The other-worldly pulsating ring of my cell phone went off after midnight, not long after I'd closed my book and turned off the light.
Groggy, I stumbled out of bed in the dark and ran into the living/dining room of our apartment, my bare feet padding on the parquet floor. I groped through my purse for the phone that cast a faint glow on the table but managed to lodge itself stubbornly its snug storage bag.
I'd told David several times last week when he called from Baghdad to call anytime, day or night.
Finally I pulled the phone out, flipped it open, remembered to hit the send button, and put it to my ear. I heard a faint woman's voice mutter something indecipherable -- and then nothing.
"Hello? Hello?" I said loudly, still standing in the dark.
Nothing. I looked at the face, and it showed the ocean scene wallpaper I'd picked from the standard phone choices. It's re-appearance meant the caller had disconnected.
Was it him? By this time, my husband had stumbled out of bed as well, and we both stood there wondering if we'd missed a crucial connection.
I checked the received call list. The number had the same West Coast area code as the number I'd retained when we moved from California to New York.
Most likely, a wrong number.
We crawled back into into bed, spooning despite the warm night, his hand on my hip.
By the sound of his breathing, I knew he wasn't asleep.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"I was wondering what David is doing, where he's at," he said.
"Me, too," I said.
And here I am, at 2:07 a.m., still wondering.
