I walked in the door, and she wasn’t there. The room was clean, fresh-smelling, the window open. She had taken the cell phone I left on the file cabinet. My note was still there, scribbled in red marker, with instructions for how to use the phone. I hope she remembers them.
I pick up my phone and dial my cell number, but I am shunted straight to voice mail. She does not have the phone turned on. That is understandable if she is at the Getty Center, as I suspect; art museums and cell phones don’t mix. But I wonder if she even went there; I wish she’d left me a note. My parents would be laughing at me now. I did this to them a lot.
I leave a message on the cell phone, playing it casual. I hope she’s having a good time at the Getty Center or wherever she went, and would she please give me a call if she gets this message and let me know where she is and when she will be back. That assumes she remembers the voice mail password, which is written on the sheet of paper on the file cabinet.
I remind myself that she has lived alone for a couple of years, that she knows how to take care of herself, that she has been to places I have not. I know she is fine, but I still worry. I instructed her to take a bus that I have never taken. It is mostly populated by students and tourists on the Getty Center route, but still. I am going to demonstrate the use of the cell phone when she gets back, instead of leaving a message on a piece of paper while she is still asleep.