When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  That stops me cold. As far as I know, John’s never used a password. I’ve always been able to use the phone if needed. The last time we went on vacation I scrolled freely through his pictures, comparing them to the ones I’d taken. Now I can’t get in. With mounting guilt, like I’m spying, I try John’s birthday. Then the kids’ birthdays, mine, even his late mother’s. No luck.

  Scattered over the wall-length desk are piles of papers, manuscripts and notebooks, plus a printer. It looks more like a standard office than a writing den, but then John has never been much of a pipe-smoking, wingback-chair kind of writer. As long as I’ve known him he’s gone about the business of writing with a kind of blue-collar work ethic, a sense of routine and order to balance against the vagaries of creative inspiration and spontaneity. Or something. I’ve never quite been able to fathom John’s process, or any artist’s process, for that matter.

  Nothing in the paperwork provides a password clue. The notes are mostly gibberish, things out of context mixed with ruminations on current events and the publishing business. One note has the name Bruce written on it, with a number. Would they have met for a late night drink? There’s no way John would abandon the kids and not communicate with me about something like that. If he’s with Bruce, he’s hiding what he’s doing. But it’s after midnight, not an appropriate time to call someone I barely even know.

  I stick the number in my pocket, replace John’s phone and walk out of the study, leaving the door open. Moving down the hallway I triple-check my phone that John hasn’t tried to contact me. The last text I have from him is from more than twenty-four hours ago: No not vegetarian. Wine is fine.

  I put it away. I need a shower and I need to sleep. If he’s gone to one of the local bars or met up with his old high school classmate, there’s nothing I can do about it right now. The kids have school and Russ will need help getting ready for the day. When I have my late shifts like this, John handles the morning, only it doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to take care of business tomorrow.

  A lump of resentment forms in my throat as I strip off my uniform. John has always been a good husband. We both grocery shop, we both look after the kids. I tend to deal with Melody more closely — either because she’s my biological child or because she’s the female or both — but John was hands-on with Russ from the beginning, performing diaper changes and midnight feedings with the best of them. He does dishes, he cooks, he cleans floors. We both do. But I know sometimes he resents that while my work schedule is something of an immovable object, his routine is the more mutable one; he’s the flexible parent for dealing with sick kids and snow days.

  There were times I thought John might leave, times every family struggles with a squalling infant, messy house and diminished sex life, but I haven’t worried about that for a few years — I figured we were through the worst of it. No more loaded diapers and colicky tantrums from Russ. No more night terrors from Melody, sleeping in the bed between us, all elbows and knees.

  Not that everything falls on John’s shoulders — there are plenty of times that I stay home with sick kids. I attend doctor’s appointments. I help when the kids are off on school breaks. But if my husband is running out in the middle of the night, not telling me, leaving his phone behind, leaving his two children behind . . .

  I’m growing angrier as the minutes pass and catch myself rehearsing different versions of the conversation I’m going to have with him when he shows up. What gives him the right to just take off? So he’s struggling, maybe with work, maybe with the unanticipated arrival of some old high school crony. And maybe that’s stirred up some emotions in John, I can sympathize with that. But this is still inexcusable. He knows I would understand his needing some time to himself. I probably would have given him leave if asked; the hospital where I work is only a few minutes by car, and I’m the one who thought Melody was old enough to babysit in the first place.

  I need facts, but the emotions are bubbling up regardless. The more the water beats down in the shower, the less inclined I am to forgiveness and the more I feel betrayed. It’s my usual night to wash my hair. Typically I’d go through the ritual with the door closed, drying and straightening, then into bed by 1 a.m. It can take some time to wind down after a shift like the one I just had, and I might read. But tonight I pin my hair up, wash the critical areas and hop out to towel off. I don’t want to be in the shower when John pulls in the driveway. I want to be ready to give him hell.

  * * *

  The drain makes a sucking sound with the last of the water and with it goes my anger. I towel off and dress in sweatpants and a long-john shirt. The shower has helped clean away my resentment, but what remains is deep worry.

  Perhaps I’ve been naïve. John could be having a harder time than he’s let on, getting mouthfuls of the water he’s treading and I haven’t noticed.

  It’s time to figure out what to do.

  He doesn’t really have any friends locally, so there’s no one I can call. The numbers on our fridge are for plumbers and electricians and general contractors. He’s an only child, and alerting his father and stepmom would be premature.

  I remember the glint in his eyes last night, hunched over his desk, talking quietly on the phone, that spooky, unfocused look he got when I interrupted him, the intense reaction he had to Bruce showing up.

  I take out Bruce’s number and stare until deciding against it for the second time. I’ve got to exhaust everyday things before I go texting or calling someone I barely know. Perhaps John has left me a note somewhere. I flip on the kitchen light and check the counters, the junk drawer, the dinner table. On the fridge is a small dry-erase board with a reminder to buy dish soap and one about Melody’s piano recital at the end of the week.

  Melody . . . Could it be John left her with some kind of instruction? Perhaps she saw or overheard something — it’s worth waking her up. Only I find myself standing in the living room, staring out the window at the dark night.

