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2 8
L O G A N
—I’m going home—
Not “coming” home. Coming home was with me, in the present—now.
Coming home was “I’ll see you there.”
Going home was something completely different. It was the home of
past and future, where she wouldn’t see me.
I parked in front of the warehouse on Highland, where the mural
commanded me to BREAK SHIT without saying what shit was or how
badly it needed to be broken. I drove around the corner. Her car was parked
in back, and the lights were off there too. I got out and listened for any
sound from inside. Nothing.
I didn’t like being cut off, and I didn’t like having to figure out where
she was. She was still my wife. If something happened to her, I needed to
know where it was happening.
She had to be coming here. I’d just have to wait.
When I told myself I’d wait at Ella’s back door all night if I had to, I
didn’t take myself literally because I didn’t think I had to.
After the first half hour, I unfolded an old aluminum chair I found under
the steps and waited on the landing. After the second half hour, I called
Colton to see if Ella had gotten back yet. He said “nah” and asked if he
should wait for her. I told him to go to bed or whatever he did.
In the silence that followed a circling helicopter, I drank two-fisted from
a well of worry.
My right fist clutched the fear that something terrible had happened to
her.