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" I never truly believed it was possible for someone to vanish off the face of the earth \u2014 until it happened to my husband.  On a hot summer morning eight years ago, I sat in my midtown Manhattan office going through my in-box and wondering if the camp bus my 5\u00BD-year-old daughter, Sasha, was on had reached Coney Island yet. I pictured her playing on the beach with her friends, coming home tanned, tired, and happy. When the phone rang, I picked it up distractedly, but the minute the man identified himself as a police detective in Florida, my heart stopped. My husband, George Dudding, was visiting an old college friend in Ormond Beach. In a slow, cautious voice, Detective Brock asked me when I had last spoken to my husband. &amp;quot;Three days ago,&amp;quot; I replied nervously. There was a long pause. &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s been reported missing,&amp;quot; the detective said. A keening sound sputtered from my chest. Whatever this man had to say, I didn&amp;#039;t want to hear it. George and I had been married for 10 years and were going through a rocky time. A nationally known sculptor whose work had been bought by The Metropolitan Museum of Art and numerous other big collections, George was depressed about a recent downturn in his career and had been drinking too much. Though I had begged him to get help, he thought he could handle his problems on his own. I watched, helpless, as his drinking escalated and he became unable to finish a single piece of sculpture. When he came home at night, I nagged and he sulked, and we couldn&amp;#039;t seem to break that pattern. Three months earlier, George had moved into his studio 10 minutes from our apartment while we tried to work out our problems. I had hoped that getting away to Florida would help him see all that he was in danger of losing, and that he would finally agree to get help for his depression. In spite of everything, I knew we still loved each other. My mind spiraled as the detective laid out the few facts he knew. Two nights earlier, drinking and upset, George had told his friend Pam that he was going to the beach. It was midnight; he left behind his keys, wallet, money, and ID. The following morning, when he still hadn&amp;#039;t returned, Pam looked through his things. Along with George&amp;#039;s return airline ticket, she found two drawings: One said, &amp;quot;Lonely Head, Dead&amp;quot; and the other said, &amp;quot;Drowned.&amp;quot; She called the police. &amp;quot;We believe he may have drowned,&amp;quot; Detective Brock said, &amp;quot;either accidentally or in a case of suicide.&amp;quot; But, he added, there was no body, no evidence. The Coast Guard had scoured the shore by helicopter and seen nothing. I hardly heard what he said after that. My mind, my heart were racing. A cool sweat pooled at the back of my neck, and it was all I could do to keep from being sick. As soon as I got off the phone, I ran out of my office. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, but going home seemed the only option. I called my friend Karen, who met me at my place, and she sat beside me as I alternated between crying and going over and over the scant pieces of information the detective had given me, as if an answer to what happened would suddenly present itself. All that afternoon, I stayed in constant touch with the police. I called George&amp;#039;s family and friends, but no one had heard from him. The day drew to a close with no further news. I had no idea what to tell Sasha. How do you tell a 5\u00BD-year-old that her father has disappeared off the face of the earth, that you simply do not know what happened? How do you say that to a child who still believes that parents have answers? I wasn&amp;#039;t ready to plunge her into a world of such uncertainty. I decided to tell her nothing until I knew more. All that weekend, I struggled to keep Sasha from overhearing me while I talked to the police or to friends, or simply cried. I let her watch cartoons with the volume turned up; I set up the paints and easel that would keep her busy for hours; and once, I sat in the coat closet with the door closed, the phone pressed to my ear while I spoke with the detective in Florida. He had nothing new to report. My thoughts flip-flopped from moment to moment: George was alive, he was not alive, they would find him, they would not. I saw him walking into the ocean, the black water rising against his legs higher and higher; I saw him wandering about, dazed, lost in some kind of breakdown; I saw him slyly plotting a course away from me to start a new life someplace else. I imagined the chance, too, that he was off brooding somewhere and would resurface to pick up his plane ticket and fly home as scheduled on Monday morning. I thought about everything George had accomplished despite the odds: After a rough childhood, he had left home at 16, put himself through college and grad school and, fueled by talent and determination, made a name for himself in the art world. I hoped his survivor&amp;#039;s instinct would kick in yet again. But George didn&amp;#039;t make his flight. And by Monday night, the police had no better idea of what had happened than when they&amp;#039;d first phoned me on Friday. That night, I told Sasha that her father had been in an accident and wouldn&amp;#039;t be home as planned. &amp;quot;Where is he?