Dear Wife(53)

“Is that so?” I pop the top and take a long pull from the bottle.

Camille rolls her eyes at my nonanswer. As the detective assigned to the case, I’m walking a delicate balance here: releasing enough tidbits to keep the public invested, but not enough to make them lose hope. Feeding them enough information to fuel the investigation, but not enough to trip me up. I’m looking for leads, not vigilantes or armchair detectives.

“Oh for God’s sake, Marcus. Everybody knows they were on the brink of divorce. Stop acting like I’m revealing some top secret detail about her life. She was having an affair, and honestly, who wouldn’t in her place? Her husband is a real douche.”

Camille isn’t wrong. It’s no secret their marriage was on the rocks. My sister is not the only one floating the theory he had a hand in Sabine’s disappearance. Nobody’s buying his reading-a-book-by-the-river bullshit, including me. Chasing down what he was really up to the afternoon his wife disappeared has eaten up the bulk of my investigation hours.

“Fine, you keep your secrets, but at least tell your favorite sister this—”

“You’re my only sister.”

“Whatever. Just tell me, second favorite brother of mine.” A burst of laughter comes from the next room, and she leans her head around the counter to make sure we’re still alone. Her concern is not about privacy, but about getting the scoop. Camille hates not being in the know. “What’re your spidey senses telling you? Do you think you’ll ever find Sabine?”

“No.”

Her eyes go wide. “Really? What do you think happened to her? What does your gut say?”

“Honestly, Cam?” I drain the beer bottle, chuck it into the recycling bin. “My gut says that she’s dead.”

  My younger brother, Duke, settles a steaming platter of pot roast swimming on a bed of vegetables onto a table already groaning under the weight of our mother’s food. As usual, she’s cooked for an army, enough to send all of us home with Ziploc baggies of leftovers that will last us well into next week. I can still hear her, banging around in the kitchen, rattling off a one-sided conversation with herself. That needs more dressing. Now where did I put the butter? Don’t forget the garlic bread.

“Ma, come on,” I shout. The smells are overpowering, meat and potatoes and vegetables plucked from the garden out back. “You’re killing us here!”

I wink across the table at Annabelle, who’s sneaked a slice of sausage from the tray and tucked it in a fist. Only Annabelle dares to sneak food because ever since her illness she’s Ma’s unofficial favorite, the only one besides me who can get away with breaking the house rules—rules that for everyone else are ironclad but for us a little fuzzy. (1) No cussing or talking back. (2) Nobody eats until everyone’s seated and the food blessed. (3) Turn off the lights—what do you think, that we own the electricity company?

Ma barrels into the dining room in her apron, a frilly, floral thing she’s had as long as I can remember. “Did everybody get themselves something to drink?”

Nods and yeses all around, including my own, even though my new beer bottle is already empty. Ma would only hold up dinner for me to go get another, and the Durand clan is a ravenous bunch. Best not to get in their way.

She sits, then registers the empty place setting at the far end, and her expression shifts from surprised to offended. Her gaze scans the faces at the table, ticking them off one by one in her head. Her three adult kids and their spouses. Duke and Joanie’s twins. Camille and Shawn’s two hellions and Annabelle. It’s only a matter of time before Ma’s gaze lands on me.

“Marcus, where’s Emma?”

My absent wife. Her beloved daughter-in-law. The same person she last Christmas referred to as the daughter she never had. “Uh, hello, Mom,” Camille had said at the time, “I’m standing right here.” Ma just patted her hand. “You know what I mean.” She’s been so busy she didn’t notice when I walked in without Emma, not until now.

I slide the napkin from under my silverware, drape it over my lap. “Home in bed. She said to tell you she’s sorry to miss this.”

Like everybody else here, my mother is well aware of my wife’s delicate constitution. Emma’s always got something, a headache or stomachache or earache or dizzy spell she can’t quite shake. Usually, I’m cool with her bowing out of family dinners and kids’ soccer games, but today’s different. Nobody misses a Durand birthday celebration, not even Camille, who once waited until everybody was finished with dessert to tell us she was in labor.

“Was,” I say. “Emma was sick. She picked up that stomach bug that’s going around.”

“What stomach bug?” Camille says, looking up and down the table. “I haven’t heard anything about a stomach bug. Since when? What kind?” She frowns at Duke, then at her husband, Shawn. “Do y’all know anything about a stomach bug?”

Ma frowns. “Well, if she was sick, then why isn’t she here?”

“Give her a break, will you? Em’s better, but still she’s not a hundred percent yet. She just wanted to sleep it off, and honestly, both of us were a little worried she might still be contagious. We didn’t want to risk it, not with a houseful of kids.” I follow up my words with a meaningful glance at Annabelle, whose immune system is still wonky.