Day 2
I wake to a pale and glowing dawn, the off-white sky in my window too pallid, it appears almost snowy. But the first flakes of the coldest season have not yet fallen; and the bed remains empty beside me—still no Justin.
I notice his cherished belongings in the apartment—his grandfather’s WWII wallet, a great treasure embossed in gold, and his iPad both remain on our bedside table. Wherever he is, he clearly planned to return. All the colors in my apartment appear to me tinged with sandy copper, as if the room is dusted in the faintest film of pollen.
Eyes unfocused, drunk on fear, I call my husband’s parents. The digital bell is faint, mechanical in my ear, ring-ring. My thumbs feel stiff. So early on the West Coast, I am not expecting an answer. But I hear, “Hello?” His mother’s voice.
“Hi,” I say. I realize I don’t know how to express her son’s absence. “This is kind of a strange question, but have you heard from Justin?” Saying the words to my mother-in-law, I feel raw nerves. I am present to the tenderness of our affection. “Our friend Mystic died recently. And the funeral was yesterday, and Justin went, and he hasn’t come home . . .”
I hear no sound from Lucy for a moment. Then she clears her throat. “Oh no,” she says calmly. “I am so sorry, dear.” Her tone is not frenzied or even upset—not what I had expected. “Have you tried calling him?” she asks.
I exhale audibly. “There’s no answer,” I tell her. “Can you try?” I am becoming confused, almost angry. Wanting her to feel the severity of the situation, hoping to wake up a lion in her heart—her son has disappeared—I ask her, “Actually. Should we maybe call the police?”
Lucy laughs, uneasy. “It wouldn’t be good for anyone if we called the police,” she tells me. “I know this is upsetting, but it’s all going to work out. Trust me, he’s okay, wherever he is.”
When Lucy and I say goodbye, the room is hot with sun, the greenhouse effect making me sweat—the metallic tint persisting.
At 7:00 p.m., I leave the apartment for the first time.
Still perplexed by the strange interaction, I pace the sidewalks of our New York neighborhood, passing familiar lines of street-parked cars. Justin’s silver sedan is missing from its usual spot. Gone—as if there are one-too-few faces in the navy dusk, but no one even knows. It makes no difference to the city that Justin is not here tonight—work still started this morning, anonymous taxis honking as they carry strangers home.
I feel the infrastructure of my world cracking at its foundation, and I can’t grasp why. I wish on a passing bicycle with spinning golden lights as if it were a shooting star: Bring him home. A young couple passes me on the sidewalk, clasping hands. They are both wearing worn blue jeans. They might have been us. I take out my phone, slippery in my clammy fingers. I call my husband. This time it rings five times—his phone is on!—but terminates in his nonexistent voicemail; silence.
A sudden siren screeches, burning my ears—a cop car passing in the night. In a fierce flash, it occurs to me: Just call the police. My husband is technically a missing person, as much as I hate to think so.
But Lucy’s words persist—and the action feels too dramatic, like something people do in movies. My instinct tells me not to dial, sensing he will soon walk through our door.
Day 3
In morning, waking from anxious dreams, I discover under my covers— eyes still closed—that, overnight, my cheeks have become rough. With my fingers, I explore my face, feeling blotches, their texture delicate and abrasive as sand.
In the mirror, pale markings on the sides of my eyes startle me. I splash myself with cold water, my cheeks become smooth again—and I realize what I’ve washed away: salt crystals stuck crusted on me, dried tears in sleep.
Stretching, my soft abdomen is impossibly sore, as if I have done tension exercises, crunches or long and rigorous planks.
Lying back down I see the emptiness in my bed—I remember my husband’s absence.
Lying back down I see the emptiness in my bed—I remember my husband’s absence.Above the bedside table hangs a picture he gave me as a gift, just a week ago: an illustrated map of several Caribbean islands set inside a pretty gilt frame. Among the islands is the intricate outline of Vieques. The island sits silently there, a grayish mole.
Out the window, rain falls audibly onto the black sill. No matter how hard I throw my mind onto comforting reveries of him returning, my heart always sinks again back into my aloneness, the strange reality of this wordless dawn.
I close my eyes once more, bargaining with the stars against the impossible.
Day 4
In class, a girl I am friendly with asks me if I want to come to a brewery in Alphabet City tonight. Excited, she is pretty, her hair long shiny blonde, stick straight with lilac tips. “And bring Justin!”
“Ooh, fun!” I say. Then I lie, telling her that my husband is “on a trip for a few days in Maine. I wish I could have gone away with him.”
I slip out of the classroom, ditching—skipping the remainder of my school day. Drifting west to a wine bar under the High Line where I know no one, I drink without him, the distraction of intoxication offering some refuge.
