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No ransom note has surfaced.
There’s no mysterious man in one of the many city hospitals with a head injury and amnesia.
No, I had to accept that either Marc had left me or that he had indeed been the victim of foul play and was, I don’t know, buried in the deep woods of some forest preserve out in the suburbs. I had nightmares about shallow graves, a corpse tangled in low-hanging branches over the Chicago River, a pale body lying in a park, waiting for an eager dog to find it…
Today, I walked down Lunt Avenue, after disembarking from the Metra train (I’d started treating myself to the fancier commuter train, with its stop in my Rogers Park neighborhood, instead of riding the L). I had to cover more blocks to get to the L on Morse and the ride took longer, even factoring in my walk from the train station in the west Loop over to Michigan Avenue. But with all that had happened to me lately, all my fears and worries, I figured I deserved to treat myself a bit more kindly, even if it did cost more.
The smell of fall scented the air with a little decay. Some of the maple trees had started their scarlet transformation in earnest. Leaves littered the sidewalk. The sky, at dusk, spread out in a grayish lavender blanket.
I pondered over what I’d make for dinner or, more likely, what to order in, and what I might lose myself in this evening. Oblivion was my new best friend. Perhaps I’d draw a bath, light some candles, and bring a book to the tub. I was reading John Boyne’sAll the Broken Placesand loved the story, disturbing as it was. I could, of course, simply be passive and forget my troubles with a good movie on Netflix or Hulu. The one thing I knew for sure was that I’d head to bed early, sleep poorly, yet wake with just enough energy to face another workday.
How long could I maintain this routine without going insane?
As I neared my building at the corner of Wolcott, I thought of the man who called himself Jeb. There had been no more contact, despite or maybebecauseI desperately wished for it. I saw him, or the man I thought to be him, many times, especially over the past few weeks. But it never was actually him, only a person that looked like him and often in only the most tangential of ways.
I’d gotten it into my head that this mysterious stranger knew about Marc’s disappearance. He and he alone could unlock the secrets of my husband’s whereabouts. I needed only to see him again, so I could let him know of my despair, of my longing to know that Marc was okay, even if it didn’t mean a reunion. He’d take pity on me and would tell me where he was, after prefacing the admission with the words, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but…”
I turned into the courtyard of my building and, as always, peered upward with optimism at our second-story window. Would I never lose hope that I’d see movement or a light turned on?
Maybe it was time to consider putting the place on the market. I could move somewhere that didn’t contain the awful memories of this place. A fresh start could perhaps do wonders for my mental state. Even Mom thought so, and she’d told me more than once that I should return to St. Clair. My room was ready, and she was certain I could find a new job in Pittsburgh, which was only about an hour east.
“Hey Sam!” My neighbor Candace passed me on her way out with her dog, Asta, a long-haired dachshund, for their evening walk. Asta sniffed at my ankles, tail wagging. Seeing them reminded me that Vito would be awaiting my arrival with impatience. I looked forward to leashing him up and heading down to the lakefront.
In the lobby, with its rows of brass mailboxes, I paused to check my own. Inside, a couple of bills, one for car insurance, the other for gas, mingled with a Land’s End catalog, and a flyer full of coupons I’d never use because I’d never take the time to look at them.
And then I stopped.
What I saw in the mail detritus nearly made my heart cease beating. My mouth went dry. A few beads of sweat popped out on my forehead.
In my assorted bills and junk mail was that rare bird, a hand-addressed envelope. Who received those these days?
But it wasn’t so much the archaic snail mail communique that set off psychological alarms. It was the fact that I recognized the handwriting.
Marc’s.
I was positive despite the lack of a return address, which, believe me, I searched for in vain.
I threw everything but his missive and the two bills in the lobby recycling bin and hurried upstairs.
Vito scratched at the door as I fumbled with my keys. He’d have to wait a few minutes more for his walk. There was no way I could ignore the envelope tucked under my arm.
Vito jumped on me as I entered and he followed me to the couch, whining his disappointment when I sat on the couch.
“Give me just a few, boy. I know you need to go and I got you, but this cannot wait.” I could barely get the words out; I was so breathless as I ripped the hand-addressed envelope open.
Inside, a single sheet of lined paper from a steno pad, holes at the top that left paper litter on the hardwood floor. My eyes blurred peering down at Marc’s handwriting, a mix of printing and cursive. I blinked. I took a couple deep breaths, and I began reading.
Dear Sam,
First, I’m sorry. And those words seem so meaningless, so trite when I consider the magnitude of what I’ve done. Please read on and let me at least try to offer some explanation for what I know is odd behavior. I have no excuse, but maybe I can explain.
Before I get into my uncertain rhymes and reasons for my abrupt departure, I want you to know I’m okay. I’m sure I’ve worried you and, believe me, I know I could have handled this better, but sometimes life calls for immediate action and doesn’t give us the luxury of careful planning.
At least these are the words I tell myself…
The truth is, and I suspect you know this already, our relationship, our marriage, were both dead in the water.
Dead in the water? I gasped. I had no idea. I didn’t feel that way and I had no clue Marc did. Sure, things had gotten more routine as our years together accrued, but I always believed we had a foundation of love, family, and memories to rely on. And besides, didn’t most couple experience some level of boredom and lack of excitement as their years together added up?
