leave a message: Can a message machine hear more white noise than my grieving ears?

Hannah, are you there?

I saw your face the other day, but turned the corner and you were gone.

My arms ache for you as only arms remember.

I still sit on my side of the couch and reach out for you at night in the dark.

Your message still greets me from the phone, "We're not here right now..."

'We're not here right now,' because the 'you' part of me, is missing.

I put down the pen and feel foolish.

Am I really trying to reach out across the ether and make contact with her spirit?

I never did that before she disappeared.

I took so much for granted.

"You just came home and she was gone?"

I nod. I know it seems lame. The detective writes something in a notebook. His eyes are scanning the room, the furniture...me.

He's searching for an anomaly, a clue, or a motive—who knows? All I know is he doesn't quite trust or believe me.

Who would?

"We'll be in touch. If you hear anything, contact us." He hands me his card.

He leaves and I go to the window. I watch him cross the leaf-strewn street and get into his generic black car.

Where does he go when he leaves here—back to the station, or to another address and another missing person? Does he care, or is this just a job that'll be worked and pursued until the trail goes cold?

I can't bear for it to go cold, but there's nothing I can do.

Samantha phones every night at six, just after she gets home.

"Have you heard anything, Tom?"

"Nothing, Sam."

I feel sorry for her. They're two years apart, but close as twins—even look alike. I have nothing to offer, nothing to say. I feel dead and empty, but have to fill up the silence like I fill up the time.

Nothing fills up the space in the rooms that echo with every step.

"They're monitoring her cell phone and credit cards—everything's electronic—there'll have to be a trace."

I say it to encourage her or me. It's better than saying nothing, but we both know the truth. People do disappear without a trace. It's the world we live in and the odds we play.

I never was good at gambling.

Sam begins to weep.

I was never good at comforting either.

The next morning I begin all over again. I make a timeline and a list. Her routine is simple as her route to work.

It hits me. Look at us as an outsider would. What's our profile to the world outside?

I grab a coffee and sit by the window. The sixteen-year old girl across the street hurries down her steps. Every day she follows the same routine—at 7:45 am she hurries out and takes the walkway through the park to the bus stop on Main St.

Why Hannah and not her?

The walkway through the park is more secluded and would make more sense for a rape or a mugging.

But what if it weren't those things, but something else? The questions is, what?

I spend the morning brainstorming scenarios, rehashing schedules and wracking my brain looking for different angles—nothing. I go out to buy coffee and milk and get some fresh air.

I'm in the hallway when I hear our phone ringing. I drop everything and rush inside and pick up just as the call dies. I press recall—unknown caller.

I sink to the floor and cry. I'm shaking so hard, I think I'm going to puke, but if I do, I'll puke on the floor. I'm too unsteady to make it to the washroom.

Sometimes stuff happens that doesn't make sense. You think you know someone and they do something so bizarre and unexpected, it just doesn't compute. It happened to me in college.

I was dating Jillian for a year and we planned to marry—even went so far as to set a date.

One day I show up at her flat and there's no answer. I wait an hour outside in the rain.

I try phone calls, friends—nothing. Finally her landlord let me in. Everything's gone.

I'm convinced her jealous ex-boyfriend kidnapped her—even get the police to put out a search.

They find her living in Whistler and the female cop who contacted her tells me the truth:

"Sometimes it happens—she just ran away—wasn't ready and says she's sorry, but doesn't want you to contact her there."

The detective who's searching for Hannah was a little more diplomatic. "Are you sure she wasn't unhappy—did she seem depressed?"

"No," I tell him, " she wanted to meet me for lunch, but I had my first interview for a teaching job—I told her we'd go out for dinner that night."

"You just came home and she was gone?"

I nod.

He writes in his little book. I die a bit more.

Life goes on.

Then, finally something happens. Something weird.

I was taping my thoughts and listening back. It's faster and easier than writing.

Anyway, I forgot I left the tape on and then had to rewind. As I did, I hear this sound—it's kind of like static and a whispering buzz.

I cue the tape and turn the volume up. Tom. Tom. Can you hear me?

The blood in my veins goes icy cold. I can't breathe.

I replay the tape.Tom. Tom. Can you hear me?

It's Hannah's voice—faint and indistinct, but unmistakable.

I play and replay the tape till I think I'll go mad. Then, I phone Sam and tell her to get the hell over as fast as she can.

I meet her pale-faced and trembling at the door. She expects the worst, but is even more unnerved than I am when she hears the tape.

We call Detective Leonard and he patiently listens, but is already dismissive.

"These small tape recorders get used over and over—maybe it didn't quite erase a previous recording."

"But Hannah never used the recorder," I tell him. "I used it sometimes to record lectures at school when I was too tired to take notes."

"But, you can't be sure she never used it," he argues, "Maybe she picked it up one time and did a gag recording to tease you—sort of like a joke."

I wasn't buying it. I knew the tone of voice Hannah used when she joked. Her voice on the tape wasn't teasing—it was quiet and sad.

Sam knew it too, but said nothing—what could she say?

The detective offers to submit the tape to the lab for testing, but I figure he's already made up his mind. Besides, I don't want to let the tape out of my hands.

Sam understands. She hugs me at the door and pats my back. She feels sorry for me and figures Hannah meant the message for me alone. So do I.

I'm sitting here tonight in our empty apartment. There are rumours of thunder and an occasional lightning flare outside.

I'm sitting on my side of the couch with the tape recorder placed where Hannah used to sit. The machine's turned on and the red indicator light shows it's recording.

I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. Thunder growls in the distance and I wait for it to die.

When it goes silent, I begin speaking:

Hannah, are you there?

I heard your voice on the tape and I'm listening.

I'll be here with you for as long as it takes.

Just say a word... my name.. anything.

I'm listening Hannah.

Leave a message.