Day 5
I take a late-night walk with Nic around the periphery of Washington Square Park. A dingy dog appears to be unattended, crossing the black lawn of shadows, stony shades of darkness—then it’s gone. Nic is talking quickly, answering a question I’ve already forgotten; I am not hearing well, my ears ringing—which scares me. “What?” I ask, interrupting, and her smooth river of words falters.
But Nic responds with the blunt question, “Have you told your parents yet?”
I cannot meet her eyes, but her nose and lips seem lovely and simple, delicate like a familiar postage stamp of a woman in profile, my comfort in the dim anonymous city.
Washington Square Park has never looked so bleak, the streetlights yellowed. A little boy with a Yankees cap is playing an African drum, begging for dollars from strangers as he squats at his father’s feet in the grim night. In the soundless gap following Nic’s sharp question, I realize how alone I am, how private I’ve become.
“I haven’t told them,” I answer, uncomfortable with this truth. As we pass a streetlamp, the silhouette of her eyes narrows, and I promise my mentor, “But I will.”
“Good,” Nic says. Then she suggests I focus my attention on the book. I don’t tell her I haven’t written a word since the day before the burial.
Day 6
I ring my parents for the first time in over a year—my father picks up. He tells me that Mom’s traveling in Morocco.
I tell him that Justin is gone. “I don’t know where he is.”
My dad says that he’ll drive down to New York, tonight. Six hours later, my buzzer rings, the young evening cold and clear, bitter as ice. My father surveys the apartment and helps me compile all of Justin’s abandoned belongings, examining them. I want my dad to make sense of the objects, to decipher this loss for me. We treat each other gently, with extra care, given the circumstance.
“How’s Mom doing?” I ask, feeling softened, really wanting to know.
He says she still misses me, contorting his face into a polite smile. Then, searching for understanding, he asks about Justin. “What do you think happened?”
I explain how he just vanished without a word—“I don’t know why.” The air in the apartment feels too warm, the heater clicking and humming its strange music, and my father cracks open a window. A cold gust chills us. “I don’t know if he’s even still alive,” I tell him—frightening us both.
We walk in silence to a Fresh Greens deli. Ordering us a build your own salad, I say yes to every ingredient, thoughtless, creating something gigantic and clashing in its flavors.
At home, my dad and I divide the salad on white porcelain plates that Justin and I had purchased together for cheap the week we’d first moved here. Needing reassurance, I ask, “Dad, what if he never comes back? And he’s gone.”
“Then you’ll be alright. You will.” My father’s presence is a comfort, exactly what I need. Then he tells me he’s rented a hotel room less than a mile from my place so he can be here for me. Together we eat the twin salads, tears dripping into my lettuce.
Day 7
A freak snowstorm dusts the city with silver glitter, the gray bark of the bare trees in Washington Square Park shimmering with frost. As I trudge through the cold, my mouth feels dry—a rough texture, my parched tongue rubbing against its roof, abrasive. I am perpetually dehydrated, thirsty beyond reason.
Each morning I’ve taken two aspirin for a dull headache, drinking coconut water to replenish water lost by tears; today becomes yesterday.
A week has passed—no word.
Unsettled, feeling drunk on the shimmering air and on the wine I sipped an hour ago with my friend Edison at a Village café, I call Justin’s older brother.
Jeffrey answers after several rings—“Debby?” He’s forgotten my new name.
“Hey, Jeffrey,” I say, filling with quick adrenaline. I do not know him well. “This is a little awkward—”
“What’s up?” he cuts me off. He sounds surprised.
“Do you know where Justin is? The past six nights, he hasn’t come home,” I tell him, praying for the answer. Jeffrey’s tone becomes soft, sweeter. “He didn’t?” He has not heard from his brother. “I’ll call him,” he promises me.
“I love him so much,” I say, my voice breaking. I notice a girl in an ivory sequined jacket and metallic spandex is tap-dancing on what looks like the curved plate of a car windshield, dark and glassy. As if she has premeditated her outfit to match the sparkling world.
“Justin loves you too,” he says. “Everything will be okay.”
I stop walking. First Justin’s mom, now his brother. I sense they must know something that I don’t. “What do you mean?” I ask. The tap-dancing young woman’s red lips are full and beautiful, stunning in contrast to the mute tones of starkness. “I think I should just call the police.”
“He’s probably just upset about something, don’t do that,” Jeffrey says. “Justin’s like that sometimes. I’m sure he’ll come back soon.”
The question of my husband’s location burns like insidious smoke, our shared life obscured in nothingness—and yet his family seems indifferent. Snow is falling again, an endless white curtain, and my heart pounds with the howl of spirit, my void.
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