Tiny Little Fractures

Chapter Thirteen

I didn’t know where to start. I was completely stumped. I could wait around for another sign or message. Or I could try to figure something out, but where do you begin searching for someone who has been missing for two years? I already went over the crime scene when I was allowed. Of course, nothing showed up. I wasn’t a detective. And even if I was, there had been no tire tracks. His car had been taken in for evidence and I never cared to get it back. It was probably auctioned off years ago.

I could ask for his files. I was his wife so I had a right to see them, didn’t I? But the case was still open. Cold, but open. Sure they gave up the search, called him dead, and went about their lives. But the case wouldn’t close until there was something solid to close it. Besides, they probably wouldn’t hand the files over without asking why I wanted them. I had already been a suspect at one point. They would probably jump at the chance to pin it on someone. Asking questions two years after the fact would do more harm than good.

If Jon had successfully stayed hidden for almost two years, me poking around wasn’t going to change anything. He was going to stay hidden, and I’d probably just make it a little harder for him. I wouldn’t get anything unless he wanted me to. I could only wait. I just didn’t know what I was waiting for.

It had taken the card two weeks to reach my mailbox. Wasn’t that a long enough time to wait before contacting someone again? Or was this just a one-time thing? Something to get my mind worked up and then fade off again. Maybe he was just trying to give me hope. I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t sure how I could find out either.

I mentioned before that I didn’t like talking about him. No one brought him up in conversation because the few times they did I snapped and lost control of my temper. Jon’s name and memory were almost taboo with my family and friends. I was sure they talked about him when I wasn’t around, but they didn’t bring him up around me. In fact, we hardly spoke at all.

I was full of tiny little fractures now. Every day and every memory caused the fractures to split wider and wider. I was breaking slowly from the inside out. The break would happen soon. I could feel it. The card caused the fractures to grow larger and more painful. If I found out this was a hoax—the fractures would break open and there would be nothing left to hold me together. No way to mend the pieces. I was already barely half of what I was before. This would destroy whatever was left.

Sometimes my memories were fuzzy. I could remember events but not the small details that made them great. It was never like that with Jon. After I burned the card, I went to find the only picture I still kept in our apartment. It was our wedding photo. I kept it stuffed into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I sat down on the floor of my bedroom and pulled it out.

Sometimes when I was away from people for awhile, I would find it odd that I had forgotten the unique features of their faces. The small lines in their skin and the ridges that made up their irises would become hazy in my mind. I remembered Jon in sharp detail. I remembered every freckle. The small indent in the center of his bottom lip. He had a little scar in the hairline above his right eye that he got from that bike accident.

Every detail of his face was so familiar and comfortable that I didn’t forget a single thing. I could recall them anytime I wanted. I could remember exactly what he looked like on our wedding day in that suit with his bare feet in the sand and his curls ruffled from sea breezes. I could remember exactly what he looked like the day we first kissed with his black tank top and his scrawny arms. Or the day I dragged him to my bedroom and gave him my virginity. He wasn’t wearing anything, but I remembered that too.

It was the uneventful days that surprised me. Like the day, he started working for his new charity. I remember him telling me about it in the car when he wore that lightweight green sweater. His hair was messy and overgrown and it kept falling in front of his eyes while he was driving. It kept getting caught in his eyelashes until he complained about needing a haircut.

That’s why I didn’t need the pictures anymore. I didn’t need the wedding photo sitting on my dresser to remember the wedding. I didn’t need the documents to prove a smile that I could pull up in my mind anytime I wanted. Sure, I liked to look at them sometimes. But his face printed onto a shiny piece of paper was nothing to me except a shiny piece of paper. I wanted to see his real smile again. And it hurt to look at the shiny paper knowing that was all I had left of him. I would never see that smile grow older. I would never see that face develop with lines and wrinkles. So I stuck with my memories instead. Where I could close my eyes and bring up the scent of his shampoo and his laugh and the feel of his skin.

One time I had been watching the background people on TV like I usually did. I thought I saw someone who looked like Jon. It was just a glimpse in the crowd, and of course I immediately bolted from my seat and had a small panic attack. I turned it back and paused at his face, but the more I looked at the man, the less likely it seemed. There was nothing Jon-like about him at all. I wasn’t even sure why I believed it in the first place. I searched for the man’s name on the cast list and found out he was some Swedish actor who dyed his hair blond for a part. I recognized him from a toothpaste commercial. Not because he looked like Jon.

Sometimes when I really needed to think I would walk to the beach just to pass the time. I didn’t like thinking about Jon, but that didn’t mean I never did. When I needed to think about him, I walked so that I could collect my thoughts without having to worry about interruptions. So that’s what I did. I walked to the beach so I could think about him and that card that now had the hope churning again like the embers at the bottom of a fireplace. The hope had always been there. It was just hard to see. Now it was building back up again, ready to turn back into a blazing inferno if given more fuel.

He could still be alive, my mind told me. After all this time. There was still a chance that Jon was alive.

I sat down on a bench that faced the ocean. I watched the waves swell up and crash against the sand as a group of people rushed away from it, enjoying the warmth and the sunlight. I studied their faces as I sat there. There was a man with Jon’s lanky build, but his face and skin tone was all wrong. That was as close as I could get. And it wasn’t even close at all.

People paid no attention to me as they passed. They came in swarms. One moment there was no one but the occasional dog walker or someone on rollerblades. Maybe a rogue beach cruiser. Then suddenly the place would be so stuffed full of humans that you couldn’t see the sand from the bench. They would pass by and it would go back to being nearly empty again. I watched the faces as they passed me. I claimed to be observant, in truth I just had this hope that one day I would look up into a crowd and see him looking back at me.

I emptied my purse when I got home. I usually always did because I had the habit of leaving my purse on my desk at school and sometimes I’d find trash or other crap in there. Once they actually stole my car keys. I dumped out the contents on the counter and sifted through the junk I’d collected over the course of the day. It was a dreary daily ritual that made me feel slightly more organized.

Aside from my phone, wallet, and a folded receipt there was nothing. But the receipt caught my eye for two reasons. 1: It was folded. I usually just crumpled them and tossed them into my bag. Jon was the one who always neatly folded his receipts. And 2: I hadn’t made any purchases. So I reached for the receipt and unfolded it to try and figure out if I forgot to buy something.

There was no list of items or a*****e name or anything of the sort. It was blank, except where words had been scrawled right through the center in black marker. I recognized the handwriting before the words made sense. My body tensed immediately, and I had to take a deep breath before I could read it.

It was from him. I was sure of it. But the note didn’t have anything except an address, time, and a date. Two days later. Someone must have stuck it in my bag when I wasn’t looking. It could have been at the school or the beach. Maybe he paid someone to do it. I would have known if he was there.

I went to my computer and looked up the address on the internet, but nothing came back. I couldn’t figure out what it was from the street view. It didn’t appear to be a house and it wasn’t a business. It could be new, but there was no phone number I could call. I just had to show up.

But the map could have changed recently, and I had all the time in the world. So I got in my car and drove to the address. That did nothing to help me either. It appeared to be some kind of warehouse. I couldn’t see how large it was, but there were no windows and the entire building seemed to be encased in metal. The door was solid and wouldn’t budge when I got out to test it. No one came when I knocked. I’d just have to wait for the date and time to find out for sure.