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

“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?