Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

“What friends? You don’t have any friends, Annie, face it. You never stay anywhere long enough to make friends. If you got a steady job, maybe you’d...”

“I do have friends. Have you ever asked about this Serbian man I’ve been seeing, whose name is Mirko, and whose company I enjoy? He’s an artist who’s involved with Vedic astrology, he teaches English as a second language. His father was a successful architect. He fled from Belgrade seven years ago, do you even care? ”

“I care deeply, Annie. But I’m not going to stand here and let you scream at me this way.”

“Then go fuck yourself!” Annie says, and storms into her room, and locks the door.

“She hasn’t spoken to me for three days now,” my mother tells Shirley.

They are having lunch in a Chinese restaurant on Broadway. Shirley is sporting the Hermes scarf Mama gave her for her birthday. She clucks her tongue in sympathy.

“What do you suppose she’s angry about?”

“Everything,” my mother says.

“Are you giving her money?”

“Right now, a hundred dollars a week. But while she was...”

“Helene, please! You’re not impoverished, you know.”

“That’s just for spending money, just enough for her to get around the city.”

“Even so.”

“I was giving her a thousand a month while she was in Italy.”

“That’s not very much, either. No wonder she got in trouble.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. That’s bare subsistence level, Helene. She was bound to meet sleazy people sooner or later.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” my mother says. “I don’t think she’ll ever be able to earn a decent living making jewelry. I’d be willing to help her pay for reasonable housing in a modest neighborhood, but I feel she should... well, don’t you think she should first show me that she can hold on to a paying job?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely.”

“And learn how to socialize with others?”

“It’s funny you should mention socializing.”

“I mean, she hasn’t spoken to me for the past three days.”

“Maybe she stopped taking her medication,” Shirley says. “That happens. They stop taking the medication, and they get... you know... withdrawn.”

“Yes. Well. I just don’t know. Andy’s supposed to be meeting with her sometime this week, he’s going to talk to her about seeing a psychiatrist. But I’m not even sure that’s such a good idea. I just don’t know what to do, Shirk She’s been living with me since early in July, and all at once I’m afraid of coming out of my own bedroom.”

“What are you saying?”

“She scares me, Shirk My own daughter.”

My mother begins weeping. She takes a handkerchief from her bag, begins dabbing at her eyes.

“Helene?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, forgive me.”

“Why don’t you go see this social worker I was starting to tell you about? They have support groups, you know, where you can meet people whose relatives are having similar problems. I think it might help you, I honestly do.”

“It’s just... she’s never behaved this way before.”

“Well, what happened in Italy must have been traumatic.”

“Even so.”

“Take the card, call her. Let me know how it turns out.”

“Thank you, Shirk” My mother looks at the card, puts it in her wallet. “She called us the ladies who lunch,” she says.

“Well, we are,” Shirley says, and picks up an egg roll.

My mother still isn’t sure.

For a few days — I calculate this to be the time just before our visit to Dr. Lang — Annie seems all right again. Not exactly the loving daughter she’d been at the beginning of the month, but at least communicative and working on her jewelry again. And then, right after our visit to Dr. Lang, Annie once again stops talking to my mother. Mama decides that seeing a psychiatrist was a mistake to begin with.

Yesterday morning, while Annie is doing her mantras in the guest room, Mama calls the mental health association whose name is on the card Shirley gave her. She leaves a message saying, in effect, that she wants to talk to someone about a daughter who seems... well... extremely troubled.

At around two or two-thirty yesterday afternoon, my mother realizes she is out of milk and orange juice, and decides to go down to the market. Annie is watching an old black and white movie on television.

“Annie?” my mother says, “Do you want to come shopping with me?”

“No, thanks,” Annie says. “Do you think she’s smarter than I am?”

“Smarter? Joan Crawford?”

“Whatever her name is.”

“No, not at all.”

“They say she’s smarter.”

“In what way?”

“In every way. They think I’m stupid.”

“Well, honey, she has these script writers, you know...”

“Forget it!” Annie snaps.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”

“Positive,” Annie says, and then mutters something my mother can’t quite make out.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Annie says, and turns to the television set again, and listens to a line or two of dialogue, and then begins mumbling again.

“Are you all right?” my mother asks.

“I’m fine. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” my mother says. “Honey, I’m expecting a call from California...”

“California? Who do you know in California?”

“A friend, you don’t know her. Please don’t answer the phone, okay? Just let it ring.”

“What friend do you have in California?” Annie asks.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

When my mother leaves the apartment, Annie is still mumbling to herself. This is very troubling to Mama. More troubling than we can possibly know. When she comes back half an hour later, Annie has turned off the television set and is sitting in a chair facing the door, her arms folded across her chest, her feet flat on the floor, her eyes glaring.

“What is it?” my mother asks.

“Did you call some mental health organization and tell them you have a mentally ill daughter?”

“No,” my mother says.

“Some twerp just called and asked if I was the party who has a mentally ill relative.”

“No, I never said anything like that. I told them I was trying to understand my daughter and wanted to join...”

“You called a mental health organization?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with you, you crazy bitch?”

The violence of her words is like a slap in the face. My mother actually backs away from her.

“You obsessed control freak! How dare you call me a mentally ill person?”

“But I didn’t, Annie.”

“You’re supposed to love me so fucking much, you tell some twerp I’m mentally ill? You want the truth? You’re not interested in truly loving anyone, all you want is to control people!”

“Annie, you know that isn’t...”

“And when you can’t accomplish that, you become angry and bitter and you go around making irresponsible and reckless statements about your own daughter’s mental stability!”

“Annie, for God’s sake...”

“That’s why none of your children will have anything to do with you! Aaron moved to New Jersey, Andy can’t keep a marriage going because he’s got a mother who suffers from separation anxiety disorder, do you know what that is? Of course you don’t, they never know! And now you betray the only person who’s shown the slightest bit of compassion for you!”

“I’m sorry if someone said something stupid to you on the phone, but believe me...”

“Oh, yes, go ahead, go through your usual routine of rage and self-pity, tell me how truly, very, very sorry...”