Ipush through the door of our penthouse apartment, clicking it shut behind me, noting how my desperate voice echoes louder than usual today. “Neesh!”
I haphazardly leave my luggage in the empty foyer, the sound carrying through the space that feels too vast. It’s the same spot Nisha usually greets me in, with that smile that makes me forget the weeks I’ve been away, and eyes that speak louder than the words she always whispers in my arms.“God, I missed you, husband.”
My feet carry me forward, toward our spacious living room, looking for signs of my wife. My eyes skim the multitude of perfectly fluffed throw pillows on our sectional before I turn to walk down the long hall toward our bedroom, past the gallery wall of black and white photographs of our wedding—my hands cradling my gorgeous bride’s face with my lips against hers. The two of us with her dad, sister, and Piper. The two of us with my foster parents, Joe and Molly.
Each frame seems to follow me as I pass, the people from those happy moments staring back a little vacantly today.
“Nisha?” I repeat, looking around the room as if she’ll pop out from behind our bed. But it stands uninhabited, the white duvet cover pulled tight and pastel-colored throw-pillows arranged neatly.
Except, today our bed doesn’t feel so inviting—not the way it usually feels when I get back home, pulling her into it before we’ve even exchanged a single word. No real conversation, no exchanged pleasantries, just needing to be inside her more than I need my next breath.
I turn my gaze toward the window seat she likes so much, looking for her knitting supplies, but find it empty, too.
I stride toward the adjoining bathroom, my heart pounding as I rap my knuckles on the door. “Nisha? You in there?”
Silence. No sound of a running shower or her humming.
I turn the knob, pushing the door open to step onto the marble tile. But the bathroom is empty.
Not just empty.
Different. Wrong.
It takes me a moment to understand why, like trying to visualize a puzzle with the center pieces missing.
Her robe—the wine-red one that always hangs next to the walk-in shower—is missing. The counter, with her caddy of neatly organized skincare products, makeup brushes, and the perfume she loves, is bare, save for the pump dispenser of hand soap. Even her electric toothbrush is gone from its charging station near the sink.
My heart stutters, my lungs feeling like they’re too small to capture any air.
The missed calls I found, the broken and pleading voicemail she left me three days ago, had me rushing to the airport and taking the first flight back home, knowing something was dreadfully wrong.
“Please, Patton, pick up. Please . . . I need you.”
We’ve been through so much to get pregnant again; what if something happened to Nisha or the baby? But she would have told me. Even if it was through a text or in a voicemail, she would have told me.
Wouldn’t she?
I know my wife.
Her strength, her fortitude to withstand more than almost anyone on the planet, and her pride. Even with the disappointment she expressed the night I left, telling me how lonely she’d been feeling, how blindsided she felt when I told her I was leaving, she held it together.
I knew I was breaking her heart, pushing her beyond her limits and asking her to accept my choices without her input, but she never told me not to go.
Maybe she’d already reached her limit?
Maybe she’d already decided enough was enough?
I move toward her closet, flipping on the switch, and the sight nearly brings me to my knees.
It’s empty, save for the small trashcan in the corner and a price tag lying next to it, like she was trying to throw it in there but didn’t bother in her rush to get out. It’s completely devoid of her clothes, her fifty shades of black shoes, and the little jewelry boxes she’d collected over the years.
Where is she?
Where did she go?
The stagnant air still holds a trace of her pomegranate shampoo, the scent I was looking forward to burying my face in for the past three weeks. But even that seems to fade with every inhale I take.
With my hand trembling around my phone and my breaths colliding against one another on their way out, I call her. Without thinking, I step on the small pedal of the trashcan, needing something to do while I wait for her to pick up.
