Emergency Contact
by Fatin Zaklouta
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
My phone rang again. I realized too late that Jonas wasn’t asking for advice. He was asking for permission. “Don’t panic,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“I panicked,” he said.
“Jonas—”
“I told my wife about you,” he said. “I said, ‘There’s this woman at work who solves emotional emergencies.’ And now she wants to call you.”
“No,” I said.
“She already has,” he said quickly. “I gave her your number.”
I stopped walking. “Jonas.”
“She’s not from work,” he whispered.
“Jonas.”
“She’s having a personal crisis,” he said, as if that made it fine. “She says she feels invisible.”
I felt something cold move through my chest. “Give me your wife.”
There was rustling, then a voice. Soft. Not corporate. “Hello,” the woman said.
“Hello,” I replied and realized with a jolt that I had no script for a person who wasn’t part of the system.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m calling you.”
“Neither do I,” I replied.
She laughed quietly. “That makes me feel better.”
I sat down on a bench in the hallway, holding the phone like it was suddenly too heavy.
“What happened?” I asked her.
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
I listened. This call did not resolve quickly. It did not collapse into a practical action list. It was messy. Human. It did not end with gratitude that felt like a transaction. When I hung up, I realized my hands were trembling. Not from fear, from anger.
At 4:58, I opened my email again. There was a follow-up to the PDF.
Hi all, quick reminder: please use the Claire escalation alias responsibly. She’s a resource, but we need to protect her bandwidth.
A resource. I closed my laptop carefully, like it might break.
My phone rang. I watched it ring until it stopped. It rang again. I watched it ring. A third time. I answered.
“Claire?” a voice said, breathless.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think this counts as Level 3,” the voice said.
I rubbed my forehead. “What’s your name?”
Silence. Then: “I’m... I’m not sure. I’m new.”
“Okay,” I said, because it was either “okay” or screaming. “What happened?” I asked.
“I googled myself,” they said.
“And?”
“And I’m not who I thought I was,” they whispered.
I closed my eyes. “Okay,” I said. This was going to be a long week.
* * *
Resource Allocation
By Wednesday, I had been turned into infrastructure. This is an unpleasant realization to have about yourself, like discovering you are a corridor.
The day began with a meeting invite from HR:
Subject: Quick Alignment - Support Flows
Location: Meeting Room 3B
Duration: 30 minutes
Required Attendees: Me
I arrived on time. Being punctual is one of the ways I try to keep my dignity intact.
In the room were three HR people, my manager and a woman I did not recognize who introduced herself as “Wellbeing.” She did not say her name, she said her function.
“Thank you for joining,” HR began, smiling brightly. “We really appreciate your flexibility.”
“I’m not flexible,” I said. “I’m trapped.”
A small silence fell. They laughed, unsure whether I was joking. I held the silence long enough that they realized I wasn’t.
“Well,” HR said, flipping to a slide deck, “we’ve had some unintended consequences from the migration.” A slide appeared titled: SUPPORT PATHWAYS: CURRENT STATE.
There was a diagram. It showed multiple arrows. All arrows led to me. They had made it look official.
Wellbeing spoke next. “We’ve noticed employees have formed a strong sense of psychological safety around you.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, “in the way people are flattered when they’re told the building depends on them.”
My manager coughed.
“We want to prevent burnout,” Wellbeing continued.
“How?” I asked.
“Well,” HR said, “we’re proposing some guidelines.” Another slide:
CLAIRE AVAILABILITY WINDOWS
Monday to Thursday: 9-12, 14-16
Friday: 9-11 (light)
I stared. “I don’t have availability windows,” I said.
“Well,” HR said, still smiling, “these would help manage expectations.”
“Whose expectations?” I asked.
They exchanged a quick look that said, “Please don’t make us say it.”
“Everyone’s,” HR said finally.
“Not mine,” I said.
Wellbeing leaned forward. “We’d also like to offer you some support.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Who is my emergency contact?”
The room went quiet. Then HR blinked. “We can assign someone.”
“I already have someone,” I said. “It’s you. That’s the system.”
“Well,” my manager said gently, “this is only temporary.”
“Everything is temporary,” I said, “including me.”
HR cleared their throat. “We’ve also created a form.”
Of course they had. A paper form was passed to me.
EMERGENCY CONTACT REQUEST FORM
Please select the category of your issue:
_ Panic (mild)
_ Panic (moderate)
_ Panic (severe)
_ Unspecified discomfort
_ Other (describe)
Below was a box labelled: Summary of issue (max 200 words)
At the bottom: By submitting this form, you acknowledge that Claire is not a licensed therapist, but you agree that she is exceptionally calm.
