Monday Mourning

“Anne?” I called out.

No answer.

Birdie stretched, dropped to the floor, and went belly up.

“Anne?” I called again as I rubbed Birdie’s tummy.

Silence.

“Where is she, Bird?”

The cat rolled to all fours, stretched each back leg, then strolled to the kitchen. In seconds I heard the crunch of Science Diet nuggets.

“Annie?”

Her bedroom door was still closed. I knocked and went in.

And my heart sank.

Anne’s belongings were gone. A note lay on the desk.

I stared at it a moment, then reached out and unfolded the paper.

Dearest Tempe,

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and patience. Not just this past week, but throughout the entire course of our wonderful, joyful, precious friendship. You have been my buttress, the wind beneath my wings. (Remember “our” movie?)

We’re alike in so very many ways, Tempe. I’m not good at talking about my feelings. I’m not even good at thinking about my feelings. You were perfect for me.

Now it’s time to wrap this up. Though I can never say it to you, know that I love you so very very much. Please don’t be angry with me for doing it this way.

Anne

A whole catalog of emotions gripped me.

Love. I knew my friend and understood how hard those words had been for her.

Guilt. Engrossed in my own problems, I’d not really focused on Anne’s. How could I have been so selfish?

Anger. She’d just packed and split for home without telling me? How could she be so insensitive?

Then fear barreled in like a locomotive.

Had she gone home? Wrap what up? For doing what this way? What way?

I remembered Anne’s book and our dinner conversation the night before. She hadn’t mentioned leaving.

What had she said? Something about cycles and changing in substance. I’d blown her off.

Sweet Jesus! Was she talking about death? Surely not. Depressed or not, Anne was not the suicidal type. But did we ever really know?

Memory collage. Another friend who’d stayed in that room. Left. Turned up dead in a shallow grave. Could Anne have undertaken some risky odyssey?

I tried calling her cell. No answer.

I dialed Tom.

“Hello.”

“Is Anne there?”

“Tempe?”

“Has Anne come home?”

“I thought she was with you.”

“She left.” I read Tom the note.

“What’s she talking about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She was pretty upset with me.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think she’d do something crazy, do you?”

The same question had been winging through my skull.

“She hasn’t phoned?”

“No.”

“Call the airlines. See if she’s booked on a flight to Charlotte.”

“I don’t think they’ll tell me.”

“Fake it, Tom!” I was almost crying. “Lie! Think of something.”