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My wife has gone missing.

I must have stepped onto that pile of words hundreds of times in the last four days. It sounds almost insincere. I can barely repeat it anymore, and yet, I’ll say it again. My—wife—has—gone—missing. Nora’s clothes are all here. I don’t think she ran away. The police don’t think she ran away, either. They think I’m a suspect. A suspect in what? They always suspect the husband.

I don’t know what happened to her because her closet is full. All Nora’s shoes are still piled in a tangle on the floor. She owns at least eighteen pairs of sandals. Walking shoes. Size nine. The floor of the closet is such a mess that I can’t even count, so I don’t know for sure if any of them are missing. She’s especially fond of European brands that cost as much as a new car, yet she drives an older car — a 2010 BMW station wagon. Analog. Before all the computerized bells and whistles. She’s attached to that car like it’s the family dog. It’s sporty, and she can whizz through the winding roads of the Santa Cruz mountains without worrying about a nick here and there. Or the dust. And that car has got plenty of dings, believe me. Nora still doesn’t know how to safely back a car out of a parking garage. She’s backed into so many other cars — no people, thank God — that we’ve stopped reporting her fender benders to the insurance. She clearly did not intend to back out of our life. As far as I can tell, just her car, her hiking boots, her fanny pack, and the baby backpack are gone.

“And the baby. Izzie,” says Chantal, the make-up artist, as she fastens a white drape over my shoulders.

Shit. I didn’t realize I was talking out loud.

I clear my throat and look around my kitchen. There’s yesterday’s coffee in the coffeemaker. I fold my hands together under the plasticized paper cape.

Right. The baby. Izzie. Oh God, the baby. Let me amend my statement. My wife—and my baby—have gone missing. Isabella. Izzie. Nora likes to hike with the baby in a backpack. Izzie is only seven months old — too young to walk, and too big to carry in your arms. I already told the police I believed she went for a hike and got lost. The last ping on her cell was the tower at Kings Mountain, so they think she was on Skyline Boulevard, near Neil Young’s remote ranch. She used to be friends with Pegi before the high-profile divorce. Nora had such a hard time, when Neil cheated on Pegi and broke up with her via text or email or whatever. Well, Nora was devastated. She went for weeks without washing her hair. And then Pegi died of cancer. Nora looked like she was going to cry all the time. Dear Lord. She might have had postpartum depression. I’m just now thinking that.

“I had it,” Chantal says.

I’m having a hard time focusing my eyes. “Had what?”

“Post-partum depression. Can you hold your head up straight?” She points to her iPhone propped on the mirror. “I hope you don’t mind? I video-record all my clients to have an idea of how I did the make-up.”

“Uh. No, no, yeah, that’s fine. I have nothing to hide.”

Why is this woman even talking to me? I’m so dizzy, I could topple off the stool. I don’t believe Nora rammed her BMW into a tree. They would have found her car, right? Perhaps she had one of her seizures and fell down a canyon or broke a leg, and she’s in one of those remote areas of Purisima Creek. That area is riddled with bottomless canyons. I can’t imagine that a mountain lion got to her, because she always carries a safety alarm to ward off any attackers, including crazy people and mountain lions. And she always packs snacks for her and the baby, too. Nora gets hypoglycemia easily. She can be such a bitch when she’s hungry.

I wave my hand into the empty air. “No. Forget that. You didn’t hear me say that.”

“Okey dokey, hon. No worries. It’s your show. Say, has your hair always been this white? You’re not that old. Do you color it?”

I swat her hand away. “I’m forty-five. No, I don’t color it. It turned white when my parents and brother died. I was eleven. Car crash. And please don’t put any goop in my hair. I hate it.”

“Whatever you say.” Chantal wipes her hands on her pink apron that has pockets filled with sable brushes. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”

“We never get over it,” says Chantal.

It’s true. Me and my younger brother were goofing around in the back seat of our Ford Escort, and our dad, flaming red hair with a short fuse to match, was getting really steamed up. My smart aleck brother, hell-bent on tormenting me, had taken off his seat belt and climbed on top of me. I was really ticklish. Our dad unbuckled his own seatbelt and was leaning back to clobber both of us. He favored a shot to the head. Knock it off, youse guys! My mom was screaming, Watch out, watch out! He didn’t know what hit him — a car coming the wrong way onto the freeway. I blacked out. They said my brain was just rattled, but I dunno. No permanent damage, but they shaved my head and drilled a hole the size of a dime. Huh! When my hair grew back in, it was pure white. I woke up in the hospital and nobody was there. No, I don’t mean there was nobody. There were plenty of doctors and nurses and beeping machines, but nobody that I knew. They had all died. Everyone. The crazy lady who hit us was driving butt-naked. That bitch walked away unscathed straight to the loony bin — and then the fucking police interrogated me. Me! I was just a kid.