“I cannot believe you wrote that,” I said.
“We wanted to be transparent,” HR said brightly.
Wellbeing smiled. “Also, we’ve noticed employees respond very well to your tone. So we’ve drafted some suggested phrases, to help you maintain consistency.”
Another handout:
SUGGESTED PHRASES (Do not forward)
- “I hear you.”
- “Take a breath.”
- “What’s the next practical step?”
- “That’s outside my scope.”
- “Please contact HR.”
I looked up. “You want me to tell them to contact you.”
“Well,” HR said, “only when appropriate.”
I placed the handouts neatly on the table. “Okay.”
They all relaxed, because they thought “okay” meant “yes.”
“It’s okay,” I clarified, “as in: I understand what’s happening.”
My manager’s smile became fixed.
“Well,” HR said, “we’re glad. So we’ll roll out the form today.”
“You will roll out the form,” I repeated.
“Yes,” HR said. “And we’ll send a company-wide note.”
I nodded. “Good,” I said. “Please include the following sentence.”
They paused, waiting.
I smiled pleasantly. “Write,” I said, “that employees should no longer contact me for personal emergencies.”
HR hesitated. “We can say—”
“No,” I said, “you will say that. Exactly.”
Wellbeing shifted. “We don’t want to disrupt psychological safety.”
“You’re not disrupting safety,” I said. “You’re redistributing responsibility.”
HR began to speak, then stopped.
My manager tried. “Claire, you’re very valued—”
“Then value me,” I said.
There was another silence. This one felt more real. “Okay,” HR said finally. “We’ll... we’ll draft something.”
“Good,” I said, standing. “Send it to me before you send it to them.”
I left the room with the strange, light sensation of someone who has just put down a heavy bag they didn’t realize they were carrying.
My phone rang. I did not answer. It rang again. I watched it, curious, like a scientist observing a familiar animal. A message appeared on my screen:
Unknown Number: Hi, Claire. I’m sorry. HR told me not to call you. But they also told me to fill out the form. And the form asked me to summarize my breakdown in 200 words. I’m at 312 and still on the first paragraph. Can I just call you?
I laughed out loud. It was the first spontaneous laugh I’d had all week, and it startled me so much I nearly dropped the phone.
Then another message:
Jonas: Bad news. The emergency alias is now auto-forwarding to your private number. Good news: I can probably fix it. Bad news: I’ll need your phone for that.
I stared at the screen. Auto-forwarding to my private number. This was the part where a reasonable person would scream. Instead, I opened my contacts and created a new entry: HR - Emergency Contact. I typed in HR’s main number. Then I pressed “call.”
A cheerful voice answered. “Human Resources, how may I help you?”
I inhaled. “My name is Claire,” I said calmly, “and I am having an emergency.”
There was a pause. “What kind of emergency?”
I looked down at my phone, which was ringing again. “I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m sure it will be categorized shortly.”
* * *
Company-Wide
The email went out at 9:04 a.m. I know this because my phone began vibrating at 9:05.
Subject: UPDATE: Emergency Support Procedures
From: Human Resources
To: All Staff
Dear all,
Following recent system changes, we’d like to clarify support pathways for urgent personal matters...
I stopped reading there. Nobody reads past “clarify.”
My phone buzzed. Then rang. Then buzzed again. I put it face down on my desk and counted to ten, which used to help with anxiety. It now helped with curiosity.
When I turned the phone back over, there were sixteen messages.
Some were confused: Does this mean we can’t call you anymore?
Are you okay?
This feels sudden.
Some were wounded: I thought we had an understanding.
You helped me when no one else would.
Some were offended: HR says you asked for this.
Seems unfair.
One was simply: Wow.
At 9:17, Jonas appeared at my desk. He did not sit down. This was never a good sign. “They sent the email,” he said.
“Yes.”
“They shouldn’t have sent the email,” he said.
“I asked them to,” I replied.
“They changed the wording,” Jonas said. “A little.”
“How little?”
He pulled out his phone and read aloud: “Please note that while Claire has been a valued informal support, employees should now refrain from contacting her directly regarding personal emergencies.”
I closed my eyes. “Informal support.”
“That’s what you are,” Jonas said gently, “like a beanbag chair.”
I opened my eyes. “Jonas.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Bad metaphor. But the mood is... volatile.”
“Volatile how?”
“Well,” he said, “someone printed the email.”
“Printed it.”
