Nice Young Lady Vanishes by Simon Nadel

You haven’t been at work. That’s very unlike you. It’s been a few days. No, weeks. They couldn’t agree on how long but they all agreed it’s extremely uncharacteristic. You’re a model employee, always at your desk by nine, always there until at least five. You’ve been at your job for a few months. No, it’s been a year. A middle-aged HR manager named Dragwood (I didn’t ascertain whether it was his first or last name) looked through a file. He shook his head in disbelief. Wow, five years. She seemed like such a nice young lady, the man they called Dragwood said, like you I’m sure. I’m not at all nice, I didn’t say out loud.

You keep your desk neat. No photos, no plants, just your computer. I talked to Nick, the guy who sits next to you. He said he saw you earlier that day. I told him you’d been gone for at least a week. He laughed. He said you were quiet. I didn’t care for the way he looked at me. He asked a woman named Brenda if she was going to happy hour. I asked if you ever went to happy hour with him and Brenda and whomever else. He said no, they hadn’t invited you. He again emphasized that you were quiet. I wanted to backhand Nick across the mouth. I wanted to see blood pouring down his chin. Did you ever feel the urge to strike Nick? Brenda was making lunch plans with Shelly and Beth. I asked all of them if you were ever included in their lunch plans. They said no. They said you ate at your desk every day. They said you were quiet. Did you hate your co-workers? I do, and I just met them.

The woman who owned the lovely Victorian house you lived in said she had seen you earlier that day, or was it sometime last week or last month. She said you were quiet, that you kept to yourself, but that you always paid your rent on time. She said she saw you in the kitchen heating up a can of soup. But she couldn’t remember which evening that was.

Your bedroom was in the back of the house. It was small and had a view of the beige apartment building behind it. Your bed was made. There was a small TV on the dresser, and that was about it.

Veronica had a bedroom in the front of the house. It was more than twice the size of yours. It had a beautiful view of the park. She said she sometimes saw you in the kitchen at dinnertime, heating up a can of soup. She said she could faintly hear the TV on in your room at night, but that you always promptly shut it off at 10. No, you never socialized together, Veronica said. She said she and Mark, who lives on the third floor and also has a view of the park, would sometimes go to the movies together. Mark said the same things about you. He thought he had passed you in the hall earlier that day on his way to take a shower.

Why did you spend so much time looking at photos of Eliza Watts? I looked through your search history. I’m sorry, but it’s part of my job. Eliza skiing, Eliza at a music festival, Eliza drinking shots of expensive tequila, Eliza kissing an attractive young man, Eliza on a boat with her arms around other tan and pretty girls. Did you want to join them or did you hope they would fall overboard?

I found the yearbook from your senior year of college. I saw that you and Eliza were in the same graduating class. But Eliza didn’t remember you. I showed her a picture but she just shook her head. Then why would you follow her? I asked Eliza. She told me she has a lot of followers and said a very large number. I just shrugged. I don’t really do social media. Eliza said that was weird. I shrugged again. She told me her friend Sophie knew just about everyone they went to college with. Maybe Sophie can help you, Eliza said.

Sophie did remember you. She said you got a bloody nose one day in Psych 101. She said you ran out of the lecture hall. She said everybody laughed and someone said it was kind of like in the movie Carrie. Sophie said after that you never came back to class, or at least not that she recalls. But you must have returned to that class; you graduated with a degree in psychology. Maybe you just found a different seat, one far away from the people who thought your nose bleed was so amusing. It turned out Sophie wasn’t as much help as Eliza thought she would be.

Your mother was visiting your sister. She said she spends as much time with her precious grandkids as she can. She called them high-spirited. To me they seemed like little sociopaths. She said you could show more interest in your sister’s kids. I don’t know why she thinks you would want to. Your sister said it’s exhausting having twin boys. Her husband travels a lot for work and he likes to play golf on the weekends, your sister told me. She didn’t say anything about you. I would have felt sorry for her if she didn’t seem like such a fucking bitch.

I went back to that lovely old Victorian house you lived in, back to your little room with no view. It was evening and everyone was out. Maybe Mark and Veronica were at a movie. Or maybe they were at a bar, the same bar that Nick and Brenda and Shelly and Beth were at for happy hour. I’m sure Eliza and Sophie were doing something crazy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll look at the pictures they post. And your mother and sister, I know they were together, dealing with those awful twin boys, pretending your sister’s marriage isn’t a crock of shit, and probably not giving you much thought.

I turned on your little TV. One of my favorite sit-coms was on. I laid on your neatly made bed.

Did you do it on purpose or did it happen organically? I closed my eyes and wondered if I, too, was capable of simply vanishing. I climbed off your bed. I’m not, I realized. I’m way too angry for that.

Simon Nadel

Image by lijun zhang from Pixabay – a single bowl of soup.