|I lay in bed trying to remember my name.
Call her Edie, my grandmother said but my mother had refused Ė too Ďinsipidí; it was years before I knew the meaning of that word. You cannot remember anything you hear said in the cradle, or so Iíve been told Ö but I remember that.
My grandmother didnít take no for an answer easily; never could. Mother died when I was age six, or was it seven? Then they seemed to blur. I couldnít distinguish the memory from the reality of the woman who took care of me.
In bed now, I feel my motherís grip about my wrist. Itís a death-grip, a claim made in competition from the grave. Iíve been aware of the musty smell for an age.
The phone rang some time ago but the machine cut in. Just as well. I havenít the energy to move.
My cheery voice came through loud and clear. I wonder what people think when they hear my message. Will they ring the number once more just to hear my voice after I am dead?