Yeah. The fucking police. Believe me, I was trying not to sound smarmy. No, Officer, I said. I don’t know why they haven’t found Nora’s car. Why haven’t you found her car? Isn’t that what we pay taxes for? The cop asked, Did you and your wife have an argument prior to her leaving the house? What kind of question is that? I said. What couple doesn’t have arguments?

“What’s the problem?” asks Chantal. “Can you sit still? I’m almost done.”

“I don’t know. My hand is tingling. I feel strange. It’s probably just nerves. Do you have to put on so much pancake?”

“It’s not pancake — it’s foundation,” Chantal says. “You don’t want to appear smarmy.”

Okay.

Anyway, Nora usually tells me where she’s going because, well, you know, she has a seizure disorder. Epilepsy. So, she always leaves a note telling me she’s going on a hike. They never could find a lesion in Nora’s brain. The neurologists call it ‘seizure disorder’ when they don’t know the cause. They can name the damn thing, but they can’t seem to fix it. Nora had her first seizure when she was 28 years old. Six years ago. It’s not a childhood thing with her. That’s how we met. I was standing behind her in line at Cafe Olé, and she was ordering a stupid drink — a large soy latte with two pumps sugar free vanilla, no foam, not too hot and please, can you put it in two cups?

The look on the barista’s face was classic. Name? he said.

Nora, she said.

He wrote Norah, like torah.

And then she said, Well, what’s your name?

He looked embarrassed. Malik, he said, no one ever asks me my name.

And then she pointed to the cup. Well, Malik, she said, there’s no H.

Malik crossed it out.

Then Nora looked around— she looked at me actually — like she perceived me.

And I thought, Oh, no! Because the thick, steamy air in the coffee shop congealed, and then, she was tumbling to the ground. She fell backwards, knocking over the tower of greeting cards nearby on the way. She fell on top of that rack.

My girlfriend before Nora had seizures, so I knew what was going on, knew what to do. I took off my hoodie, and knelt and put it under her head, so she wouldn’t concuss on the hard concrete floor. Then I gently rolled her to her side so her airway could stay open. I held out my arms and yelled, Keep away! Give her space to breathe. It’ll be OK. And somebody call 911.

Her eyes were rolled back in her head and her body was as stiff as that card rack. And twitching and jerking. Yeah, I get why they call them convulsions. It was scary as fuck.

When she came out of it, she looked dizzy. Well, she looked kinda ditzy, actually. She looked at me with half-focused green eyes and said in her squeaky, cute voice, Am I dreaming?

Of course, both of us worry that Izzie is gonna get it, too. Seizures, not the green eyes. But probably not till she’s older, and then maybe we’ll be too old to worry much about it because, well, we’ll be old.

We are going to be old. I keep telling myself, we are going to be old together. They are going to find them.

“All done,” says Chantal, “go get ’em tiger.”

#

I’ve never been on TV before, but the reporters are swarming like locusts. And yet, the rooms feel empty, devoid of presence. The local reporter — her name is Amber Reyes, she’s come to interview me. So, she’s got this lacquered blonde hair — you can smell the hairspray from across the room — with skin too swarthy for bleached hair, and makeup that makes her look like a Barbie doll, but I guess that’s what reporters do. Wear mounds of makeup. I’ve never liked that in a woman. It makes them look so protected, like they’re wearing armor. Too much makeup is a barrier, so that men can’t get in. No. I like my women natural, like my wife. Truly, she was a natural woman. What am I saying? She’s a natural woman, and she and my little baby girl have gone missing. I actually don’t think the reporters would care a cluck about it except for the baby. It’s really only the baby that they’re interested in. That’s what gives it an angle. Yeah, I hate that. They’re always looking for angles. Ha! That’s funny. I’m a sculptor. I was a middle school art teacher. Now I’m a gallery owner. I own a small art gallery in Woodside. The Art Room. You’d think it would be a great place for a gallery, that it would do really well. You’d be wrong. The gentlefolk of Woodside only want that horsey shit … and cows. They want cows. Truth is, Nora and I have been fighting about that. She wants me to close the gallery and be a stay-at-home dad. Stay-at home-dad! Oh, for sure, I’d get a major buzz out of pushing a stroller and parking myself on a bench, debating the merits and mores of Pampers versus cloth.

So, anyway, this armor-clad reporter Amber is sitting across from me. The microphone attached to the back of my collar is scratching my neck. It makes me aware that everyone is listening. I usually like it when everyone is listening, but today, I’m just not sure. I’m on the sofa, and I don’t know what to do — cross my legs, uncross my legs, cross my arms. I’ll look too angry if I cross my arms. I’ll look too casual if I drop them on the back of the sofa. I don’t even know what to do with my hands.

