Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Find Me by Jeffrey Bush

The phone rang. Kelly picked it up.

“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”

Silence.

“Can I help you?” she said again.

More silence.

“I’m Kelly,” she said. “What’s your name?”

She waited.

There was a procedure for silent callers — you gave them as much time as they needed. Maybe they were deciding if they liked your voice. Maybe it had taken so much nerve for them to call that they didn’t know what to say.

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

There was another possibility.

Kelly didn’t like to think about it. But she had to.

Maybe they couldn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?”

Maybe they’d done something. Like cut themselves. Or taken an overdose.

“If you can’t say anything, can you make a noise?”

She listened.

“Can you tap the telephone?”

There was no sound.

Or was there?

Had she heard, in the background, the sound of something? Something ordinary — like a car — but not exactly a car — passing by?

Whatever it had been, the sound was gone now.

“I have to hang up,” she said. “But you can call back any time.”

She made her voice as friendly as she could.

Sometimes people called because they didn’t have any other friends. Because they were lonely.

And that was reason enough.

“Teen Lifeline is open until nine tonight. And there’s always the regular Lifeline. The regular Lifeline is open twenty-four hours a day, and they’ll be glad to take your call.”

She waited.

She let what she thought was enough time go by. Then, to make sure, she waited a little more.

Just as she was about to hang up, the line went dead.

Which was a relief. She didn’t like to hang up on a caller.

She liked to think that she’d done everything she could.

And she had, hadn’t she?

Of course she had.

She worried too much.

At the phone in the next cubicle, Marianne was murmuring, “Yes” and “Uh-uh.”

Marianne was on the regular Lifeline. Marianne was nice. She was about forty and slight, with a soft, comforting voice.

Kelly was glad to be on the same shift with Marianne. Sometimes, between calls, they had a chance to chat a little.

Kelly’s math book was lying open. She picked it up.

The Teen Lifeline didn’t get as many calls as the regular Lifeline. Usually she had time to do some homework.

But almost at once her phone rang.

“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

It was a male voice. A young male voice, sort of husky.

“What’s the trouble?” Kelly said.

“Well, I have this problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A personal problem.”

Kelly had only been a Teen Lifeliner for a month and a half. But there were some calls that she had learned to be suspicious of.

This was one of them.

“Oh?”

“It’s hard to tell you about it.”

“Why is it hard to tell me about it?”

“Because you’re a girl.”

She was definitely suspicious.

“Would you rather talk to a boy?”

“Oh no.”

“There’s a boy on in two hours, at six.”

“I’d rather talk to you.”

He was breathing fast. And Kelly was afraid she knew why.

But maybe she was wrong.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I’d like to talk about you.”

“We don’t talk about ourselves.”

“I just want to ask you one thing.”

“We’re here to talk about you.”

“What kind of underwear are you wearing?”

Damn.

Why did boys have to be like that?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t accept that sort of call.”

“I just—”

She hung up firmly.

Marianne, still on the phone, had heard her. Marianne gave her a wry, sympathetic smile.

Kelly took a deep breath.

Boys were so stupid.

She picked up her math book.

“Are you okay?”

It was Marianne, looking at her. Marianne’s call was finished, too.

“Oh, sure.”

Kelly waved a hand. Although she’d been too upset by that call, to tell the truth, to think about her math.

More upset than she needed to be.

Why did she take everything so hard?

“Sex callers are a nuisance,” Marianne said.

“They told us about them in training class. But I didn’t realize there’d be so many of them.”

“I suppose they’re lonely, too.”

Kelly didn’t want to go on about it. She wanted to know more about Marianne.

They hadn’t had a real conversation yet, in spite of their month and a half of sitting side by side.

She had a feeling she would like Marianne.

“How long have you been a Lifeliner?” she asked.

“Let’s see.” Marianne pondered. “This is my fifth year.”

“Wow.”

Marianne looked amused. “I like it.”

“I guess you do.”

“I wouldn’t keep on if I didn’t.”

“I like it, too.” Kelly hesitated. “But I’m not sure I like it that much.”

“Most volunteers just stay a year.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what they promise.”

“I know.”

“Some don’t last that long.”

“They don’t?”

“It can be difficult.”

“Yes.”

“What brought you here?”

Did Kelly mind that question?

No, she told herself.

Marianne wasn’t being nosy. It was she, Kelly, who was making too much of a polite inquiry.

The way she made too much of everything.

“I—”

She stopped.

She’d told about it at her first interview. Why not tell Marianne about it?

Why not get used to telling about it?

She cleared her throat.

It wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

“My sister—”

She hoped a phone wasn’t going to ring. She couldn’t bear it if a phone rang now.

“My sister Megan committed suicide. Two years ago.”

There was a pause. Not a painful pause. Just a pause.