“Yes,” he said. “And highlighted parts. And wrote ‘WOW’ in the margin.”
“Where is this?” I asked.
“In the kitchen.”
Of course it was.
At 9:24, my manager called me into her office again. This time she did not close the door. “We’re getting feedback,” she said.
“From whom?”
“Everyone.”
This felt excessive.
“Some people feel abandoned,” she continued.
“I am still here,” I said.
“Yes, but not available.”
“Correct.”
She shifted in her chair. “They felt you were... different.”
“Different how?”
“More human.”
I let that sit. “I’m not a service,” I said.
“No,” she agreed quickly, “of course not. But you were very effective.”
This was the problem. Efficiency invites repetition.
At 9:41, HR emailed again:
Subject: Clarification
We recognize the emotional impact of this change and encourage everyone to continue supporting one another.
“Encourage” felt like abdication.
My phone rang. I let it ring. It rang again. I let it ring. Then a text appeared:
Unknown: I know we’re not supposed to call you. I just wanted to say thank you. And also that I’m not okay. But I’ll figure it out.
This one landed differently. I typed a response. Deleted it. Typed again: I’m glad you reached out to HR.
I stared at the sentence. It felt untrue. I erased it and put the phone away.
At 10:12, the group chat reappeared:
Support (11): This feels cold.
We’re being bureaucratized.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
Jonas added a thumbs-up emoji, then immediately left the chat.
At 10:26, someone knocked on my desk divider. It was the new hire. The one who had googled himself. “I know I shouldn’t,” he said quietly.
“You shouldn’t,” I agreed.
“But HR said I could submit a form.”
“Yes.”
“And the form auto-rejected me.”
I paused. “Why?”
“It said my issue was ‘existential’ and therefore non-actionable.”
I considered this. “That tracks.”
He swallowed. “Can I just ask you one thing?”
“One,” I said.
“Does this feeling go away?”
I looked at him. He was very young. Too young to already be asking this. “I don’t know,” I told him.
He nodded, as if that was worse but still useful. “Thank you,” he said, “for being honest.” He walked away.
I sat very still.
At 11:03, HR called me. “Hi, Claire!” the voice said brightly. “Just checking in.”
“Are you?” I asked.
“Yes,” HR said. “We want to make sure you’re feeling supported.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Oh,” HR said. “Would you like to fill out a form?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
There was silence.
“I’m sorry,” HR said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I said. “You never do.” I hung up.
At 11:17, my phone rang again. I answered it without thinking. “Hello?”
There was crying. Immediate. Uncontained. “I shouldn’t have called,” the voice said. “I know I shouldn’t have called.”
“Who is this?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” the voice said. “They said you were the only one who listened.”
I closed my eyes. “I can’t help you like this anymore,” I said carefully.
“I don’t need help,” the voice said. “I just needed someone to hear me say it.”
I said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “I won’t call again.” The line went dead.
I stared at my phone. Something inside me shifted, not dramatically, but decisively, like a door clicking into place. At lunch, I did not eat.
* * *
Auto-Forwarding
Jonas arrived at my desk at 1:02 p.m., carrying a cable, a laptop and the expression of a man about to confess to a crime he technically committed on purpose. “Okay,” he said. “So. Good news and bad news.”
“Start with the bad.”
“The emergency alias,” he said, “is now permanently attached to your number.”
I waited. “Permanently how?”
“Technically fixable,” he said. “Emotionally irreversible.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Jonas said, lowering his voice, “that even if we fix it, people have already saved your number. And screenshots exist.”
“Screenshots,” I repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Someone made a flowchart.”
I rubbed my temples.
“The good news,” Jonas continued quickly, “is that HR has approved a hotline.”
“That sounds bad,” I said.
“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s external.”
“Who answers it?”
Jonas hesitated. “People.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s anonymous,” he said. “And scripted.”
“Scripted support,” I said. “Excellent.”
He brightened. “They even used some of your phrases.”
I stood up. “Jonas,” I said calmly, “I need you to remove my number.”
“I can,” he said. “But—”
“But.”
“But they’ll still call you.”
“Yes.”
“And HR asked me to check with you first.”
I laughed again. It surprised both of us. “Jonas,” I said, “do it.”
He nodded. “Okay. But if something breaks—”
“Everything is already broken.”
He smiled weakly and left.
At 2:14, my phone went silent.
The absence was immediate and strange. I waited for relief. It did not arrive. Instead, there was a hollow, humming quiet, like a building after evacuation.
Copyright © 2025 by Fatin Zaklouta
