My husband was in intensive care. I was sitting in the hallway—and suddenly he called me on the phone.

His hand didn’t squeeze mine in response. The monitors beeped.

“We need to talk about something,” I said. “Remember last November? You wanted to go to Portugal, and I said it was expensive and completely pointless. And you said you just wanted to show me the ocean. I said something harsh. I don’t remember what. Something about money and common sense.”

I looked at his face.

— So, let’s go. As soon as you get better, we’ll go straight away. I’ll buy the tickets myself. Just tell me which month is best. You know, I don’t know anything about this.

The nurse at the entrance said quietly:

– Time.

I let go of his hand. But then I took it again—for a second.

“Call me again,” I whispered. “Okay? I’ll pick up.”

***

At 9:10, the administrator opened the storage room and brought me a bag with Seryozhka’s things. I asked him to check the phone in front of me.

The screen was broken—it must have fallen in the entryway along with it. The phone worked, but with difficulty. The administrator, a young man with a badge that said « Alexey, » found the call log.

The last outgoing call was to me, at 7:22 PM. Before the ambulance arrived. Probably when I felt unwell and wanted to call.

Incoming calls after 7:30 PM – zero. Outgoing calls – zero.

No calls at 11:14 PM and 2:07 AM.

I looked at the screen. Then at my phone. The call log—there they were, both from his number. Both 30 seconds long.

« That’s impossible, » Alexey said, confused. « Maybe a technical glitch on the operator’s part? A duplicate? »

“Maybe,” I said.

I took the bag with my things. I left the phone in storage—the screen was broken, and it would die soon anyway.

She went out into the corridor.

She sat down on the bench.

She took out her phone and opened the call log. She looked at the two incoming calls from his number. Thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds.

Something like a word. One syllable.

Lena.

Maybe I imagined it. I probably imagined it.

But I put my phone in my pocket and didn’t delete these calls.

***

Tanya arrived on the third day—she finally bought a ticket without asking. She looks like Seryozha—just as big, with the same hands, only her voice is different, higher.

We sat in the same hospital coffee shop, drinking the same disgusting tea.

“Tell me something about him that I don’t know,” I asked.

Tanya was surprised.

– For what?

– I just want to.

She thought.

« He was afraid of the dark as a child. Until he was about twelve. He never told anyone, but I knew he always left the door to his room ajar so the light from the hallway could come in. Then he stopped. Or he got used to it. Or he just stopped showing it. »

I imagined Seryozha, twelve years old, with the door ajar. Seryozha, fifty-one, with a tube in his throat, in the darkness of the intensive care unit, where the lights are always dim.

« Is there a light on at night? » I asked. « In the intensive care unit? »

« I don’t know, » Tanya said. « Probably yes. Nurses are working, after all. »

– Fine.

We were silent.

« Lena, » Tanya said. « He’ll pull through. I know it. »

– You don’t know.

– No. But I believe in it.

This is different. I accepted this.

***

On the fifth day, Seryozha opened his eyes.

I got a call at 11:40 a.m.—I’d just gotten home to change and feed the cat. It was the hospital number.

— Elena Pavlovna Lebedeva? Your husband has regained consciousness. The doctor asks you to come.

I don’t remember how I got there. I only remember that the cat was left unfed, and I thought about it for three days afterwards.

They let me into the intensive care unit for ten minutes. Seryozha was lying there the same way—the tube had already been removed, but the oxygen tube was still there. His eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling.

I walked up and took his hand.

“Hello,” I said.

He slowly turned his head. His eyes found me. Something in them changed—not joy, no, it was too early for joy. Simply recognition.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.

– How are you?

He shook his head slightly, a millimeter. « I don’t know, » he said. Or, « Don’t ask. »

“I’ve been here the whole time,” I said. “Five days.”

He looked at me again. For a long time.

“I know,” he said.

It was strange. He couldn’t know—he was unconscious.

“Where from?” I asked.

He closed his eyes. I thought he was falling asleep. But he said—very quietly, so quietly that I guessed his lips rather than heard them:

– I heard you.

The monitors beeped. Outside, the November sun shone, pale and insistent.

“Seryozha,” I said. “You called me. Twice. At night.”

He opened his eyes again. He looked at me with that tired, quiet expression you see on people who have traveled far and come back.

“I don’t remember,” he said.

– I know you don’t remember.

“But if he called,” he paused and took a breath, “it means he wanted to say something.”

– What?

He was silent for a moment.

– Don’t go.

I squeezed his hand. Tighter than the first time.

“Nowhere,” I said.

***

He was transferred to a regular ward after two weeks. Three weeks later, he was sent home, loaded with pills, a referral to a rehabilitation center, and orders to « avoid stress » (this was for Seryozha, who had once opened four companies—the advice sounded like a joke, but we both pretended it wasn’t).

The first evening at home he sat on the sofa and looked out the window. I brought tea.

« Do you want cutlets? » I asked.

He looked at me.

— Did you know?

– Always.

He laughed. For the first time in a month and a half. It was a quiet laugh, not like before—he used to laugh loudly, loud enough to fill the entire hallway. But it was his laugh.

“I want cutlets,” he said.

I went to the kitchen.

“Lena,” he called.

– What?

— I want to go to Portugal in March.

I stopped at the door.

« It’s still cool there in March, » he said. « But at least there aren’t many people. And the ocean is nice. »

“Okay,” I said. “In March.”

— You won’t talk about money?

– No.

– Really?

« Seryozha, » I said. « I’ll buy tickets tomorrow. Just tell me which airport is best. »

He fell silent. Then he said:

— From Sheremetyevo. There is a direct flight.

– Fine.

I went to fry the cutlets. He was saying something from the room—about the hotel, about how good the pastel de natas were, about how you absolutely have to take the tram in Lisbon. I listened to his voice and turned the cutlets.

The phone was lying on the windowsill. I still haven’t deleted those two calls. Sometimes I open the call log and look at them.

Thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds.

I don’t know what it was. A technical glitch. An accident. Or something I don’t have a word for.

But I know one thing: when the phone vibrated at 11:14 PM in the hospital corridor and “Seryozha” appeared on the screen, I picked up.

And it was right.

***

In March we went to Lisbon.

Seryozha walked more slowly than before, stopping occasionally to rest. We took our time. We ate small cups of coffee in small cafes. We ate pasteli de nata—warm, cinnamon-flavored pastels. We boarded tram number 28 and watched the city climb up the hills.

On our last day, we reached the cape. It was not far from Lisbon; Seryozha had looked up the route beforehand. Cabo da Roca is the westernmost point of Europe. Beyond that, there’s only ocean.

We stood by the fence. The wind was strong, salt on our lips. Seryozha took my hand.

“Well, how is it?” he asked.

I looked at the water. It was huge, dark blue, endless.

“Big,” I said.

– I told you so.

We were silent.

« Seryozha, » I said. « You really don’t remember anything from there? »

He knew what I meant. He thought about it for a long time, seriously.

“It was dark,” he said finally. “And cold. And then your voice. ‘Nowhere.’ And it got warmer.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Maybe I dreamed it,” he added.

– Maybe.

The ocean was roaring. Seryozha didn’t let go of my hand.

– Lena.

– What?

– Thank you for picking up the phone.

I looked at him. Then at the ocean. Then back at him.

“It was you who called,” I said.

– Yes. But you took it.

It’s true. I took it.

I don’t know why. I just took it.

And perhaps that’s the most important thing—not who’s calling or where they’re from, but that you pick up the phone. That you’re here. That you’re waiting.

What are you going nowhere?

See more on the next page