“A lot of us are here because of something like that,” Marianne said.

Kelly relaxed a little.

“I have a nephew who killed himself,” Marianne went on quietly.

And that was all.

Which was part of what was so nice, Kelly thought, about Marianne. And the other Life-liners she’d met. They just shared what needed to be shared, matter-of-factly, and left it at that. They didn’t jump in with something awkward. They didn’t make a fuss, like—

Like her family.

Her family were one reason she was here.

It wasn’t that her family didn’t try to understand her.

Her family had tried so hard to understand her, and what she was feeling, that somehow she couldn’t let them know.

Maybe here, at the Life-liners, she could begin to sort things out.

Before she could say so, Marianne’s phone rang. A moment later Kelly’s did, too.

“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”

At first there was nothing. Then there was the sound of a drawn breath.

“Hi.”

It was a male voice. A young, toneless, male voice. That was all she could tell about it.

“Hi.”

“I called before.”

“You did?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

So this was her silent caller.

“I’m glad you called back.”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s the trouble?” she asked.

“I’m not sure why I called.”

“You’re not?”

“You can’t do anything.”

“I can’t?”

“It’s too late.”

She gripped the phone tighter.

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody can do anything.”

His voice was fading.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I said, it’s too late.”

His voice was louder. And there was a touch of irritation in it.

Her heart was thumping.

“Do you mean you’ve taken something?”

Silence.

“Yes,” he said.

Oh Lord.

“You’ve taken some pills?”

“Yes.”

She’d never had a call like this.

If she let herself, she would panic. She couldn’t let herself.

What to do first?

Get Marianne’s help.

She turned in her chair. Talking so Marianne could hear, she said, “What kind of pills have you taken?”

“Valium.”

“How many Valium?”

“I don’t know.”

Thank goodness, Marianne had heard. Marianne went on listening to her call, but her gaze was on Kelly.

“A dozen?”

“All that were in the bottle.”

“More than a dozen?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Kelly saw that Marianne was hanging up. She must have explained to her caller that there was a medical emergency. Now she would put the other lines on hold.

“What difference does it make?” he said.

“I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

Marianne had pulled her chair closer. She was writing something on a pad of paper. Her handwriting was so bad that Kelly could hardly make it out.

How long? it seemed to be.

How long what?

She felt the panic rising. She forced it down. She could feel as terrified as she wanted to after this was over.

Now she had to get things right.

She had to.

She realized what Marianne was asking.

“How long ago,” she said, “did you take the Valium?”

“Half an hour ago.”

½ hour, she scrawled on the pad.

Where? Marianne wrote.

“Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you at home?”

“It’s too late.”

Marianne was writing again. Anyone else?

“Is anyone else there?”

“No.”

Taxi?

“Can you call a taxi?”

“Why?”

“To take you to a hospital.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

His voice was fading.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital,” he said loudly.

Groggy?

Was the Valium, Marianne meant, making him groggy?

No.

Kelly shook her head.

He didn’t sound groggy. Just distant, sometimes, as if he were letting the phone slip down. As if he didn’t care if she heard him or not.

But he’d called.

He’d called twice.

He did care. Didn’t he?

“What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing.”

“Something must be bothering you a lot.”

No answer.

“Are you in school?”

His silence, Kelly thought, meant that question was too dumb to answer. But it seemed to mean something else, as well.

It meant, Keep asking.

“Is it your grades?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

“Girls?”

“Nothing like that.”

Before, Kelly had thought she could hear the sound of something, in the background, that was not quite a car. She thought she could hear it now.

It was not quite an airplane, either.

What was it?

“You don’t care,” he said.

“I do care.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know what it’s like to feel bad.”

“No, you don’t.”

Yes, I do, she wanted to say. I really do. But it wouldn’t do any good to argue.

What would do some good?

“You know my name,” she said. “It’s Kelly. What’s yours?”

“Why do you want to know?”

His voice had changed.

“I want to know more about you,” she said.

“Are you tracing this call?”

“We don’t do things like that.”

“How do I know?”

“This call is just between you and us.”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s us?”

She bit her lip.

Had she made a mistake?

“Someone’s helping me. Her name is Marianne.”

“I thought it was just you and me.”

“Marianne’s nice. She wants to help you. She’s — an older person.”

Marianne smiled slightly.

“So it’s you and me and Marianne.”

“Yes.”

“An older person.”

“Yes.”

“Like my mother.”

Why had he said that?

“Your mother?”

“My mother’s an older person.”

“Is your mother the trouble?”

He laughed, sort of.

“I took my mother’s Valium.”

“You did?”

“She’ll be sorry, when she finds out.”

“She will?”

“That’ll make her sit up.”

“Sit up?”

“And pay attention.”

“She doesn’t pay attention to you?”

There was a pause.

