Already Gone

– 9 –



Over the next few weeks, life starts to return to normal. The doctor removes the bandage on my hand, revealing a thin, crescent-shaped scar and a smooth layer of skin where my finger used to be. He asks be about a prosthetic finger, but I tell him I’m not interested.

I’ve never minded scars.

Faculty meetings, classes, and student conferences take up almost all my time. I don’t get to see Diane as often as I’d like, and that wears on us both. She says she doesn’t mind, that she understands, but it’s not true.

She does mind. We both do.

One Tuesday after class, I call home. I let the phone ring several times, and I’m about to hang up when Diane answers. She is out of breath, but her voice sounds warm, and I feel my day melt away as she speaks.

“What were you doing?”

She tells me she was out back, cleaning the garden.

“I wanted to get to it before the snows come,” she says. “I barely heard the phone. I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“It was close.” She pulls the phone away, coughs, then she’s back. “I almost killed myself on the steps.”

I laugh, but she doesn’t think it’s funny.

We talk for a while. I tell her about my classes, and she tells me about her plan for the garden next year. I can hear the excitement in her voice and it makes me smile.

“Do you want to help? We can do it together. It’ll be our project.”

“You don’t want me anywhere near your garden,” I say. “I have a black thumb. Everything I touch dies.”

“You just don’t want to do the work.”

“I’ll help if you want, but you’ll regret it.” I turn toward the window and look out over the campus and the slow thread of students passing below. “Just don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

“Consider me warned,” she says. “But all it takes is a little patience. You’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see. Patience isn’t my strong—”

There’s a pause, then Diane says, “Are you there?”

I don’t answer her.

I barely hear her.

I lean against the windowsill and focus on the two men sitting on the bench in front of my office. The big one, leaning back with his hands behind his head, and the little one next to him, wrapped in a khaki army coat. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the night in the parking lot, but I have no doubt it’s them.

Diane asks me again if I’m there.

This time I find my voice.

“I have to go.”

“What?”

I move away from the window and say, “I have to call you back.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

I hesitate before I say anything, and that gives me away. Diane can tell when I’m hiding something, and she asks again.

This time, I tell her the truth.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“It’s them,” I say. “I’m going down there.”

This makes things worse, and the next time Diane speaks, I can hear the panic in her voice.

“Jake, don’t.”

“It’s okay. I just want to talk.”

“What?”

“They’re right outside my office. What do you want me to do, pretend they’re not there?”

“Call the police. Let them handle it.”

“Like they’ve handled it so far?”

“Please.” The panic is fading from Diane’s voice, replaced by sadness, deep and tired. “Don’t go down there, Jake. Promise me.”

I walk back to the window and look out.

They’re still out there.

“Goddamn it, Diane.”

“Jake, promise me.”

I stare out at the two men and try to stay calm.

“Jake?”

A group of girls walks by, and the big guy leans in and says something to the little one in the army coat.

He laughs, and I hate him for it.

“Jake, answer me.”

Diane is crying now, and it brings me back.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll call the police.”

Diane is still crying.

“I thought this was over. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

But it is, and we both know it.

Something long buried is worming its way back into my life, our life. I don’t know who’s behind it, but I’m going to find out.

Just not today.

Today, I’m going to call the police.

“I want you to promise me something, Jake.”

The tears are gone, but the sadness is still there.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you won’t get carried away,” she says. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just promise me,” she says. “Promise me you’ll control your temper.”

“Jesus, Diane, I told you I’d call the police and I won’t go down there. What else do you want?”

“I want you to promise me.”

“Fine, I promise.”

Diane is quiet.

I’m about to tell her I need to get off the phone if I’m going to call the police, but she speaks first.

“I love you, Jake.”

There’s something in her voice that I don’t like, something final, and I start to worry.

“Listen, I’ll call the police and come straight home. We can talk when I get there, okay?”

No answer.

“We’ll laugh about all this someday. You’ll see.”

Diane pauses. “Just remember your promise.”

“Diane, I—”

The line clicks, and she’s gone.

I stand there for a moment, staring out the window with the phone pressed against my ear. Then I walk back to my desk and set the receiver in the cradle.

I hesitate before I pick it up again and dial the number for the police. I go through all the right steps, just like she asked. It’s not how I want to handle it, but I gave my word.

The police haven’t been able to do anything, and I don’t see that changing this time.

And I’m right.

By the time the police arrive, the two men are gone.





After the police leave, I walk home. I keep an eye out for the two men the entire way, but there’s no one outside. The streets are deserted. The only sounds come from the wind and the scatter of dead leaves shuffling across the sidewalk as I pass.

When I get close to my house, I see that Diane’s car is gone, and something inside me falls away.

I force myself to keep moving, but each step feels heavier than the last. I want to believe she parked in the garage today, but I know it’s not true.

She’s gone.

The front door is unlocked, and I push it open and step inside. The house is quiet. I call Diane’s name, but there’s no answer.

I let the door close behind me, then I walk into the kitchen and look out the window toward the garden at the far end of the lawn. Several yard bags are lying on the grass, and there’s a rake leaning against the alley gate, but there’s no sign of Diane.

I call her name again.

Still nothing.

I walk out to the hall and open the door leading to the garage. My car is inside, but Diane’s is gone. Even though I’m not surprised, I don’t move for a long time. I tell myself she just went out and that she’ll be back any minute, but I know it’s not true.

I close the garage door, then walk back to the kitchen and search for a note. I check all the obvious places, but there’s nothing.

My thoughts roll over each other, one after another, and I can’t keep them straight.

If she left, where did she go?

I head down the hall to our bedroom and go straight for her closet. Diane’s clothes are inside, hung in a row. I push them aside, looking for her suitcase. It’s on the floor, right where it’s been since she got back from Phoenix.

I feel some of the tension inside me melt away, and for the first time that afternoon, I smile.

If she didn’t pack, she didn’t leave.

All at once, the world seems lighter.

I run my hand along the line of her clothes, feeling the fabric, soft and smooth under my fingers. I look for something I’ve seen her wear before, something I can attach a memory to, but nothing looks familiar.

It doesn’t matter.

She didn’t leave, and that’s all I need to know.

I’m still smiling as I close the closet door. And even though my breath catches in my throat when I see the dark spots on the carpet, all bad thoughts are still a long way off.

It’s not until I bend down and touch one of the spots with my fingertip, pulling it back wet and red, that those far away thoughts come screaming forward, tearing into my mind and closing off the entire world.