Asked, Answered

The phone spluttered as I stood there, my eyes glued to the answering machine. A few feet away, the baby was making grunting noises as he pulled Goofy around on a string.

Goofy was Mickey's friend.

More crinkling came from the small white box hanging on the kitchen wall beside the back door. It was speaking again.

'Bad news,' it said, the voice coming through sounding eerie and distant. A voice I remembered, heard somewhere before. It continued. 'Grandma's not doing well...' trailing off, leaving so much up to the imagination. Too much. The child forgotten now, concentrating.

'Couple of days, maybe.' The voice was getting further and further away. I knew that voice. From where?

'Didn't even walk today...' Sounding so weary. Tired as death. No, not death. Couldn't be. '...she's giving up...'

That voice. The baby had stopped dragging the toy, leaving it at my feet. I tore my eyes from the machine and looked down at the piece of plastic, picked it up. What happened to Mickey?

The voice was saying more, but I wasn't listening, Goofy cold in my hands. Cold like death. Looking up, I remembered the voice.

The answering machine beeped as I bolted awake.