I enter Anna’s dim, quiet room to find her sleeping.
She is propped up on pillows and her thick brown hair cascades down around her peaceful, beautiful face.
Verna, who has been asleep in the chair beside Anna’s bed, opens her eyes and smiles at me.
“Have y’all found Taylor yet?” she whispers.
“Not yet.”
Merrill, who decided not to come in, is grabbing coffee and refueling the car so that we can dash back over right after my brief visit.
“I’m gonna go down and get some breakfast,” she says. “Give you two some time alone.”
“How has she been?”
“Sleeping mostly.”
“Has the doctor been by?”
“Not yet. One saw her in the emergency room. They’ve run some tests and said a doctor would be by this morning.”
“Thank you so much for staying with her,” I say.
“My pleasure. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She eases out of the room and pulls the door closed behind her.
I look back at Anna to see if the clicking of the door has awakened her.
Her relaxed and tranquil face looks like an earlier, younger iteration of itself, and I think back to just how long she has been in my life to one degree or another.
I miss her so much—not just the unconscious woman lying in front of me, but my sweet, kind, loving wife who all but vanished a few weeks back.
I’ve longed for her since she went away, and I’ve felt isolated and alone.
But as painful and difficult as that has been, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as lonely as I do at this moment with Anna asleep, Johanna at her mom’s, and Taylor missing.
I feel utterly and completely and absolutely alone.
The ache inside me, the one that permeates my entire being down to the hot lava core of my heart, is not only constant and complete but somehow both dull and acute at the same time.
I want to sit down next to her and cry.
But I know if I do I may not be able to get back up again.
I want to wake her up and seek solace in her.
But I know right now she has none to give and what I would get from her would only make me feel worse.
I want to yell, to rant, to scream, to break and crush and smash something or several somethings, but instead I bow my weary head and beg God to get my wife and daughter back.
A tap at the door is followed by the entrance of a middle-aged Indian man with bushy black hair and a mustache wearing a white lab coat.
“Mr. Jordan?”
I nod and extend my hand.
“I’m Dr. Patel. How are you?”
“Been better.”
“Well, hopefully we get your wife better and things get better for you as well. Happy life when wife is happy, no? Have you noticed anxiety, depression, irritability, mood swings?”
I let out a harsh little laugh before I even realize what I’m doing. Nodding perhaps a little too vigorously I say, “A little, yeah.”
“Maybe more than little?” he says. “How about fatigue, weight gain, dry skin, joint pain, muscle weakness, stiffness, aches, tenderness? Constipation? Swelling? Trouble sleeping? Irregular menstrual periods?”
I nod. “Some of that for sure. Maybe all of it.”
“I want to run a few more tests to confirm, but my guess is the culprit is hypothyroidism. Underactive thyroid disease disorder. It’s quite common. Your wife’s thyroid gland is not producing enough thyroid hormone. If this assessment is correct, simple treatment with a daily dose of synthetic thyroid hormone and . . . happy life with happy wife.”