NELLE 9 | 2026
Excerpt
My son, who is thirty-six, has had forty-five phone numbers or thereabouts. My husband doesn’t name/save his numbers, but I save each one. His siblings’ numbers have stayed reliably, blessedly the same all these years from when we first got them cell phones. I honestly don't know why I save all his numbers. Somehow, I think that giving each new phone a name will be proof that our boy is trying to join the world again, but by the world, I mean—our world.
See, he's getting better. He wants a phone. He got a phone. Next, it will be a job. Oh wait, he should get sober first. He should go back into rehab. Show he’s serious. But hey, a phone is a good start. Maybe, we’ve turned a corner.
He’s had forty-five phone numbers since 2013 when we took him off the Family Plan after the intervention that didn’t take. I've got all his phone numbers stored on my phone under different incarnations of his name. I name them hoping one will finally stick.
Joan Didion wrote, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” but my husband and I tell each other stories so our son will live. We want to him to live. We want him to turn that corner, but we’ve turned so many corners ourselves we always go right back where we started.
Last night he called from an unknown number. We always answer unknown numbers in case it might be him. It was him and the accompanying sweet relief—he’s still alive—he’s still here. Our son also calls my husband more than he calls me because my husband is a softie and says yes more than I do. “Hey, it’s me, Pops.”
“Hey, it’s me, Pops.”
“Hey son, how are you? How’s it going? It’s great to hear your voice.”
“Yeah, yeah, Dad, you too! Hey Pops, can you get me an Uber to a concert over on Lincoln for me and my friend right now.”
“Where are you? Where do you want to go exactly?”
I’m sitting next to my husband, but I don’t say anything. I’m glad to hear our boy’s voice. The disappointment of his asking for a favor stings a little but nothing like it used to in the olden days when we only traded in hope. This is typical—our son wants an Uber, or he wants money to buy a phone, which we will only send to the company selling the phone. It’s usually a storefront in downtown LA that has a deal. New Phone. New Watch. Jewelry. We never send money directly to him, because our boy hasn’t had a bank account in years. The phones he gets are called “Obama Phones” and they don’t hold much memory for things like photographs or VENMO.