“What do you mean?”
I know exactly what she means. I don’t know why I ask, other than to delay answering.
“Is it possible he willingly left?”
“Yes,” I say, being completely honest because it is entirely possible Jake willingly left. Until that woman called from the hospital, I was sure that was the case. But it’s uncharacteristic of Jake to miss work. In all his years of practicing medicine, he has never missed work, even as a resident when he was working grueling eighty-hour weeks and was exhausted beyond belief. He still showed up every day as scheduled. Jake’s work means everything to him. It’s the one thing more important to him than me.
I take it back. I say, “It is possible he willingly left, but I don’t think he has because he hasn’t shown up for work in days, and my husband would never not go to work. He’s a doctor. A neurosurgeon. People’s lives depend on him. He’s extremely conscientious, but also, he just loves what he does. He wouldn’t do anything to botch his reputation at work. Something has happened to him, I think.”
“Did you and Dr. Hayes have an altercation, Mrs. Hayes?” she asks and, at first, the question comes as a punch to the gut. I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask something like this. Still, I say yes, because I have to be honest, but I worry as I do that if, God forbid, something terrible has happened to Jake, they’ll think I did it now that I’ve confessed to an altercation with him. But finding Jake is what matters.
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Of course. He’s not answering his phone.”
Jake’s phone is dead. It has to be. Jake wouldn’t have just turned off his phone.
She asks for a photograph of Jake before I leave. On my phone, I find my absolute favorite, and I find myself staring down at his blond hair, cut short on the sides but longer on top, spiking upward; his chiseled cheekbones; the strong jawline that bristles with days old, prickly facial hair; his breathtaking blue eyes. I’d taken the picture of Jake over a year ago, on a rare few days off. It was more of a staycation than a vacation because Jake couldn’t get away for more than a few days, but still, we booked a hotel in the city and did things like go to expensive restaurants and charter a yacht and take it on the lake. He’s on a boat in this picture. Lake Michigan surrounds him. He looks so relaxed, the blue of the lake and sky rivaling the blue of his eyes.
The front desk officer also asks for things like an authorization to release dental and skeletal X-rays, and a DNA sample, like from Jake’s comb at home, which I’ll have to bring later. My imagination goes wild. The words skeletal X-rays are perhaps what do me in, though I somehow manage to hold my tears back until I make it to the car and only there, bent over the steering wheel, do I convulsively sob.
I leave feeling more than a little disheartened. Because Jake isn’t high-risk, he won’t be given the same attention someone else might, like say a diabetic or a child. Never was that explicitly said, but I’m not naive. It was implied. He’ll be on the police department’s radar, but I’m not certain they’ll actively be looking for him.
“Most missing people come home on their own within three days,” was the last thing the front desk officer said to me as I left, meaning there is nothing for me to do but go home and wait.
It’s third period by the time I finally make it into work. It was too late to call in a sub, and so other teachers divvied up and covered my morning classes for me. I thought about just going home after I left the police station, but I couldn’t stand the idea of being in that big, quiet house all alone.
I left my student teacher in the lurch too. He’s sitting at my desk when I come in, while Mr. Schroeder teaches my class. The student teacher isn’t ready to be left alone with the kids; if he was, we could have gotten through the morning classes without a sub.
“Thank you for covering for me,” I say to Ryan. “I can take it from here.”
“What happened to you this morning?” he whispers back, as my student teacher stands up, making space for me to sit at my desk. “I was waiting for you, and then you were just gone. I tried calling you, to see if everything was okay. Is it your mother?”
I shrug out of my coat. I set it on the back of my chair and hide my purse under the desk.
“I know. I’m sorry. No, not my mother, she’s fine,” I say, but I don’t want to tell him what happened. I don’t want to talk about Jake with Ryan or in the presence of my student teacher because I’m not sure I want everyone knowing what’s going on. Gossip runs rampant in schools, not just among the students, but teachers too. I can’t stand to think about them sitting around the teacher lounge, talking about Jake and me and our marriage.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, seeing my reluctance, and I’m grateful. He reaches forward to give my arm a bolstering squeeze. “Just know I’m here. I’m just next door and the door’s always open, anytime you need.”
“Thank you,” I say, “for that, and for covering my class for me. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
I somehow manage to get through the rest of the day. It’s not my best day. Physically I’m here, but I’m not mentally present. The kids don’t even notice. I’m glad. I assign them work and let them do it in small groups of their choosing. Half of the students don’t even do the assignment, but I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with that now. All I can think about is Jake. I’m a mishmash of emotions. I’m no longer only worried that Jake has left me. Now I’m worried something bad has happened to him, which makes me incredibly scared. But if something bad hasn’t happened to him and he’s just intentionally gone missing in spite, then I’m angry. I’m confused. I don’t know what to feel.
I race to see Lily at the end of the day before she leaves. The other day, she left so quickly after work that I didn’t have a chance to talk to her, and then yesterday, she wasn’t here. She’d called in sick. Other than exchanging a few texts, I haven’t talked to her in two days.
Lily is standing at her desk when I come in. She’s putting things into her bag, getting ready to leave. “Thank God I caught you,” I say, short of breath from walking so fast to her class. “Are you feeling any better?”
She turns to look at me. Lily looks drained, colorless. It could be the fluorescent lighting in the school, or it could just be Lily.
Still, she says, “Much. Thanks for asking.”
“Stomach flu?”
“Just something I ate, I think. But it’s all better now.”
“Good,” I say, watching out the window as school bus drivers start their engines and get ready to leave. It’s a process. The buses go first and then, when the buses are gone, the student parking lot empties, newly licensed drivers spinning out of the parking lot without looking where they’re going. It’s terrifying to watch. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets killed.