Gone Missing

The phone had been ringing. Before she could get to it, the answering machine started to record. “Hello, Mrs. Kander? It's Larry Johnson, Carol Ann’s husband? Carol Ann killed herself tonight? She took pills? And sat in the car, with, you know, the motor running?" Marjorie’s throat clutched. Choking seemed to reverberate from outside. When she recognized that it came from her, she pounded her chest with her palms, breathing hard. The pounding did no good; she could not feel it. Carol Ann. The client with the wonderful attitude, a young woman who knew how to count her blessings, who had come to her for help without uttering so much as a suicidal syllable. Had she, Marjorie, been a half-way competent psychologist, she would have picked up on Carol Ann’s plan, guessed she was like all the others who lied to their therapists, for what reason, Marjorie would never comprehend. Furiously, she hit appliances with the flat of her hand. If the family walked into the house this minute, they’d be appalled to find her -- wife, mother, professional counselor -- grunting inhuman noises, railing against answering machines. Well, let them be appalled. It was appropriate in appalling circumstances to be appalled. Still blotting tears, she climbed the stairs and dressed. She thought of Gloria’s idea of taking off at a moment’s notice. So typical of her impulsive associate; ready to do whatever gave instant gratification. Regardless of the consequences. Into a carry-on, she threw enough underwear, slacks and tops to last a week. At the kitchen counter, she scribbled a quick note and, though nobody could hear, Marjorie tiptoed out the door.