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The traffic was snarled nearly the entire way back to Coronado, evening traffic coupled with several accidents. I crawled along with the masses for nearly two hours before I pulled into the driveway a little after seven, giving the guilt plenty of time to settle in and take root.
I wasn't surprised to find that Elizabeth wasn't home.
The chicken was in the fridge as she'd promised, on a plate covered with plastic wrap.
I slammed the refrigerator door shut and threw my keys on the table, irritated about a hundred things. The house was quiet and empty, and it felt like my fault.
I texted Elizabeth and told her I was home.
She responded twenty minutes later, reminding me chicken was there and that she'd be home later.
I texted her back, said thanks, and told her I loved her.
She didn't respond.
I'd been hungry when I'd started the drive home, but my appetite was gone by the time I got back, swallowed up by frustration and guilt. I pushed the chicken aside on the shelf and grabbed a beer instead. I yanked the top off and downed half of it, walking back out front, desperate for a little fresh air.
The sun had disappeared, replaced by darkness and stars barely visible beyond the layer of clouds blanketing the sky. The air was chilly, the first truly cold night I could remember in a while. The house directly across the street had hung their Christmas lights earlier that day, a string of alternating red and green bulbs, and they gleamed brightly in the dark.
I looked at the lawn and took another drink from the bottle.
The spot where I'd last seen Elizabeth before she'd been taken was about four feet off the sidewalk, nearly dead center in the middle of the rectangular yard. We'd been planning to stake a wooden Santa that Lauren had purchased from a garage sale in that same spot. Elizabeth had gone and stood there and announced that was where Santa needed to go as I fussed with the lights and realized I needed another cord.
“Right here,” she'd insisted. “So everyone can see him.”
Then I'd gone inside the house, and my entire world had gone up in flames.
I shivered against the cold air.
We'd never put up Christmas decorations after that, even after I'd gotten Elizabeth back. Lauren had thrown them all out at some point after we'd divorced and I'd left. But I'd toyed with the idea of doing it this year. I didn't want Elizabeth and I to abhor the holiday. I wanted her input, and I'd been hoping to broach the subject over dinner. I didn't know how she felt about it and I didn't want it to trigger anything for her.
I walked over and stood in that spot, where Santa was supposed to go and from where Elizabeth was ripped out of my life, letting my bare feet sink into the cool grass.
I knew she was pissed at me, and no matter how irrational she'd been about it, I felt guilty. I worked hard to understand the fact that I couldn't be perfect for her, but more often than not, I felt I was letting her down. She'd even told me, maybe a year earlier, that I didn't need to be the dad who jumped when she called. She'd sensed it, and hadn't wanted me to think I was on call or being judged, or that a failure on my part would send her over some imaginary ledge.
She just wanted me to be her dad.
I knew something else was bugging her. She never would've gotten so angry at me for just missing dinner. It wasn't like her. So whatever was on her mind was probably the root cause.
But that didn't assuage my guilt very much.
I walked back into the house, brushing the dead blades of grass from the soles of my feet. I finished the beer and set the empty bottle down by the sink. I laid my hands flat on the counter and took a couple of deep breaths.
I'd avoided her question about teaching. It wasn't that I wasn't planning on returning to it in a couple of weeks. I was. I was going to grind it out and hope for the best. But I couldn't deny that I'd been far more engaged investigating Patrick's death than I had been with any lesson plan I'd thrust upon my students.
I wasn't sure what that meant.
I walked into my bedroom, took a quick shower, then laid down on the bed. It was still early, but I was tired, both physically and mentally. The conversations I’d had with Cleo and Erin, and the physical altercation with Paulus’s guys, had taken their toll on me. Coupled with my phone call with Elizabeth, I didn’t have the energy to do much else.
I powered on the television and went through my usual routine of scanning the channels before deciding there was nothing on that I wanted to watch. I settled on some kitchen show where a bunch of people were cooking food I'd never heard of, then tossed the remote to the side.
The backpack I used for school was lying next to the bed and I reached down, yanking it up onto the bed. It was heavy with papers and the school issued iPad. I unzipped the main pocket and pulled out the stack of papers. There were roughly 120 essays, all around a thousand words, that needed my attention. I pulled a pen from the side pocket and started reading through the first one.
I made it halfway through the paper before I slid the entire pile and the pen back into my backpack.
I couldn't focus.
Or maybe I just didn't want to do the work.
I picked up my phone and checked the texts. Nothing from Elizabeth. I contemplated checking in with her but ultimately decided against it. I'd learned to give her space even when I found it to be the most difficult thing in the world to do. I knew she was upset with me and I didn't want to give her more reasons to stay angry.
I set the phone down next to the remote.
It was at that moment and similar ones that I most missed Lauren. I could talk to her about what was going on and she could point out why I was overthinking something or misreading something. At the very least, talking to her had calmed me down, cleared my head, and reminded me that I'd married her for a multitude of reasons. Our separation after Elizabeth’s disappearance had had nothing to do with our relationship with each other and everything to do with the daughter we’d lost.
But lying on the bed, wondering what my daughter was doing, and staring mindlessly at the television, I wasn't sure I'd ever felt more alone.