The Art of Being Gone

One night at dinner, April put down her fork and said, "I am going to learn to disappear."

Her father was in the process of cutting up his Salisbury steak, and did not look up. Her mother finished chewing and took a sip of water before telling April to stop being so ridiculous, that she should not get so worked up over a breakup, and that she had better finish her dinner soon or they would all be late to the play.

"I'm serious," April said. "I've been reading up on it. They say it's pretty hard to do, but not impossible. And it's not just because of the breakup, Mother. I've thought long and hard about it, and I've decided that I would enjoy the world a lot more if I was no longer a part of it."

At this, her father looked up from his plate. "You're not talking about killing yourself, are you, sweetheart?" he asked.

"No, Daddy, of course not," she said, reaching out to pat this hand. "I just want to...disappear."

He shook his head and stabbed a piece of steak forcefully, turning to his wife. "I told you it was a bad idea to let her move into that big apartment all on her own. Now she's getting all these ideas. She should have never moved out, and she should never have dated that boy. I never liked him."

"Daddy, you liked him just fine," April said. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "And besides, I already said it's not because of him. I'm twenty-four years old, and this is my decision to make."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "Twenty-four, maybe, but you're still a child. You haven't been hanging out with any drug addicts, have you?"

"Mother!" April said, throwing the napkin down on the table. "Now, really! I am going to learn to disappear, and that's the end of the discussion. Now finish up your dinner if you want to get to the play on time. I've got us front-row tickets."

They did not speak of it again that night, but the next day April put an ad in the pennysaver for a roommate. It read:

"Professional young woman looking for a roommate to share a spacious apartment in the city. Neat, quiet, and doesn't like parties. Must be a non-smoker, and willing to take the whole apartment if I disappear. Pets OK."

Three people answered the ad, and April picked a woman a year younger than herself named Ursula, who had a cat with the same name. Ursula worked as a cashier in a record store and said that she had begun to look for a place to stay since her father had gotten remarried to a woman who smelled constantly of boiled potatoes. April had held her hands in both of hers and said, "I understand completely."

After she had moved her things in, Ursula finally got the courage to ask April if she really intended to disappear. "Yes, of course," April responded, helping to unpack a box marked 'Kitchen.' She pulled out an array of silicone baking pans. "One does not joke about such serious matters, Ursula."

Ursula scratched a spot on her chin before saying, "So, how does someone...you know, disappear?"

"It requires a great deal of dedication," April said. "Many people require years and years of work just to make their pinky toe disappear, but I have always had a talent for being able to accomplish anything I really put my mind to, so it shouldn't take too long at all. I've already made my belly button disappear." She lifted up her shirt and Ursula saw that, indeed, April had no belly button. "I believe that within the month, I will have disappeared entirely."

Ursula chewed thoughtfully on her lip. "I admire your hard work."

"Thank you," April said, and put the baking pans away.

The next few weeks were a period of adjustment for the two roommates, as Ursula helped April with daily life. Things that had once been a part of April's daily routine had to be adjusted as she began to disappear. Bits of her abdomen were gone, so she no longer ate. Her eye lashes blinked out of existence, so she threw out her mascara. Her fingers left, one by one, so she had to quit work, as she could no longer type. Eventually her feet and then legs disappeared, and she became confined to the couch, where Ursula would leave daytime television playing for her and the cat to warm what remained of her lap while she went to the record store.

Her parents pleaded with her. "Please, sweetheart, you don't need to do this. If you don't like your life, we can change it," her father said.

"April, now, stop being so silly. You bring back those body parts right this instant," her mother said.

"I am sorry, Daddy, and I am sorry Mother, but the reappearance process has not yet been perfected, and there is nothing I can do," April told them. "Once you start to disappear, there is nothing left but to go forward."

After three weeks, all that remained of her was her face, a smooth, peaches-and-creme colored oval on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Ursula (the cat) had to be kept in one of the bedrooms, so that she would not bite at the face. April would not speak for hours at a time, so that Ursula (the human) worried her tongue had disappeared, but every now and again she would sigh sweetly and shut her eyes and mumble something to herself. Then, finally, Ursula was walking through the living room to get herself a glass of water when April called out for her.

"Yes, April?" Ursula asked, fidgeting.

April did not speak for two full minutes. Ursula shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. She considered going to get that glass of water. She became aware of a sparrow chirping outside their window.

April closed her eyes. "Oh, to be anywhere but here," she said, and then she was gone.