She was a great friend. So why did she want to disappear?

No one really knows another’s secret life and I don’t know where my darling friend went to; I couldn’t reach her, and it grieves me deeply that I wasn’t there for her.

My friend was desperate for a child yet her partner, who she loved, wouldn’t commit; he strung her along. This broke something in her. Picture: istock

You can now listen to The Australian's articles. Give us your feedback.

You can now listen to The Australian's articles.

Dear reader, I write these columns to understand, and with this one I do not. Any thoughts appreciated, in the spirit with which these words unfold. I begin in doubt, every week, as an idea takes shape; begin with a question or confusion and go on a writing journey to find a way into understanding. Sometimes the question’s answered, sometimes not, but it’s the journey that’s the rich path for me. And the connection. With you.

This column is about connection. About a woman, a dear friend, who disappeared. Into life, and death. I’ll call her B. She began as my boss. A powerhouse of a broadcasting manager, beloved at her radio station for her smarts, Energizer bunny energy, gentle ferocity when things needed doing, and ability to gather us to her in joy; so rare in a manager. She had a beautiful, open smile.

B was a little older than most of us young things, and had that longed-for anchor, an enduring relationship; many of us by contrast were in our skittery, jittery era of growing up, trying to find a solidity to life. B and I became deeper friends in London with a posse of other restless souls from the station. All starting out brave new lives without family, yet we had a family of each other.

I eventually got my world “sorted” after years of lonely chaos; settled, became engaged. It was around this time I realised something was shifting with B. She was desperate for a child yet her partner, who she loved, wouldn’t commit; he strung her along. For years there was relationship tension over this corrosive baby uncertainty, years of despair for my ageing friend. The child-crave was bone deep, and in the end they split. Too late for B. The unfairness of it all curdled fury; it felt like something was broken in her by her man’s obfuscation.

When I fell pregnant, my friend asked to be my birth doula. Picture: istock

Then I fell pregnant. B asked to be my birth doula. I was worried, thinking it might be too triggering for her, but she insisted. There was zeal to her fervour – a gift for me in a land without family. She did it all superbly, of course; she was a cherished part of our birthing hub. The first photo I have of my first-born is of B cradling him with so much chuff. She became his godmother, was there at picnics and lunches, a beloved part of our world.

Most of the London posse moved back to Australia eventually, cleaving to a sense of home that wouldn’t let us go. And this is when the story bends, and unravels, and I write to understand because I do not. My friend moved back to a place she called home, then rebuffed all attempts at connection. Repeatedly. From any of us. Repeatedly. Her life trajectory became a wilful act of disappearance, an erasure of self. It was an astonishing, discombobulating process of withdrawal. For some deeply hidden reason this highly efficient woman vanished from regular life. From the work world, as far as we knew. From everyone. There was muscularity in the zeal to control the narrative of mysterious existence.

And non-existence. For recently B’s body was found in a hotel room on the sleepy coast. Natural causes. Unidentified, for a while, and I struggle to understand how, in a hotel room. I’ve also struggled to understand who B really was. Gabriel Garcia Marquez said everyone has three lives: a public one, a private one and a secret one. No one really knows another’s secret life and I don’t know where my darling friend went to; I couldn’t reach her, and it grieves me deeply that I wasn’t there for her.

So, dear reader, I write this to understand. The legacy, I think, of this dazzling, complex women is a desire to reach out. Just that. All of us, reach out. To anyone we think is vanishing. And shouldn’t be. From us. From the world. Reach out, even if you don’t expect an answer. Just … reach out. With love. Thank you.

Lifeline: 13 11 14