matchbook

he left suddenly. That's what we said when the police asked. When anyone asked. Coy enough to imply there was a reason she left, vague enough to let their imaginations fill in the blanks. Family event. Medical emergency. Sudden loss of fortune. Sudden inheritance. Off to join a traveling trapeze act. Rehab. Witness protection. Or a mob hit because they didn't witness protect her soon enough. Blackmail. Pregnancy, though they whispered that one quietest of all. Not as fun as a new and exciting career in art dealing, or as a run of bank heists. She left suddenly, and we left it at that.

She left her rent paid six months in advance, a thoughtful gesture which we now regarded with suspicion—did she know she would disappear? Was she planning to return? It made us cautious about finding a replacement for the room. She left no forwarding address, no phone number.

She left her phone—one of the more alarming artifacts of when she was here. It was bricked anyway, we later learned. Maybe she’d replaced it with a new phone, a new number, a burner even, if the bank heist story turned out to be true. The lock screen had a picture of a dog none of us remember meeting—some kind of Cocker Spaniel crossed with a Pekingese, maybe.

She left her bedroom furniture, but so did the girl who had the room before her. Welcome to urban living, to being broke and twenty-five. Her addition to the décor was a framed poem by Robert Service, this rhyming lyric poem about adventure in Alaska, so yes, that was one of the rumors as well, although I think gold’s gone out of season. We kept the poem up—brings gravity to a mystery, especially when the poet is of a bygone era.

She left her winter coat.

She left her job at the armory after giving two weeks’ notice, which puts a wrench in the sudden aspect of the narrative. Suddenness is, perhaps, a subjective attribute. She declined an exit interview and gave no reason for quitting.

She left two pairs of boots, one yellow paisley flip flop, three empty drawers, sixteen hangers, eight bobby pins, a comb, and a set of lavender towels. She left a box of unopened instant oatmeal and a jar of relish. She left a mug with a painted mustache on it. She left a box of light bulbs (much appreciated) and a box of tampons (likewise).

She left a notebook, one of those black hardbound artist affairs, full of intricately drawn mazes, spirals and boxes, and amoeba-shaped labyrinths. Inside the back cover were hatch marks, counting we don’t know what, counting to the number three hundred and forty-seven. Different colored ink, different pressure behind the hatches. Nothing resembling the tidiness, the daintiness of the mazes—precisely drawn, with no sign of a changing mind, but clear and full comprehension of the path and its many diverting dead end options.

She left a travel sewing kit, a crochet hook, a book of patterns, and half a skein of heather yarn.

She left the dishes in the sink, for what it’s worth.

She left suddenly, and it took us about thirty-six hours to realize that she might have left. No, we told the police, she wasn’t on social media. No, we didn’t know if she had a second phone. No, we don’t know where her parents live.

She left suddenly, we told them.

And we left it at that.