“Oh, stuff it,” he said abruptly. “I’ve had enough pop psychology.”

“Are you in therapy?”

“Of course I’m in therapy.”

“Of course?”

“Isn’t everybody?”

“Is it helping?”

There was that laugh again. If that’s what it was.

“Oh, sure. It’s been a wonderful success. That’s why I’ve taken my mother’s Valium. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Who’s your therapist?”

“Oh no. You won’t trick me that way.”

“I don’t want to trick you.”

But she had. She had wondered if his therapist could tell her where he was.

Though they couldn’t call his therapist. Not unless he said they could.

Could she guess where he was? From the sound she’d heard? That was not quite a car or an airplane?

No. It wasn’t enough.

“I want to help you,” she said.

He was silent.

“Tell me where you are.”

“Find me,” he said.

“What?”

“If you want to help, find me.”

It was so frustrating. Nothing she said seemed to be any use.

“How can I find you? If you won’t let me?”

“You don’t want to find me. You just want to go back to your normal, happy life.”

She felt a flash of irritation of her own.

My life’s not so normal. Or so happy. Not since—

“If you don’t want to tell me where you are, tell me what’s troubling you.”

“I told you. It’s nothing.”

She was trying to help, wasn’t she? What gave him the right to be so impossible?

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what’s troubling you?”

“It’s nothing. Nothing and everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean everything’s wonderful. I have a wonderful mother. I have a wonderful therapist. I have a wonderful father, when I see him, and a wonderful house. I go to a wonderful school. I have a wonderful everything, and I can’t stand it.”

Was he crying?

Had she got through to him? At last? Just when she’d given up?

Were things going to turn out right?

This time, were things going to turn out right?

“I’m glad you told me that.”

Her hand was clenched around the phone.

“But it’s not a reason to do something to yourself.”

She concentrated all her strength.

“Nothing is.”

She made herself speak slowly. Slowly and carefully.

“Now, I want you to tell me where you are. So we can send an ambulance for you.”

There was a long pause.

“No.”

His voice was very faint.

“I want—” she began.

“I’m going down to the beach.”

“I can hardly hear you.”

“Then I’m going to walk into the water.”

“Into the water?”

“Into the sunset.”

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter what you don’t want.”

His voice was getting fainter.

“Which beach?” she said desperately.

There were beaches all along this part of the coast. Mile after mile of sand and Atlantic Ocean.

“Never mind.”

“I want—”

There was a click.

She pressed the phone against her ear, trying to hear something.

Nothing.

There was a hand on her arm. Marianne’s.

“He hung up?”

She banged down the phone. “Damn,” she said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“You did everything you could.”

“He’s going to walk into the water. Into the sunset.”

“You did—”

She pounded on the table with her fist.

“I did everything I could, and it didn’t work.”

“No.”

“It didn’t work.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.”

Marianne was standing beside her. She buried her face in Marianne’s dress.

“It never works.” She scarcely knew what she was saying. Words were pouring out of her, furiously. “They just go and kill themselves.”

“Some of them do.”

“I hate them. I hate them. I hate them.”

“Them?”

“All of them.”

“You’re really angry at her, aren’t you?”

She raised her head. “What?”

“At your sister Megan.”

Something inside her gave way.

Tears filled her eyes.

Yes. I am. I’m really mad at her.

She shivered. She wiped her eyes. She took a long, snuffling breath.

This was something to think about, later, when she got home.

About getting really mad at someone. And forgiving her.

“Wait,” she said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“ ‘Into the sunset.’ ”

“Into the sunset?”

“That’s what he said he was going to do. ‘Walk into the water. Into the sunset.’ ”

“Maybe,” Marianne began soothingly, “he won’t really—”

“But how can he do that?”

“How?”

“He left me a clue.”

“A clue?”

“I don’t think he meant to, but he told me where he is.”

“He did?”

“He did want me to help him.”

“Yes?”

“The sun sets in the west.”

“Yes.”

“Our beaches don’t face west. Not our ocean beaches. They face the Atlantic.”

“But—”

“It’s got to be a beach on a lake! And that was the noise I heard!”

“What noise?”

“I heard something go by, and I didn’t know what it was. But now I do. It was a motorboat!”

“Well—”

“And there’s only one lake around here that’s big enough to have motorboats! And a beach! Crystal Lake!”

They looked at each other.

“You may be right,” Marianne said.

“We can send an ambulance!”

“Did he give us permission?”

“He said, Find me!”

Marianne sat down. She picked up her phone.

“First I have to call our Home Director and get an okay.”

Kelly sat back, exhausted.

She’d done everything she could.

She knew she had.

And maybe, she thought, that was enough.

She opened her eyes.

“Do you think there’s a chance?”

Marianne was dialing.

“Yes. I think there is.”