&amp;quot; she asked. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t know,&amp;quot; I admitted. &amp;quot;Can&amp;#039;t he call me?&amp;quot; Tears welled up in her eyes. &amp;quot;You are the most important person in the world to him. He would call if he could.&amp;quot; I knew that much, at least, was true \u2014 and that, more than anything, led me to believe he had died. The next morning, I hired a private investigator in Florida to see if he could find answers. Everyone had a different theory: Detective Brock, who initially thought George had drowned, had come to believe that a body would have washed up. He now insisted that George was alive and didn&amp;#039;t want to be found. The Coast Guard disagreed, saying that because of the tides that night, if George had swum out just 100 yards his body would have been swept out to sea. One of George&amp;#039;s best friends told me that he had talked of suicide. Though I believed the evidence pointed to his death, I still harbored the slim hope that he would somehow be found alive \u2014 or at the very least that his body would be discovered. Waiting for news defined my every moment; asleep or awake, there was no relief from it. Every time the phone rang I thought it would bring information \u2014 or that it would even somehow be George. My heart jumped every time I spotted a tall man on the street (George was 6 foot 4). I told Sasha I was doing everything I could to find out what had happened to her father. Each night as I tucked her into bed, she asked me what the private eye had discovered that day. &amp;quot;Did you tell him to ask the children in the neighborhood?&amp;quot; she suggested, a growing desperation in her voice. &amp;quot;Children see things grown-ups don&amp;#039;t. Did he look in the closets?&amp;quot; I stroked her hair, my heart breaking, and told her that I would make sure he did that. There is an aperture of time after a death or disappearance when clues are most likely to accumulate. If this window passes with no major breakthroughs, the police begin to turn their attention to the next case. As the weeks went by, I saw that prospect looming and it terrified me. The chances of George being found alive were lessening each day. A month after George&amp;#039;s disappearance, I got the phone call I had been dreading. The police had already given up actively searching; now the private eye, whom I had seen as my last hope of discovering the truth, told me that there was nothing else he could do. There would be no more daily reports, no phone calls. My worst fear \u2014 being left with no answers \u2014 had come true. Shipwrecked, I could only draw my own conclusions about what had happened that night. The explanation was mine to choose: death or disappearance, intentional or not. But I found it impossible to settle on a version. I became paralyzed. I stopped opening mail, I wandered off in the middle of sentences. Every night, when Sasha asked for news, I lied and told her they were still looking. As the days and weeks piled up, she began to grow angrier and more distant. She refused to let me kiss her, she slammed doors. The psychologist I was consulting suggested that I tell Sasha her father had died. &amp;quot;Tell her the police know for sure.&amp;quot; I flinched, about to raise objections. &amp;quot;If you find out otherwise down the road, if he comes back, we&amp;#039;ll deal with it then. But it&amp;#039;s the only way she will heal.&amp;quot; I knew that she was right, but I could not bring myself to say the words. Finally, the psychologist told me to think of that night as a locked room. No matter how much I pounded against the door, I would never be able to see inside, never truly know what happened.  