Jeff

I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love You. In the film, a woman calls her dead husband’s cell phone over and over.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I hung up on him.

My beloved calling routine was taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made another call.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

He seemed game.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

We had a beautiful summer together.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

What I do remember is the excitement when Jeff answered the phone.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.


Author’s Note: This story was originally posted in 2017. I’m including this story in my book (Death, Depression, and Diarrhea). I’m sharing it with you so you can get a sneak peek of the redrawn art!