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

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.”