I made a conscious decision then to believe that George had died that night \u2014 and to stick with it despite my rambling imagination. It was where all the evidence pointed, I reminded myself. I wavered over whether he had swam out purposefully or tried to turn around, but finally I steered my thoughts away even from that. The next morning, I lay in a hot bath, sobbing uncontrollably. I knew that when Sasha woke up, I would have to say the words that would change her life forever. I took her in my arms and told her that her father had died. She instantly pulled away and hid behind the couch, her hands over her head, as if protecting herself from the news. I crept beside her and held her while she cried softly. We held a small memorial service in our apartment for 16 of George&amp;#039;s closest friends. I asked them each to write something for Sasha to keep. That afternoon, we sat in a circle on the floor, listening to stories about George&amp;#039;s love of art and good food, his incredible talent, and his kindness to friends down on their luck. Most of all, his friends spoke of his love of Sasha. The next day, I put the letters in a leather scrapbook, her father lost and found. After the service, Sasha began to get better, but I was overcome by extreme exhaustion. It was all I could do each day to get her dressed, fed, to school, myself to work. At night, I lay on my living room couch for hours. I went over and over the last few months, wondering if there was an intersection, a point at which I could have made a difference \u2014 if I had asked him to get help sooner? If I had been firmer, kinder, anything? But in my heart I knew I had done everything I could. One night I was so angry with George I threw away bags of his cherished books. Other times, I played his favorite music and cried. I told people that my husband had died, but I continued to pay the rent on his studio, worried that if he somehow returned he would be furious at me for giving it up. Along with the emotional limbo, it was soon apparent that I was in a legal no-man&amp;#039;s-land. Being married to someone who does not seem to exist creates a number of problems, particularly when you have a child. There are so many things, from school forms to travel documents, that require both parents&amp;#039; consent. Finally, three months after George disappeared, I faced the fact that I would have to consult a lawyer. The police detective still refused to sign a death certificate and unless I was willing to go to Florida to sue for one, I would have to wait seven years before one was automatically issued. I wasn&amp;#039;t prepared to leave Sasha and get involved in a trial, so my lawyer recommended that I sue for divorce on the grounds of abandonment. The idea sent me reeling, but I had no choice. Slowly, as the months passed, I began to regain my energy. Minutes would go by when I thought of other things. Reluctantly, I cleaned out George&amp;#039;s studio. On the one-year anniversary of his death (I no longer called it a &amp;quot;disappearance&amp;quot;), Sasha and I went to a church he admired for its support of the arts and lit a votive in his honor. I knelt down, shut my eyes. I did not know what I believed about spirits or souls, but I wished George peace. I knew that could only come \u2014 for both of us \u2014 with forgiveness. I had come to understand that whatever pain George was in, whatever pain he had caused, his intention was never to hurt us. And in that darkened church on that hot day, I began the long journey of forgiving him. Somehow, seven years passed. Though I thought the death certificate would be granted automatically, it turned out that a judge would have to hear the case. So last January, Detective Brock (who still believes George is alive) and I both testified by phone. I told the judge why I believed George had died \u2014 he had loved his daughter too much to leave her, he was depressed and had spoken of suicide, the ocean was rough that night. The Coast Guard supported my view. And Detective Brock stated his side: &amp;quot;I would have found a body.&amp;quot; After we testified, the judge asked us to get off the line while he consulted with the lawyers. I waited for close to an hour, pacing my apartment. Finally, my lawyer called to say the judge had ruled that George had died. I was flooded with both relief and sadness. That night, I got out slides of George&amp;#039;s work, and as I looked at them I thought about how hard he had fought to create meaning and beauty despite the difficulties he had faced, and how frequently he had succeeded. There was something magnificent and brave about his continuing to struggle right up to the end, and I loved him for it. There will always be times when my life feels surreal to me, but I have learned to live in a world without the one answer I thought I needed most. Instead of continuing a futile search for certainty, I treasure the moments I had with George. I see the best of him every day in Sasha; I see the curve of his mouth in hers, I see his intelligence and curiosity in her amber eyes, and I am deeply grateful for that gift of love. Emily Listfield is REDBOOK&amp;#039;s Sex and the Single Mom columnist. Her autobiographical novel, Waiting to Surface, will be published this month. Find her at emilylistfield.com. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/relationships/advice/a2217/1007-waiting-to-surface/>