The Disappearance of Grace by Vincent Zandri

leather coat. Was she simply being overly cautious by bringing along the extra cash and credit card? Or maybe the real question I need to ask myself is this: Did Grace leave the apartment with her passport, emergency credit card and extra cash because it was the safe and prudent thing to do? Or did she do it because she had every intention of leaving me?
    * * *
    My feet are pressed against the floorboards, but I don’t seem to feel them. My head is a buzzing beehive of adrenalin. I don’t know what feels worse: The possibility that Grace was kidnapped right before my blind eyes, or that she simply left on her own, leaving her wardrobe behind. I can’t help but think about the police. The detective. He believes it’s entirely possible Grace took off on her own. As a top cop, he’s seen it happen dozens of time. Lots of lovers leave one another in Venice. Breakups happen even in the most romantic of places. Maybe it’s me who’s being blind to the possibility of Grace going because she wanted to go. Maybe it’s not over after all between her and Andrew.
    But the detective doesn’t know Grace like I do. He doesn’t understand how in love we are. How much we need one another. Yes, the past year has been fraught with the difficulty and heartbreak that can only come from my being absent and having needs go unfulfilled. From my being at war. From Grace fighting a war of loneliness.
    But I’m not at war anymore.
    Correction…that’s not exactly right.
    I’m not at war in Afghanistan, I should say. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still at war with myself. The blindness that overcomes me nearly one hundred percent of the time proves it. A bullet has never so much as grazed me. The shrapnel never came close. I am a casualty of my own frayed nerves.
    I recall a time not so long ago, but that now seems like a lifetime ago. It was a freezing cold, pitch dark winter morning. I was packing for the embarkation to Frankfurt. I would be gone for at least nine months. Perhaps a year or more. Grace lie on the bed in our bedroom, still dressed in her T-shirt and panties, her face buried in the pillow.
    â€œWhy do you have to go?” she begged, in between sobs.
    How do you answer a question like that when you’re going off to war?
    I remained silent while I packed knowing in my heart that I was doing the right thing, but also knowing that I was doing a wrong, most hateful thing. Still I packed, until my knapsack could hold no more. When I was done and I was dressed in my travel camos and spit-and-polish combat boots, I came around to Grace’s side of the bed, and I sat down beside her. For a time I held her while pressing my face into the nape of her neck.
    â€œI love you,” I said, whispering into her ear, smelling her rose petal scent, feeling the wetness of her tears on my freshly shaved cheek. When she wouldn’t respond, I said it again. “I love you.”
    But she just wouldn’t say it back.
    When the horn blared outside the bedroom window announcing the arrival of my ride, I had no choice but to let Grace go. I got up from the bed and left Grace all alone in the cold dark silence of the morning.
    * * *
    I get up from the bed, stumble the twelve steps towards the kitchenette. My right arm deflects a stack of plates I placed on top of the harvest table while I was sleepwalking earlier. They come crashing down, the noise deafeningly loud. I make it the last few steps to the counter.
    I fumble blindly for the whiskey bottle we store out on the counter. I knock over some boxes, and some coffee cups, one of which shatters.
    But I find the bottle.
    Unscrewing the cap, I take deep drink, set the bottle back down. The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it has an immediate calming effect on my heart.
    I slam my fist against the counter.
    â€œGod. Please. God.”
    My eyes well up with tears. I am helpless. Grace is out there somewhere. For all I know,