tears. His honesty. His vulnerability. He asks me how I’m doing. I tell him.