Calling home, with speaker phone on both ends, I can't tell one voice from another. I think it's Andy who asks about the food up here.
"The tomatoes fucking suck." I say. "So does the salsa."
I start to say something about potatoes, but her two-year-old cuts me off with a blood-curdling scream.
There's a voice I don't recognize. "Everything changes."
Is her mom there? Did I just say fuck in front of her mom?
"That's my maiden name, honey," says Andy. No one else responds.
"Sorry, I thought I heard your mom or someone."
The conversation continues in its confusing stereo until I hear someone whisper, "It all goes to shit."
"Well, someone's feeling cynical."
"Who's talking about everything going to shit?"
"Girl, you are losing your mind."
I leave the room and let my husband do the talking. I'm reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water when I smell burning hair.
"HALLELUJAH!" screams the space behind me. "HERE I COME!"
(Yes, I sound like an idiot when I scream. My ohmigoditsaroach scream is more convincing.)
Static fills my ears and I am certain something is coming up from behind to get me. Then Stewart hangs up the phone.
Breaks the connection.
It's on your end, Andy. There's something in your house.