Page 70 of Good Half Gone

From outside the open window I hear voices…laughter. It must be outdoor time for the patients. Jordyn’s head turns toward the noise.

“It just hits me some days. Hard.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding emphatically. She is tripping on emotion, not drugs. Personal experience taught me that sometimes the body language is the same. I feel ashamed for misinterpreting grief as addiction.

“What is it that you need, Iris?”

Concealing my feelings, I explain the situation with Kyra, emphasizing the part about her wanting to call the police.

When I finish my story, Jordyn looks unfazed. “Iris, if you knew how many disgruntled spouses pass through these doors. We can’t keep track of everyone’s partner. People come and go from these positions. It’s a transient job…”

Something that crawls under my skin. It is easy to brush off the missing until they are yours.

I clear my throat. “I’d say she’s more than disgruntled. Her husband appears to be missing—Adam Hoff—”

“If he took a job out here, he wants to be missing. My guess is that he’s dodging her calls and hiding out in a bar somewhere in Seattle.” She squints at me like she’s in pain.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “But we need to give her an answer of some kind. Maybe we can pull his time sheet and see the last day he worked…”

“Like I said, he’s probably dodging her calls. Our policy is to not get involved in these types of disputes. People take this job to get away. Husbands, wives, social rejects—you name it, we’ve got ’em.” She rolls her chair over to one of her five filing cabinets, her back to me.

“She’s a little more than disgruntled,” I say again. “She’s hysterical. Couldn’t we just do a check to see if he’s here so we can tell her he’s okay?”

Jordyn half turns her head to answer me when someone knocks. I turn to see Crede leaning through the door. “Jordyn, there’s a woman threatening to call the police if we don’t produce the man she claims is her husband.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Adam Hoff,” I answer. They both look at me. “He…uh…she says he works in maintenance. So we could reach him on the radio…?” I feel my face contorting, my eyebrows and cheeks expanding in different directions like the emotional balloon I am.

Jordyn is nodding before I finish my sentence. “Do that. See if you can get him in here to deal with her.”

“Should I get Dr. Grayson?”

She looks alarmed that I’ve asked.

“No, we can handle this ourselves. He has too much on his plate as-is.”

“Of course.” I nod. “I’ll take care of it.”

I stride down the hall with security on my heels. As soon as she sees me, Kyra Hoff is in my face, her features twisted with worry.

“What did they say? Do they know where Adam is?”

My mouth is dry. “We’re trying to find him right now,” I assure her. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you some tea.” Gran thinks everything can be fixed with a cup of tea.

Kyra looks at me with pure malice, her pink eyes feral.

Just as I’m about to take a step back, she bursts into tears. I put my arm around her, steering her toward the staff kitchenette.

“Can you go see if they’ve found anything?” I ask Crede. Surprisingly he nods, veering off in the direction of the security office. Kyra is docile when I set my Peanuts mug in front of her. She stares at the curl of steam lifting from the mug and holds it with both hands like she’s trying to warm herself.

“I told him to take this job. It’s my fault. There’s something wrong with this place, but we needed the money—oh god! Where is he?” She dissolves into hard sobs.

I know exactly how she’s feeling. My stomach tightens—a slow tourniquet. She is blaming herself already. I know the type of questions the police would ask her: Was your husband physically abusive? Were either of you cheating? Did you have an argument the last time you saw each other? What was it about? What did you fight about in general? Over and over, round and round it would go. It makes you think things you wouldn’t normally think about yourself, doubt your own sanity. What I’ve learned—what I don’t want to say—is that there are no strange places, just strange people. And sometimes, those people pollute the energy by osmosis.

“I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation—maybe his phone broke or something…” I hate the words coming out of my mouth.

“Then he could have borrowed a phone to call me, couldn’t he?”

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