  God, John. If you’re drinking . . .

  I know what chronic alcoholism can do to people and it’s not something I want in my life or in the lives of my children. He’s slipped up twice before: once while I was around and once on his own. He struggled to forgive himself and get back on track. What am I going to do if he comes home in a few minutes, or another hour, smelling like a distillery? If he’s had a drink (and driven), what sort of recourse do I have? Take the kids and leave? We’ll have to have a serious talk at least and John will need treatment.

  We chose this spot when John’s book, Edge of Night, struck it big. I’d completed my master’s and been working at Samaritan Hospital in Troy, but we wanted Russ to grow up out of the city, and I got the position in Hazleton at the hospital. Our house has a hefty mortgage, but it’s beautiful and near to my job and the school. So we moved. We’ve had our bumps and bruises in the three years since, but nothing major.

  God, John . . . why?

  There are voices coming from down the hallway.

  * * *

  It’s Russ, mumbling to himself in his sleep. After tiptoeing into his room I push him back fully onto his bed, tuck the covers around him and leave.

  John must have given Melody a message to deliver when I came home. No matter what, he’s not this irresponsible.

  “Mel? You awake?”

  She rolls over in her bed.

  “Mel? Honey?” I hesitate to ask her point-blank. If he’s instructed her to say something, just rousing her should do the trick. I sit down on the bed and stroke her shoulder. “Mel, it’s Mom. Is everything okay?”

  She faces away from me. “Huh?”

  “I thought I heard you talking.”

  She says nothing, then mutters, “Probably Russ. He’s been farting, too.”

  “Okay, honey. Sorry. Anything . . . anything that you want to tell me?”

  “What?” She props up on her elbow.

  “Everything go okay tonight?”

  “Um, yeah. I think so.”

&
nbsp; “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I read my book. Listened to music. No phone, you know . . .”

  “Did Dad have any trouble putting Russ to bed?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And he came in and kissed you goodnight?” I’m dangerously close to letting the cat out of the bag.

  “I don’t know. I was asleep. I just passed out.” She sits up fully. “What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s fine, honey. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Are you mad at Dad?”

  I can see her face in the light sneaking through the partway-open door. “Why would you think that?”

  “I dunno. You seem mad.”

  “No, honey. Everything is all right.” I ease her back down and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Okay . . .” The word sounds sarcastic.

  I linger in the doorway. Come on. Your dad told you something, left some instruction, some explanation for his absence. Please.

  But less than a minute later, Melody is snoring.

  It’s 12:55 in the morning. I need sleep. Our bed is cold and I rub my feet together for warmth. The book I’m reading is good but after picking it up I realize that I haven’t comprehended a word of the last two pages. I stare at the ceiling, take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  A few minutes later, I’m looking at Facebook on my phone. John hasn’t posted anything in a week. I perform a fruitless search for Bruce Barnes, scan John’s friends but only find a Bruce with a different last name with a picture of a hockey jersey for his profile picture. I try Rainey Barnes with no luck.

  The time is 1:16.

  Dammit, John.

  This is so unlike him. John is a homebody. His family is his refuge. Russ’s sporting events, working on the house, tending to a few enduring friendships all keep his troubled soul busy when writing doesn’t. He’s a good partner. I love him and I want him to be okay.

  1:41. Eyes are getting heavy at last but I can’t sleep. No missed calls or texts. Time drags on, and I’m looking at the clock at roughly fifteen-minute intervals, watching when the digital numbers switch from 2:01 to 2:02.

  John . . .

  Honey . . .

  Where are you? What are you doing?

  And why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong?

  CHAPTER SEVEN / PANIC

  Monday, March 25th

  Someone crackles a plastic bag in the kitchen. The bedroom is cool but there’s a warm pool of sunshine where my feet touch down on the floor.

  “John? You there?”

  7:42. I’ve overslept. There are no calls or messages, just fading dreams of my husband lying in a ditch beside his wrecked car. His side of the bed is cool to the touch.

  I enter the kitchen still toeing into one of my slippers and wrap my robe around my waist. Russ has made a mess of cereal on the kitchen table but he’s feeding himself, at least. It looks like he’s attempted to get dressed; his T-shirt is inside out, tag sticking up in the back. “Mom, where’s Dad?”

  “He’ll be back soon, honey.”

  Russ considers this and pours some milk into his bowl — a bit too much, and it slops over the sides. His cereal is not a normal child portion, but a mound meant for a weightlifter.

  “Russ, go easy on that.”

  “Maybe he’s with his friend looking at the bullet hole. They could be taking pictures.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I reach for the coffee only to pull out an empty decanter. John is usually the one who sets up the coffee on my work nights. I take it to the sink and run water, talking over my shoulder at Russ. “Did you see Dad talking to his friend last night? With the scar?”

  He says something unintelligible around a mouthful of cereal.

  “What’s that, honey?”

  He swallows, sticking out his chin like it’s a load of rocks going down. “They were talking outside,” he manages.

  I halt in the middle of removing yesterday’s soggy grinds. “Dad was talking outside with his friend? The man with the scar?”

  He shakes his head, ready for another bite. “No. It was a lady.”

