My Wife Is Missing(2)

They’d arrived in New York utterly famished after a four-and-a-half-hour car ride from their home in Lexington, Massachusetts. Michael had suggested going out to eat, but Natalie was too tired (no surprise there) and wanted takeout from a nearby pizza place she’d found on Yelp that had fantastic reviews. But given the dinner rush hour, delivery would take too long, so Michael was dispatched for pickup.

“Where is everyone?” he said to the empty room, plopping himself down onto the bed he’d soon be sharing with his wife. He sent her a text.

Food is here. Come and get it.



Wherever they were, he imagined the kids had to really be enjoying themselves to delay dinner for even a minute. A savory whiff of sauce and cheese tickled Michael’s nose. He contemplated downing a slice, but managed restraint. He was a big believer in eating together as a family, and always made it a point to get home from his job at Fidelity in time for dinner. They’d only recently begun a new dinnertime tradition called Three Things, a conversation starter game that Natalie got off the internet. They’d take turns going around the table, each sharing one thing that had gone well that day, one thing they were grateful for, and one thing they’d have done differently.

Three things.

It wasn’t easy getting the conversation going. Typically the kids launched half-hearted protests, but in the end Michael always felt the game brought him closer to the people who were closest to him.

He recalled Natalie’s three things from the night before. They’d struck him as somewhat odd, just as this whole experience of returning to an empty hotel room felt odd.

Natalie had said:

“Today I got us all packed and ready to go.”

“I’m grateful for the truth.”

“I wish I’d done this sooner.”

He had meant to ask his wife for clarification—what was it she wished she’d done sooner? Pack? And what truth was she grateful for? But then Bryce spilled his glass of milk and those questions got lost in the aftermath.

Now, thoughts of that game—specifically Natalie’s reference to her packing prowess—brought Michael’s attention to just how clean the room was. He took in that vanilla and cedar smell again. It was as if they’d not yet arrived. Normally there’d be clothes strewn about, the TV blaring, and suitcases left open on the floor, but not this time. This time there was not an item in sight, as if Natalie had prepared them for a military-type room inspection.

In the bathroom, Michael splashed water on his weathered face and rubbed the dark stubble of a nascent beard. He looked aged well beyond his forty-three years, but stress can do that to a person. His marriage was on the rocks, but was there more to their troubles at home than he knew?

I’m grateful for the truth …

Noticing his reddish eyes, Michael went for his toiletry bag on the countertop, digging inside for the Visine. As he undid the zipper, a concern tugged at him, bringing with it an unsettled feeling not unlike the one he had experienced when he found Teddy all by his lonesome in the hallway.

All his senses were telling him something was wrong. He couldn’t immediately identify the source of his unease, but as he scanned the bathroom, he realized what was amiss. He distinctly remembered Natalie getting her toiletries out of her suitcase because she had wanted to brush her teeth. Now there was only one toiletry bag on the counter, and it belonged to him. Had she really put hers back in her suitcase?

Michael’s heartbeat picked up. Just a little.

He went to the closet directly across from the bathroom. There he paused, not quite ready to open the door. His thoughts gummed up as he took another look around the perfectly ordered room.

Two rambunctious children aren’t this neat.

The smell of vanilla taunted him.

He gripped the knob of the closet door, his stomach in knots, and gave it a yank. It was dark inside, but he had no trouble seeing the outline of his black suitcase pushed up against the back wall.

One suitcase.

Just one.

His.





CHAPTER 2





MICHAEL


After dragging his suitcase from the closet, Michael fumbled with the zipper. Inside, he found all his clothes as he’d packed them. Shirts, socks, pants, underwear—they were all neatly folded and in their proper places.

His mind went blank. He called Natalie but was sent directly to her voicemail. He texted her but never saw the three dots signaling a return reply. There had to be a logical explanation for this: Why was his suitcase the only one in the room?

And then it came to him. It was obvious. There was a problem with the room—wrong view, too stuffy, a plumbing issue, something else he hadn’t noticed—and Natalie had taken her suitcases to the new room, but his was too much for her to carry. She didn’t bother with a valet because she can be quite the frugal Yankee. In the process of moving, poor Bryce dropped his teddy bear and didn’t realize it. They were in the new room wondering what was taking Dad so long. Natalie had sent him a text, but sometimes those didn’t come through right away, and hotels had notoriously spotty service.

Grabbing the hotel phone, he pressed zero for the front desk. He’d call her before she called him.

“Hello, Mr. Hart, how can I help you?”

Mr. Hart because it was his credit card on file, not Natalie’s. They managed the finances by keeping their money pooled in joint accounts. To them it was a symbol of trust and respect—a what’s-yours-is-mine kind of thing.