So my new cell-phone rang.  The one with the international roaming plan I can take anywhere in the world and the unlisted number I hadn’t given to anyone. 

I should’ve known better.  I thumbed the button, giving an absent hello.

"Is this Donna Harrison?"

"Speaking."

"No it's not."  Cackling laughter spewed from the phone as I held it away, glancing at the display.  KNOWN NUMB.  I sighed in recognition.

"Hello Mother, what is it now?"  I sat on my overstuffed suitcase by the front door.  Next time I got this close to the exit, I’d make a break for it.

"You're Diane to me."

"No, I'm your other daughter."  My sister Diane spent the months after Mom's funeral in the psych ward.  The shrinks called it an extreme social anxiety disorder, because she shrieked and cried uncontrollably when the phone rang. 

"You're just this little voice on the phone.  Did I tell you about Ethan? He started kindergarten."

"Yes, you sent me Ethan’s school picture."  My nephew, the male heir.  Would this be another lecture on the importance of family?  I had a flight to catch. 

"I'm looking at this picture of you.  Why are you so horribly thin?  You used to be fat."

"That was Diane with the weight problem."  Competing for Mom’s affection always ruined my appetite.

"Yep.  Diane always was plump as a calf ready for the slaughterhouse."

"Mom, you're dead now.  Rest in peace?"

Silence.  All of two heartbeat's worth.

"Is that any way to talk to your mother?"

What else could I do?  I hung up.

***

Once a common psychic phenomenon when connections required filaments and wires, mediums conjured voices of the dead on radios, telephones and televisions, claiming to tune in to a spiritual frequency.  I wished I could tune it out.

When the phone calls started, I tried to block unknown numbers on my caller ID.  They jammed the system.  I disconnected the land-line and changed the mobile number.  My dead aunt called to tell me I was a bad daughter.  My dead father called to say it isn't that easy to escape the past.  My dead mother went on and on about a door.

***

The phone buzzed again, an off-key ring tone I didn't program.  Listening to their voice mails was worse than talking to them.  I picked up the call.

"Why me?"  My plea echoed off bare walls.

"Because you answer," rasped my father's voice.  "Your mother wants to talk to you."

"No," I protested.  Too late.  She was on the line clearing her throat.

"Can you hear Jesus knocking on the door of your heart?"  Mom was using her Serious Voice.  "I'm worried about you.  I don't want your soul to be lost.  Go through the door."

"But I have plans.  I have a life."

"You are my daughter and you will do as I say."

"I make my own choices."

"Oh, ho ho ho.  I know you’ll mess it up."

The line crackled.  She wouldn't give me a chance to tell her I had a job in Paris.  I heard muttering and rustling.

"Donna."  My father again.  "You're just like your sister, looking for a way out."

"Dad, let me go," I begged, but he'd already passed the receiver.

"No matter where you go," my aunt Vera said, "You'll still be our little girl."

I threw the phone against the wall, watched its wire guts spew out of the shattered plastic and metal case.  I kicked it into the hallway on my way out.  The taxi waited at the curb to take me to the airport. 

***

As the plane reached cruising altitude, the handset on my seat rang.  The steward nodded.

"Call for you, Ms.  Harrison."

What else could I do?  I levered open the emergency exit and jumped.

Now I'm phoning everyone I know but they hang up, cursing me for a crank caller.  I need to find out something the dead wouldn't tell me.

Which door?