  “A lady?”

  “I heard them talking in the driveway when I was in my bed. Dad and the lady. She looked like a superhero.”

  “She looked like a . . . Russ, who are you talking about? The woman who came to dinner?”

  “No, not her.”

  “Did she have dark hair?”

  He shakes his head. “Huh-uh. She had, um . . . yellow hair.”

  I try to think of blonde women I know and a few faces come to mind, no one that John would have over to the house late at night.

  Sitting down across from Russ, I give him a careful look. “Honey, are you sure? Last night a woman with blonde hair was outside, talking to Dad?”

  He looks woeful. “Maybe it wasn’t last night.”

  “Then when?”

  “I don’t know. Um . . .”

  “Recently?”

  “Yeah, recently.” He’s testing out the word.

  “Did you — when she was here — did you hear anything they said?”

  “Huh-uh.” He shakes his head again, spoons in some more Frosted Flakes. His bedroom is at the front of the house. It’s still springtime and cold at night so his window is closed.

  “Russ, can you be sure, though? You saw a blonde woman talking to Dad? Did you recognize her? Where were they standing?”

  “On the porch. I saw from my window.”

  “Did Dad know you saw him?”

  Another no, indicated by a flop of the bangs in his eyes. He needs a cut.

  “And you don’t know who she was.”

  “Nope.”

  I get up from the table and continue the coffee ritual on automatic pilot — fresh filter, a scoop of grinds, normal things — wondering who in the hell she could be. I feel like I’m riding a bike with loose bolts and screws, ready to come apart with the next bump.

  With the coffee started, I hurry off to Melody’s room, surprised to find her still in bed. “Mel, honey. We overslept.”

  “I didn’t,” she mumbles. “I’m not going to school.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Mom. I’m not going.”

  I glance around her room with a feeling about what’s going on. Her pajamas from the night before are poking out of her closet laundry basket. It’s happened. My daughter has gotten her first period.

  “Listen, honey, I’m so sorry . . . I’ll be right back. I have to get Russ to school, okay? We’re late. But we’re going to talk.”

  She murmurs something else and turtles deeper into her covers.

  I run a toothbrush over my teeth, splash some water in my face. In the bedroom I pull on a pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt and a sweatshirt. Russ’s cereal bowl clatters in the sink when he lobs it in. “Go pee!” I call. “Brush!”

  Five minutes later I’m clicking his seatbelt and then banging out of the driveway after a quick peek in our empty garage. A morning frost grays the lawn. We get to school with one minute to spare.

  “Mom?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s the menstruation crustacean?”

  The words are so garbled it’s like he still has cereal in his mouth. But they’re vaguely familiar.

  “The what?”

  “The men-stru-ation crustacean. It’s a thing in the, um, girls’ bathroom. A big lobster thing and you can get the cheese sticks out of it.”

  “When were you in the girls’ bathroom?”

  “Skylar showed me. She’s in middle school.”

  “That’s what you were talking about at breakfast the other morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  And now I get it. Hazleton is a small rural village where all the kids go to one school. He’s talking about the tampon dispenser in the girls’ bathroom where the seventh graders go.

  “Those aren’t cheese sticks, Russ.” I snap him out of his car seat and help him to th
e sidewalk, put his backpack over his shoulders. “Stay out of the girls’ bathroom. I love you.” After a kiss, he goes running inside and through the front doors just as the bell rings.

  One of the other parents, Karen Dewitt, sees me and walks over. “Running late?”

  I nod and shiver.

  “Us too,” Karen says.

  Like me, she has two kids in the school, though they’re closer in age and both boys. She’s active in the community and runs the school yearbook club. There’s a subtle tension between us that I’ve never quite understood, except maybe because John and I are transplants and the Dewitts have been locals for several generations.

  “Cold today,” I say.

  “Spring is coming.” She gives me a closer look. “Everything all right?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s just ah — you know, Russ just told me about the thing in the girls’ bathroom. He thought it dispensed food.”

  Karen smiles but the humor doesn’t travel to her eyes. We stand just outside the loop where the buses drop the kids off. The crossing guard ushers a few latecomers across the street.

  I can’t lose it here, not now, but I’m starting to panic. I have no idea where my husband is and apparently there’s been a woman at my house. A friend? Someone else? I’ve kept my emotions at bay and got Russ where he needed to be, but I can feel the pressure mounting, the backs of my eyes stinging with tears. Karen’s husband is a sheriff’s deputy with the county police. I occasionally see him bringing people in who need to be hospitalized for mental health reasons.

  But — cops? What if John is having an affair?

  I heard them talking in the driveway. Dad and the lady.

  “Jane?”

  “Sorry,” I say, and get moving toward my car, parked on the street. “Rough night, rough morning.”

  Karen keeps step with me but doesn’t say anything. The morning is bright and crisp, a vividness that suddenly assaults my senses. When I reach my car, Karen is still there and I lean against it. “I’m having a problem.” It’s a struggle to meet her eyes.

  Her voice is soft. “Oh. Okay. Listen, I, ah . . . I don’t have any girls . . .”