Martha Richards

It was my first job with a paid receptionist. We had hired a wonderful young woman, Liz, just back from the Peace Corps after college. I was on deadline with a writing assignment, and asked her to hold my calls and take messages. Around 11 am that morning, Liz appeared at my door, flustered.

“There is a woman on the phone. She asked me a lot of questions when I answered the phone. You must be new there— where did I go to school, what did I do before I got here, if I liked working for you. I answered because I thought she might be a client. Then she asked for you saying she was a friend, and when I suggested that I take a message, she asked. ‘How well do you know Martha?’….I hesitated….and then she asked “Do you know her bra size?’ So I am here just to see if you actually know this woman and whether you want to take her call.”

“Is her name Julie?”
“Why yes”.
“I will take the call. And oh, Liz, here is my bra size in case she asks again.”

Julie got to know anyone who answered the phone — at my house, at any job I had. They would enjoy her calls…even though, as you know, she rarely identified herself when she’d call — she would just start talking.

How I miss her voice….her opinions and her questions, why do you think that? I miss her introductions — the opportunity to meet whomever I needed to know. I miss her obsession with my lasagna. I miss sharing favorite memories — her gift of every pint of ice cream in the store for my kids when I was sick, our trip to Vagina Monologues when we yelled the “c” word at the top of our lungs.

I can hear her voice even now, as I write this. Whenever my story got a bit long … “just cut to the fucking chase.”

Julie supported me in good times and in bad times. There was nothing I would not do for her. And there was nothing she would not do for me and for so many others. My heart aches with every memory — what I would give to hear her voice and laughter one more time.