Amber is looking at me, and she says, with a big smile, “Relax. Don’t worry about the camera. Just look at me.”

I think, what the heck does she have to smile about? I haven’t seen my wife and baby daughter for four days, and this is not a smiling matter. In fact, this is not a relaxing matter. This is a fucking emergency.

Amber smiles at me and crosses her legs. “So, Gabe…”

I notice she has a tiny run in the ankle of one of her stockings. I can handle this.

I hold up my hand and stop her. “Gabriel, you need to call me Gabriel.”

Her eyes narrow. “Gabriel,” she says slowly. “So, Gabriel, when was the last time you saw your wife Nora?”

Crap. Everybody knows that. The entire Bay Area knows Nora went missing four days ago and hasn’t been seen since. Any idiot with a TV knows that my little baby is gone. It’s been all over the news.

“Did she leave a note?” Amber asks.

I look straight at the camera. I don’t look at Amber and her stupid chastity-belted face. “Four days ago. She’s been gone for four entire days. And there’s no note. Nothing.”

“Were you two having marital difficulties?” Amber notices the run in her hose and crosses the other ankle to cover it.

“What kind of a question is that?” I mutter. I pull at my collar. The vein in my neck is aching to throb. I feel feverish, hot. Shit. Everyone is going to see that I’m getting angry. I can’t let them see that I’m getting angry, but that fucking bitch. Amber.

“Gabriel, I’ve interviewed some of your neighbors here in the Woodside Glens, and they’ve all told me the same thing — that they could hear arguments coming from your house. Violent arguments, the baby crying. Do you want to comment on that?”

“All couples with babies fight. Babies create stress. Most of my neighbors are relics, so old they can’t remember what it’s like to have a screaming baby in the house.” I say through clenched teeth, “My wife and child are missing. That’s what’s important — not whether or not we argued about the baby’s colic.”

I push my hair off my face so the camera can see my eyes. So the viewers can look into my soul and know how it is aching. How my eyes reflect the loss of my wife and baby. No, not the loss of my wife and baby. I’ve just lost them. I haven’t lost them. I’ve simply lost them. Oh, shit. The sweat is forming on my brow like condensation on a window. It’s starting to drip into my eyes. It’s making me cry.

Amber speaks to her crew and me and the television audience. “Maybe this would be a good time to roll the video of Nora and Izzie.” Her director shakes his head, No, keep rolling. She reaches beside her to hand me a Kleenex. “Gabriel, are you feeling okay? Perhaps you should drink some water.”

I dab at my forehead and neck with the Kleenex. This can’t look good. I’m losing it. I want to wring the scrawny neck of that fucking bitch Amber, but I shove my anger down into my gut, where it ferments. Instead, I say, “Amber, I have lost my wife and baby — they are missing. I’m here to ask anyone if they’ve seen them. To ask for help.”

“Of course,” she says, “But I understand that you might be having some financial woes as well? That your Woodside art gallery, The Art Room, is in trouble?”

It’s not just the police that think I’m guilty of foul play. Amber Reyes thinks it. Chantal thinks it. In fact, the whole fucking world has judged me, and the verdict has come back guilty. They are sure that I’ve killed my wife and baby. I struggle to stand up, but my legs buckle under me. I sit back down again. Oh, fuck, that probably makes me look guilty as hell.

Amber uncrosses her legs and leans in. “Gabriel, I’ll ask again. Had you and your wife hit a rough patch? Money problems? Is there any reason why she would want to leave? Or have been forced to leave?”

I let her have it. How dare she? I yell. I’m angry. I am so fucking pissed, and I don’t understand the look on her face. She looks confused. What’s the matter with her? Why the fuck is she looking like that? I am trying to tell her the truth about what happened to my wife Nora, that I don’t fucking know, and Amber is looking around and she’s calling for help and she’s telling her cameraman to keep rolling, but she calls out, someone call 911. Her voice sounds like it’s a long way away, like it’s in a tunnel. What the fuck is going on? When I was a little kid, my younger brother and I used to hold our breaths for every tunnel. Sometimes it was really hard, like the Caldecott Tunnel. In heavy traffic, it can take more than five minutes. He was always better at it than me. He could hold his breath under water too. Now, I’m going to win this race. I say this all out loud, trying to make Amber understand.

“You can’t live your life while holding your breath,” I say.

I attempt to stand up, but my legs aren’t working and the room is getting really narrow, and Amber is now like a pinprick seen through a kaleidoscope—and my throat has a lump in it the size of a baseball—hard, round. I hold my throat and try to swallow.

In a raspy voice, I ask Amber and her crew, “What are you doing to me? Why are you torturing me?”

Nothing is making sense.

Well, of course, it’s obvious, says God, nothing has made sense for the last four days.