“This is Rebecca Pines. I’m calling to see if you have any clothing or household items you would like to donate to Purple Heart.” (or AmVet. She called for both.) “Our truck will be in your neighborhood on January 4.”
Rebecca must have called me every two or three months since my arrival in Northern Virginia.
Her voice was always instantly recognizable, very raspy, rather deep. The opposite of warm and fuzzy. Everyone in the vicinity of the phone knew it was her when she called, her voice carried so well.
She never expressed disappointment when I had nothing for her.
She never expressed gratitude when I did have something for her.
Several months ago, other people started making the phone calls. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s the same person or different people. They’re so nondescript, not memorable in the least.
So I’m wondering about Rebecca. After all those years, I know nothing about her. Did she live down the street or across the country? How old was she? Was that her real name? What kind of life did she lead? And why doesn’t she call anymore?
We spoke on the phone oodles of times and all I ever said to her was “Yes.” “Not this time.” “Okay.” “I’ll do it.”
I have no idea what’s happened to her, but I feel I’ve lost an opportunity I won’t get back.