The Writer's Wife

Day 1. You said the writers would never be silenced here. But I fear they have finally succeeded. So I won't mention the name of this land, or any names because I don't know where they have taken you. Because I want you to remain alive. When I arrived home from spending the weekend in the country with my sister, her husband, and their newborn son, I discovered our front door slightly ajar—just enough to look innocence, enough for a harmless snake to slither in—like you had forgotten your glasses as soon as you reached the door.

My hand touched the door, just enough to brush it open. But I knew then—the silence was too immense to contain you.

You must have met the soldiers at the door. Still—the lamps in our living were broken, the picture frames slapped off the walls. The library was destroyed, our bedroom upended. It had to have been the interview. You did not speak bad about this country's president, you were careful. When the interviewer led you and asked if you had finished any new novels, you only smiled. I should have known—a smile, yes, something as small as a smile could have caused this. Isn't every smile a doorway to a truth? And in this land, when people take office, they don't want to be leaders and solve the problems of the people. No, they want to be worshipped. So, yes, your smile threatened that. The bookcases in the library had been ripped from the walls, the lavender area rug hidden underneath the hundreds of books scattered across the wooden floor. Maybe they thought you had a secret room somewhere in the house and that was where you were hiding your work. Did you? My mind cringed at the thought of them handcuffing you, flinging you against the wall as they searched the house. Where are those books, Mr. Writer? I imagined them saying. When I climbed into the study and picked up a book, I discovered your blood along the pages—a trace you were here, a trace that you were gone; but also, my heart hoped, a trace that you were still alive. You didn't die in the library. There wasn't enough blood.

In the far corner of the library I found this empty journal, as if flung there by one of the soldiers. I picked it up like it was an injured animal, alive but barely breathing. I don't know how to go about finding you, so I will write to you. As I'm writing now, outside the wind wheezes by our home as if in pain.

Day 2. I manage not to cry when I call my sister. She is nursing the baby when she answers the phone. I refuse to speak. She keeps saying, Tell me what's wrong? Even when the baby starts wailing, she persists and eventually I say it: They took him. The silence that follows makes it feel like they are listening in on our conversation. Neither of us is as brave as you. I can't ask her to hide me. Her husband won't allow it, newborn or not. That's her problem, I imagine him scolding her. She married him. We both know it will be a long time before we speak again, so we stay on the line without saying words. In her silence she is asking, Are you safe? In mine I'm replying, Is there a such thing as safe if they can just take you and make it as if you never existed?

Day 3. I can't sleep. My tears know no end, my tears are an army. They storm out of me demanding answers. I shiver as if somehow I am connected to you, and you are being dragged in the cold. I step outside before dawn, before our neighbors awake, the crisp morning air curious, spying on me. Barefoot, I lumber away from the house, the ground cold and hard underneath my feet. At the edge of our property...