Angels Fall

friend's mouth moving, but anxiety had stuffed cotton in her ears. She forced a breath out, forced another in. "What? Sorry, I didn't hear…"
    "You okay? You've gone pretty pale. Does your head hurt?"
    "No. No, I'm all right." Reece made herself look back at the stage. "I still have some trouble in crowds, I guess."
    "You want to get out? We don't have to stay."
    And every time she ran, it was a step back. Just one more retreat. "No, no, I'm okay. Um. Do you ever do that?"
    Linda-gail skipped a glance toward the stage as Reuben ended to enthusiastic applause. "Sure. You want to?"
    "Not for a million dollars. Well, a half a million." Another man headed for the stage, and since this one carried about two-sixty on a five-eight frame, Reece decided she could eliminate him from her list.
    He surprised her with a sweet, if thready, tenor on a ballad. "I don't recognize him," Reece commented.
    "T. B. Unger. Teaches in the high school. T.B. for Teddy Bear. And that's his wife, Arlene, sitting there—the brunette in the white shirt? They don't come into Joanie's much, homebodies with two kids. But they come into Clancy's so he can sing, once a week. Arlene works at the school, too, in the cafeteria. They're sweethearts."
    Literally, Reece thought as she watched the teddy bear sing his love song straight into his wife's eyes.
    There was sweetness in the world, she reminded herself. And love, and kindness. It was good to be part of that again, to feel that again.
    And to laugh when the next performer, a blonde with a tin ear and a lot of self-deprecating humor, butchered a Dolly Parton classic.
    She made it a full hour, and considered the evening an enormous success.
    Walking back to her apartment through the quiet streets, she felt almost safe, almost easy. As close to both, she concluded, as she had felt in a very long time.
    And when she let herself in the cioor, she felt almost home.
    After locking the door, checking the knob, bracing the back of a chair under it, she went to wash.
    In the doorway of her little bathroom, she froze. None of her toiletries were on the narrow shelf by the sink. She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she reopened them, the shelf was still empty. She yanked open the mirrored medicine cabinet where she stored her medication, her toothpaste. It, too, was empty.
    With a whimper of distress she spun around to scan the room. Her bed was neatly made, as she'd lett it that morning. The kettle sat shining on the stove. But the hooded sweatshirt she knew she'd left hanging on the coatrack was missing.
    And at the foot of the bed, rather than under it, sat her duffel.
    Her legs trembled as she crossed to it, and the whimper became a muffled cry as she yanked the zipper and found her clothes neatly packed inside.
    Everything she'd come with, she saw as she pawed through the bag. All her things, carefully folded and stored. Ready to go.
    Who would do such a thing?
    Giving in to her unsteady legs, she lowered herself to the side of the bed. And faced the truth. No one could. No one could, not with the new lock.
    She'd done it herself. She must have done it. Some internal instinct, some remnants from the worst of her breakdown kicking in. Telling her to run, to go, to move on.
    Why couldn't she remember?
    Not the first time, she reminded herself, and dropped her head in her hands. Not nearly the first time she'd lost time, or couldn't quite recall doing something.
    But it had been months since she'd had these kinds of episodes.
    Almost home, she thought, fighting despair. She'd actually let herself believe she was almost home. When some deep-seated part of her knew she wasn't even close.
    Maybe she should take a hint. Pick up the duffel and go down, toss it in her car and drive. To anywhere.
    And if she did, anywhere would just be another place where she'd cease to be. She had a place here, if she dug in. She'd had a date, she'd had a beer with a friend. She had a job and an apartment. She had, if she held on to it, an identity here.
    She put all her stuff away—the clothes, the toothbrush, the bottles, the shoes. Though her stomach was raw, she set up her laptop again. Wrapped in a blanket to try to battle a cold that came from inside, she sat down to write.
     
    I didn't run. I cooked today, and earned my pay. Pete oashed his hand while washing dishes, and the blood shook me. I fainted, but I didn't run.
    After work, I went to Clancy's for a beer with Linda-gail. We talked about men, about hair, about