I hear a muffled thump on the other end of the line.
“I have to go. He’s awake.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I open my mouth, but I’m cut off by the dial tone.
I reluctantly return the phone to its receiver, the springy cord of my vintage, black telephone snapping tightly into place. I take a deep breath and arch my back, stretching my arms to the ceiling. Some—but not all, never all—of the tension releases from my body.
I flip through the pages of the binder back to the first page, ready to start the process over again. I’ve been volunteering at the distress line for almost fourteen months now, but it never gets easier. The service helps all those in crisis, from teens who just want information about mental health programs to the elderly who are grieving the loss of loved ones. We also get many calls about domestic abuse. Too many. Unless the caller explicitly gives us permission, or if we have reason to believe that someone’s safety is in immediate danger, we aren’t allowed to contact the police.
Sometimes, I hate this rule. But one of the reasons people feel comfortable enough to reach out to us is because of our discretion. Still, it’s hard to hang up and let go of someone who needs my help. I may never hear from this girl again. I may never know the rest of her story.
I make a note on the call log, both online and in my own personal records. I put down my pen and stare at the phone for several minutes, hoping that I can compel the girl into calling back. But it’s nearing the end of my four-hour shift, so I likely won’t hear from her again tonight.
Housebound, I volunteer for four shifts a week. Usually, I take the most unpopular shift of midnight to four, but tonight I’m working from eight to twelve. Because of my flexible schedule, the hotline has made an exception, and I’m allowed to work from home instead of at the busy call center. Of course, I didn’t tell them the real reason why I can’t leave my apartment. They think I have mobility issues, which I faked during the company’s mandatory therapy sessions. I was given a clean bill of mental health. Ironic.
I head into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. I grab a box of Earl Grey and drop a bag into my favorite mug. The mug is plain and brown and has a tiny chip on its lip, but it reminds me of home, and I always use this one, even though I have a dozen other mugs crammed onto the shelf. I hug my arms across my chest as I wait for the water to boil. My wool sweater does little to warm the chill that has permeated my bones.
Once the tea is ready, I find myself back in my office, cradling the mug in ice cold hands. The wall to my left bears my collection of framed, black and white landscape photos. The only glimpse of nature I’ve had in over a year. My escape from the reality of being trapped in a city I barely know. To my right are several built-in bookcases, filled with the variety of leisure and professional reading I’ve amassed over the two years I’ve lived here. I approach the floor-to-ceiling-length window which fills the wall behind my desk. Toronto’s bright city lights wink at me. Down below, the trees whip back and forth in a sharp gust of wind. Heavy rainfall drenches the pavement. Across the street are tall apartment complexes, peppered with the illuminated windows of those who cannot sleep. I sympathize with them. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in two years. Instead, I take sporadic naps, giving in only whenever the exhaustion is too great to conquer.
A shrill ring cuts through the silence. The mug slips from my grasp, bounces, and spills, scalding hot liquid ballooning out onto the floor, sinking deep into the rug. I hurry to my desk, leaving the cleanup for later.
“Hello?”
An automated voice greets me. “This is the Toronto Distress Line. You have a caller on the line. If you are able to take this call, press one.”
I take a deep breath, then press one.
“Hello, this is Rachel speaking. How can I help you?” I sound surprisingly serene.
“Rachel?” The voice is strange. I cannot place my finger on what’s wrong, but a sense of dread washes over me. I ignore it.
“Yes. You’ve reached the Toronto Distress Line. Anything you say is strictly confidential. Tell me why you called here tonight.”
“I know where you live . . . Kae.”
“What—how do you know that name?” I swallow, my throat suddenly paper dry.
“I’m coming for you.”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 31