Already Gone

– 11 –



I don’t sleep for a long time. Instead, I lie in bed and stare at shadows and think about Diane. Eventually I drift off, and when I do, I have the dream again.

It’s always the same.

In it, I’m a child, stacking building blocks on a dark carpet, watching them fall. My mother is in the next room, crying. She comes out and sits next to me.

I keep stacking the blocks.

“Jake,” she says. “I want you to listen to me.”

I look up at her and wait.

“You don’t have to be afraid, do you understand?”

I nod and tell her I do, even though I don’t.

She smiles, leans forward, and kisses my head. “Don’t ever be afraid, Jake, not ever.”

I watch her get up and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I wait, but she doesn’t come out.

Eventually, I follow.

I stand outside, listening to the slow drip of the faucet, and then I reach out and push the door open.

I see her, lying in the tub, staring up at the ceiling. Her skin is blue, the water deep and red. There’s a razor on the floor, and the light from the window flashes sharp along the edge.

The phone rings, pulling me back to the world.

“Jake, where are you?”

It’s Doug. His voice sounds tired.

“You missed your first class,” he says. “And your second is on the way out. What the hell’s going on?”

I roll over and look at the clock on the nightstand.

It’s past ten.

“Shit, Doug. I can’t come in today.”

“What?” He pauses. “What happened?”

I tell him Diane is gone.

“She left?”

“I don’t know.” I tell him about seeing the two men outside the office, then add, “I don’t know what to think.”

“What did the police say?”

I fill him in on my conversation with Nolan.

“They won’t do anything for twenty-four hours, and since she’s left before, they don’t seem too concerned.”

“But her clothes are still there,” Doug says. “She wouldn’t leave without packing.”

“I know, and I told them the same thing.”

“So what did they say?”

“Nothing,” I say. “They just want me to wait by the phone in case she calls. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.”

“You do what needs to be done. I’ll post a note on your door. I wish there was something I—”

I stop him, not to be rude, but because there’s nothing he can do to help.

“Thanks, I’ll let you know.”

When I get off the phone, I feel a low ping of dread deep in my chest. All I can think about is Diane and where she might be. I play out several different scenarios in my mind, each one worse than the last.

It’s not long before I can’t take it anymore.

I get up and walk out to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. I drink half of it, then fill the glass with what’s left of the Johnnie Walker and drink that, too.

The alcohol takes the edge off my headache, and for that I’m grateful. I set the glass in the sink, then walk back to the bathroom to take a shower.

By the time I finish, I almost feel alive again.





I dial the number, then flip the business card over in my hand and run my thumb along the blue stars embossed on the front. The phone rings twice. A woman answers.

I ask to talk to Lisa Bishop.

“Speaking.”

For a second, I don’t say anything. I didn’t plan this far ahead, and I stumble over my words. Eventually, I recover enough to introduce myself.

“I’m not sure you can help me,” I say. “I’m looking for my wife.”

“Would you like to schedule a reading?”

“No, nothing like that. I think my wife was one of your clients, and I was hoping you could help me track her down. Her name is Diane Reese.”

Lisa doesn’t say anything.

I look at the business card. “She had one of your cards in her suitcase. I think she came to see you a few weeks ago. She was in Arizona on business, and—”

“What was the name again?”

I tell her.

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t sound familiar.”

“But she had your card.”

“I’m afraid those cards are scattered around town like leaves. She could’ve picked one up almost anywhere.”

“You wrote a note on the back.” I flip the card over and read it to her. “You have to remember her. She’s about five-five, dark hair?”

“I can check my journal if you’d like, but I remember everyone who comes to see me.”

“Would you mind?”

I lean against the counter and listen to her shuffle through papers on the other end of the line. She’s quiet for a while then says, “When did you say she was here?”

I give her a set of dates.

Lisa repeats them back to me, absently, then I hear pages turn, one after another.

“I keep accurate records of every reading I do, and I don’t have anything for her. I’m sorry.”

“But the note on the card says to call you.”

“Someone else must’ve written it.”

“This is the only phone number.”

Lisa tells me again that she’s sorry.

I feel a dull pain build behind my eyes, and I reach up and press my fingertips against my forehead.

It doesn’t help.

“We can schedule a reading, if you’d like. It could provide some insight into the situation, maybe show you another path you haven’t considered—”

“I don’t need a goddamn reading.” My voice comes out harsh, but I don’t care. “I need to know what you talked about, if she said anything important.”

Lisa pauses. “Mr. Reese, even if I had met with your wife, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what we talked about. That’s personal information.”

“Let me guess, psychic–client privilege?”

Lisa sighs. “I believe it’s more spiritual than that, but yes, you have the right idea.”

The pain behind my eyes begins to glow, and I feel the muscles in my chest get tight.

I force myself to breathe.

When I’m sure I’m not going to yell, I say, “Listen, you’re all I’ve got. My wife is missing, and I need to find her. She has no family, no close friends. All I have is your card and—”

“Mr. Reese, I—”

“No,” I say, my voice growing louder. “Don’t do that. Don’t brush me off.”

“But I don’t know your wife. Do you understand?”

From there, the conversation goes bad.

It ends with Lisa hanging up and me standing in the kitchen, screaming into a dead line.