“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.”
“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.”