April 28
Ive just sat down after a long shift, the taxis engine ticking down, and the rain outside has finally stopped. A strange thing happened tonight that has turned the last year and a half of my life upside down again.
Earlier this afternoon I was at the local constabulary, waiting for Inspector Margaret Clarke to hand me a file. She placed a faded photograph on the desk, her fingers gentle as she slipped it back into its folder. Were closing the case, Mr. Andrews, she said. Legally enough time has passed to declare Emily Clarke missing.
Declared dead? I managed to croak, the words tasting like ash.
No, I didnt say that, she replied, soft but firm. Just that the paperwork is finished. Please sign here.
I took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping motion. Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Andrews, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Weve done everything we could.
I know, I whispered, my eyes heavy. Every time you come with this folder, its the same nightmaresleeplessness, memories, questions that never get answers.
She nodded. If anything comes back to you, anything that could help, please let us know.
I shook my head. Ive gone over every day, every hour leading up to her disappearance. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, a quick breakfast, See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, vanished between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers. Sometimes people do return after three, five years.
Has anyone ever just walked out on their spouse without a word? I asked sharply.
She fell silent, then gave a small nod. Sometimes. Usually they leave a note.
When the constables door closed behind her, I sank into the passenger seat and closed my eyes. Its been eighteen months since Emily walked out the front door and never came back. No call, no text. Her mobile is switched off, her bank cards untouched. Its as if she melted into the earth.
I tried everythingpolice reports, private investigators, newspaper ads, online postings. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knows where she went.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogationsof course, I was always the prime suspectsearches, false hopes. Then came a numbness, a dull ache in my chest, and a flood of unanswered questions. Why didnt I notice? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Is she still alive but unable to reach me? I forced myself not to think about it.
A sudden ring snapped me out of the gloom. The caller ID showed London City Cabs.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatchers voice sounded weary. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peterson is down with high blood pressure and were swamped with jobs.
Yes, of course, I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. What time?
Six oclock, first run to Heathrow.
Will do.
I had taken up taxi driving three months after Emily vanished. Id lost my job as a civil engineermy boss tried to be understanding, but endless unpaid leave and sick days finally wore him down. I could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab suited me: its mechanical, requires attention but not deep concentration, and there are no emotional attachmentsjust fleeting faces and snippets of conversation. One day youre ferrying a businessman, the next a mother with a toddler. No responsibility beyond getting from point A to point B.
My mornings now start at five, cold shower, strong tea, a quick glance at my reflectiongrey at the temples, lines where there were none a year and a half ago. Forty-two, yet I look closer to fifty.
My first passenger today was a portly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty, babbling about a trip to Brighton, his mother-in-law, and his overbearing boss. I nodded, gave the occasional right, but my mind was elsewhere.
The day passed in a blur of stations, shopping centres, office blocks, and more stations. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Nick, we need you from Riverbank to Greenfield Estate. Last one for today, the client is waiting.
Alright, I sighed, checking the address on my GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a little boy, about three or four, who stubbornly refused to get into the car.
Mike, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want to go to Grandmas!
Well go to Grandmas on Saturday, I promise. For now, lets get home.
I waited while they settled. The ride was long; a traffic accident in the city centre held us up for almost an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap, and she stared out the window, silent. I turned on soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally cleared the jam it was dusk, a light drizzle fell, and puddles glistened on the road. I drove carefully, feeling a growing pressure in my head.
Greenfield Estate sat on the outskirtsnew blocks of flats, bland concrete towers, still half empty. I never liked such soulless places.
Right here, the woman said as we turned into the courtyard. Third entrance, please.
I obeyed, stopped in front of a nondescript seventeenstorey block and turned off the meter. Thatll be £4.20, I said.
She handed me a fivepound note. No change needed. Thank you for your patience.
Thanks for the tip, I replied, smiling. Let me help with the child.
I opened the rear door, the mother handed me the sleeping boy, then slipped inside. Ill take him, thanks, she said.
Are you sure? I could drop him off at the flat.
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
I watched her disappear up the stairs, rain still pattering outside. I lingered a moment longer, the gloom outside matching the darkness inside me. Then, out of habit, I glanced up at the windows of the building.
On the third floor, a light flickered. A silhouette appeared in the glowfamiliar, unmistakable. My heart missed a beat and then hammered against my ribs. The profile, the tilt of the head, the way the hair was tucked behind an earit was Emily.
I didnt notice how I had left the car, how I crossed the courtyard, how I entered the stairwell. My thoughts were a fog, but the image of her in that window cut through it like a knife.
I sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, stopping at the third landing. Four doors faced me; the one on the left, second from the stairwell, seemed right. I pressed the buzzer. A long, tense pause. Then footsteps, a click of a lock, and the door opened.
A man in his forties, in pajama pants and a Tshirt, stood there, looking bewildered.
What? he asked.
I opened my mouth, but the words got stuck. I
What do you want? he demanded, wary.
