A Random Call — “Mr. Paul Ivanov?” The voice on the line was cold and official. “Yes, I’m Paul Ivano…

A Random Call

Mr Paul Johnson? The voice on the phone was cold, official.
Yes, this is Paul Johnson. Who am I speaking to?
Its the manager from Little Angels Orphanage. In a week, your daughter turns three, and well have to transfer her to another facility. Are you certain you wont be taking her home?
Wait, what child? Whose daughter? I have a son, Alfie, I muttered, stunned.
Emily Pauline Simmons. Shes your daughter, isnt she?
No, not mine. Im Johnson. Paul Johnson.
My apologies, the voice replied wearily. There must be some misunderstanding.
Loud beeps pierced my ears, relentless and accusing.
What on earth? Some daughter! Orphanage, for goodness sake! What sort of chaos is happening with their paperwork? I grumbled angrily. Yet the call burrowed deep inside me, lingering like a stubborn thorn. I kept thinking about all those children living without a home, without a loving mum or caring dad, without doting grandparents. Alfie had the whole clangrandparents, aunts, uncles galore
Helen, my wife, immediately noticed how distant I was, distracted answers and all. Nothing escapes a wifes gaze, especially the one Ive shared ten years of married life with and known since primary school.
She waited till dinner before asking outright what was wrong.
What was her name? Helen asked.
Who? I stammered, startled (how did she know about the girl? Maybe she got a call too?).
Emily, I said. Emily Simmons.
Oh, Emily, is it? So, Im Helen, and shes Emily? Helens voice rose.
Yes, I said. Emily Pauline Simmons.
You might as well tell me her passport number! Helen shouted.
She doesnt have one, why would she?
Is she an asylum seeker or something? Helen screeched, suddenly softer.
Who? I was absolutely lost.
Your little Emily! She probably wants to register here, doesnt she? Admit it, you rat!
Admit what? I sat there, dumbstruck, dinner forgotten.
Helen began cryingnot desperately, not dramatically, but with angry tears rolling down her apron.
Tomorrow Im going to Mums. Just so you know, youre not getting Alfie, she sobbed.
Helen, whats happening? Why to your mums?
Did you expect me to slave here for you and your mistress, Emily? she spat.
Thats when the absurdity finally started to dawn on me.
I gently took her shoulders, sat her on the kitchen bench, and recounted the mornings phone call.
Helens tears now overflowed with pity for the little girl. Women have so many tears, I thought. They cry for any reason at alland they never run out! I cant stand womens tears, especially Helens.
After all that, Id lost any appetite, picking at my food absently.
I woke up in the dead of night and found Helen at my bedside, rifling through my phone! In nearly ten years, shed never done that. She didnt trust meshe was looking for any sign of a cheating text. That stung bitterly, made me feel horribly sick inside. Then she whispered: Paul Paul and nudged me gently.
I pretended to have just woken.
Paul, the landline number that calledits this one, right?
Yes, I replied from habityes, thats it.
Go back to sleep. Sleep, Helen said, walking out of the bedroom, taking my phone with her.
Easy to saysleep! Who could sleep now? I heard the computer fire up. I lay there a bit, then crept to the lounge.
Helen was glued to the screen, mouse clicking madly, unaware I stood behind her.
Shed typed Little Angels Orphanage and our town into the search.
The computer hummed, then spat out everythingofficial website, address, phone number, even a photo of the building. Helen eyed the number on my phone.
Paul, it matches!
Matches what?
The phone numberits the orphanages landline!
Thats what I said. So youre checking up on me?
Helen spun around on her chair.
Not checking. Confirming.
Why?
Paul, its really close by, she said, ignoring me, thoughtful. Shouldnt we go there? How did they get your number if youre unrelated?
Id never thought about that. Maybe we should visit. Otherwise, theyll keep calling me about someone elses child, and Ill be the one stuck dealing with it!
I barely slept at all that night. Just as I was about to drift off, Helen jabbed my side.
Paul Paul
What now?
Are you completely sure you havent you know accidentally maybe with your first love? Maybe she left the baby in hospital and didnt tell you? Paul? Paul!
What love, Helen? We shared a desk in first class, and Ive been by your side ever since. Four years agoremember? Alfie was just turning three, starting nursery, sick all the time, youd gone back to work, who looked after him? Me. I had to work remotely, remember? Syrups, pills, meals, doctors. Mistresses? I could barely stay upright, falling asleep before my head touched the pillow! I never had anyone elsenever, and I never will.
Then how did your number end up there? Someone left it for them! Helen insisted.
That question gnawed at me too. I mentally went through every woman Id ever known, but there was nothing. Still, life can throw you the wildest curveballs, so I made my mind up to visit the orphanage the very next day.
We arrived early, but werent firstanother visitor sat waiting, a scrawny, pale man with nervous, darting eyes, and trembling hands clutching papers, either anxious or hungover.
Youre after me, he said in an unexpectedly deep voice.
Soon the door opened, and he was called in. For fifteen minutes, we could hear a steady voice mixing with his mumbled bass.
Finally, the bedraggled man, now empty-handed, rushed out, and we were invited in.
Good morning, A pleasant brunette stood by the window, nibbling on the arm of her glasses. Whats your enquiry?
Were here about yesterday, I quipped.
She sat behind the desk.
I dont have time for riddles. Please state your problem clearly.
I reminded her of the phone call (the voice was unmistakable).
Oh, that She smiled tiredly. Forgive me, there was a mixup. The call wasnt meant for you.
How not, if you have my number? Where did you get it?
You see, Mr Johnson, I dialled one digit wrong. The real number begins with 927, but I dialled 937. The fact youre both Paul Johnsonpure coincidence. It happens He was here before you.
Who? I stupidly asked, though I knew the answer.
Paul Johnson-Simmons, the girls father.
Once again, I am truly sorry. Goodbye. I have a great many things to do.
She stood.
Thelma Samuels, Manager was written on her badge.
Helen must have caught her name, for she asked:
Mrs Samuels, will he take the girl home?
The manager looked at us, then sat again.
No, he wont. The girls mother died, and this Paul Johnson has seven children by different women. Hes visited twice in three years, and only because we pressured him. Emily isnt wanted. Is there anything else? If not, goodbye.
Stunned by everything wed heard and seen, we stepped outside.
The older children were out for their noon walk. Some played on swings, others slid down the little slide, two boys raced toy cars on a bench.
I watched them and it dawned on me what wasnt right.
There was quiet in the yard. Bring Alfie outside, and its shouting, squeals, pure chaos. Here, these children didnt laugh loudly; they whispered between themselves. They seemed like tiny old men and women. Theyd long since grown uptheir childhood lost to survival: cold, hunger, no toys or clothes, the neglect and sometimes cruelty of adults.
I turned to Helen. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Again with the tears! At the drop of a hat!
We walked slowly toward the gates. Then the silence shattered:
Mummy! All the children turned in unison. A little girl in a funny bobble hat ran straight for us, arms wide.
Mummy, mummy! she shrieked. Im here!
She crashed into Helens legs, and from the knot of her embrace, came sobsso raw and broken that tears stung my own eyes.
Emily, Emily! the caretaker hurried toward us down the path, chocolate bar in hand. She managed to pry Emily off Helens leg, and we nearly ran out of the orphanage grounds.
In the car, we were silent. Helen trembled, and I felt shaken myself. My hands shook, just like that nervous man, so I pulled over for a moment.
Helen looked out and gestured to a shop across the road.
Without saying a word, we left the car together, holding hands as we walked into Mothercare.
To buy a doll and a pink dress.
Our Emily will be the prettiest little girl.