Im looking for a woman. Emily Clarke, I blurted, my voice shaking. My wife.
His eyes widened, then hardened. Theres no Emily Clarke here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He reached for the door, but I grabbed the handle. Wait! I saw her in the window just now. Im not crazy. Shes my wife, missing for eighteen months.
He hesitated, then stepped back. Behind him, a woman appearedher hair shorter than I remembered, a baby in her arms, the same child from the taxi.
Whats happening, Mark? she asked, bewildered.
This man says he saw his wife in our flat, Mark said, looking at me. He says shes Emily Clarke.
The woman, Lena, narrowed her eyes, then looked at me, her expression softening. Youre the driver who dropped us off earlier, she said slowly. What are you doing here?
I I saw her in the window, I repeated, desperation edging my voice. Emily Clarke. Dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above the right eyebrow.
Lenas face paled. You must be mistaken. Im Helena Petrovic, my mothers name. Im 55, not your wife.
Mark stepped forward, his tone gentle but firm. We didnt take her. She was found unconscious on the north side of the bridge, after a winter storm. She had amnesia. We gave her a new name, a new life. Shes our mother now.
The words hit me like a cold wave. My mind whirled. I filed a missingperson report the same day she vanished, I whispered. Why didnt you tell the police?
We tried, Mark said, his voice weary. She had no ID, no fingerprints on file. We took her in when she was released from the hospital. My mother had just died, and we thought we could give her a home.
Give her a home, but strip her of who she was, I snapped, the pain raw. Shes my wife.
Helenas eyes filled with tears. Im sorry. Weve cared for her. Shes safe here.
I felt my throat close. Please, just let me see her. One minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
After a long, tense silence, Mark nodded reluctantly. Fine. One minute. But no more.
They led me to a modest sitting room. Helena slipped away with the child, and Mark closed the door behind her. I could hear muffled voices, but couldnt make out the words.
Mark opened the door, his face a mask of tension. You may go in. Please dont frighten her.
The room was simple: a neatly made bed, a dresser, family photos on the walls, a chair by the window. In the chair sat a woman, looking out at the drizzle. She turned, and my breath caught. She was thinner, hair cut shorter, but the mole above her right eyebrow was there, the same scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall.
Emily? I breathed.
She stared at me, expression blank, then softened slightly. Im sorry, she said quietly. Youve got the wrong person. My name is Helena.
Her voice was familiar, yet not. I felt hopeless. Emily, its me, Nick, I said, taking a step forward. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face. Serge? Whos that?
Mark placed a hand on my shoulder. Its best you leave, Nick. Shes our mother now.
Serge? I repeated, the name a ghost. My wifes name is Emily Clarke. We married eight years ago, we live on Saffron Road, I work as an engineer. We were expecting a child.
She shook her head slowly. Im Helena Petrovic. Im Lenas mother. I dont know you.
I tried again, describing the tiny detailsher mole, the scar, her fear of heights, her love of strawberry icecream, her aversion to chrysanthemums. She touched her chin, as if checking for the scar.
Lena entered, eyes wide. Whats happening? she whispered.
Helena turned to her, startled. He thinks Im his wife.
Nick, I said, voice cracking, please, I need to know if shes really here. If not, Ill walk away.
A heavy silence fell. Finally, Mark spoke. She was found on the north bridge after a snowstorm. She had no memory. We gave her a name, a life. Weve tried to help her remember, but the past is a haze.
I felt something click. The bridge, the snow, a white car. A man grabbed me. I remember screaming. I cant recall his face.
Helenas eyes widened. You remember the bridge?
Yes. The north bridge. It was cold.
A faint spark of recognition lit in her gaze. She reached out, her hand trembling, and brushed my cheek. I dont I dont remember you, Nick. But something feels familiar.
I sat beside her, taking her hand. Well take this slowly. Ill be here, if you want to try to remember.
Mark and Lena exchanged glances, then nodded. We wont keep you from us, Mark said. But you have a right to your life. If you decide to stay with us, well understand. If you want to go back well support that too.
The weight of a year and a half of anguish lifted just enough to let a tiny hope seep in. I could feel my throat burning with tears I hadnt allowed myself to shed in months.
Ill wait, I whispered. For as long as it takes.
Leaving the flat, I stood on the stairwell, looking back at the thirdfloor window. The light still glowed, and in that soft halo I thought I saw Emilys eyes meeting mine.
The rain had stopped completely now, the night sky dotted with stars. I breathed the damp London air, feeling for the first time in a long while that I could actually fill my lungs.
She is alive. She has been found. The restnames, histories, the tangled web of who she has becomecan be sorted out in time.
I slid back into my cab, turned the key, and drove home. Tomorrow Ill call Inspector Clarke again and ask her to keep the case open a little longer. Sometimes, after a long search, the missing reappear in the most unexpected of placesthrough a passenger, a door, a flickering light on a thirdfloor flat.
A new day awaits. A new chapter with an old love. For now, Ill go home and try to sleep. The darkness feels a little less oppressive.
