Jesse laughed and kissed me good-bye. And then I watched him walk in front of our car through the automatic doors, into the belly of Los Angeles International Airport.

Just then, my favorite song came on the radio. I turned up the volume, sang at the top of my lungs, and pulled the car away from the curb.

As I navigated the streets back home, Jesse texted me.

I love you. I’ll miss you.

He must have sent it just before he went through airport security, maybe right after. But I didn’t see it until an hour or so later.

I texted him back.

I’ll miss you every second of every day. Xoxo

I knew that he might not see it for a while, that I might not hear from him for a few days.

I pictured him riding in a small plane, landing on the island, hopping into a helicopter, and soon seeing a glacier so big it left him breathless.

I woke up the morning of our anniversary, sick to my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.

I had no idea why. To this day, I don’t know if I ate something bad or if, on some level, I could just sense the looming tragedy in my bones, the way that some dogs can tell a hurricane is coming.

Jesse didn’t call to wish me a happy anniversary.

The commercial flight made it to Anchorage.

The Cessna made it to Akun Island.

But the first time they took the helicopter out, it never came back.

The best anyone could conclude was it went down somewhere over the North Pacific.

The four people on board were lost.

My husband, my one true love . . .

Gone.

Francine and Joe flew into LA and moved into my apartment. My own parents came and rented a hotel a few minutes’ walk away but spent every waking minute with me.

Francine kept saying that she didn’t understand why this wasn’t a national news story, why there wasn’t a nationwide search party.

Joe kept telling her that helicopters crash all the time. He said it as if it were good news, as if that meant there was a plan in place for moments like these.

“They will find him,” he would say to her over and over. “If anyone can swim to safety, it’s our son.”

I held it together for as long as I could. I held Francine as she sobbed in my arms. I told her, just as Joe did, that it was only a matter of time until we got a call saying he was safe.

My mom made casseroles and I would cut them up and put them on plates for Francine and Joe and say things like, “We need to eat.” But I never did.

I cried when no one was around and I found it hard to look in the mirror, but I kept telling everyone that we would find Jesse soon.

And then they found a propeller of the helicopter on the shore of Adak Island. With Jesse’s backpack. And the body of the pilot.

The call we had been waiting for came.

But it went nothing like we expected.

Jesse had not yet been found.

He was believed to be dead.

After I hung up the phone, Francine broke down. Joe was frozen still. My parents stared at me, stunned.

I said, “That’s crazy. Jesse didn’t die. He wouldn’t do that.”

Francine developed such strong panic attacks that Joe flew her home and checked her into a hospital.

My mom and dad stayed on an air mattress at the foot of my bed, watching my every move. I told them I had a handle on it. I thought, for certain, that I did.

I spent three days walking around in a daze, waiting for the telephone to ring, waiting for someone else to call and say the first call had been wrong.

That second call never came. Instead, my phone was tied up with people checking in to see if I was OK.

And then, one day, Marie called and said she’d left Mike in charge of the store. She was flying in to be here for me.

I was far too numb to decide whether I wanted her around.

The day Marie arrived, I woke up late in the afternoon to find that my mom had gone to the store and my dad had left to pick Marie up from the airport. My first time alone in what felt like forever.

It was a clear day. I decided I didn’t want to be in my house anymore. But I didn’t want to leave it, either. I got dressed and asked the neighbors if I could borrow their ladder so that I could clean the gutters.

I had no intention of cleaning anything. I just wanted to stand, high up on the earth, unencumbered by the safety of walls, floors, and ceilings. I wanted to stand high enough that if I fell, it’d kill me. This is not the same thing as wanting to die.

I climbed up to the roof and stood there, with glassy bloodshot eyes. I stared straight ahead, looking at treetops and into the windows of high-rises. It didn’t make me feel any better than being in the house. But it didn’t make me feel any worse, either. So I stayed there. Just standing and looking. Looking at anything that didn’t make me want to crawl into a ball and fade away.

And then I saw, in the sliver of a view between two buildings, so far in the distance you almost couldn’t make it out . . .

The ocean.

I thought, Maybe Jesse is out there in the water. Maybe he’s swimming. Maybe he’s building a raft to get home.

The hope that I clung to in that moment didn’t feel good or freeing. It felt cruel. As if the world were giving me just enough rope to hang myself.

I got down off the roof and searched through Jesse’s things. I ransacked his closet, dresser, and desk before I found them.

Binoculars.

I got back up on the roof and I stood right where I could see the sliver of sea. I waited.

I was not enjoying the view. I was not relishing the peace and quiet. I was not reveling in my solitude.

I was looking for Jesse.

I saw waves cresting onto the shore. I saw a boat. I saw people under umbrellas, lying on towels, as if there wasn’t important work to be done.

I heard my dad and sister enter the house and start looking around for me. I heard, “Emma?” coming from them in every room of the house. I recognized the worry as it grew in their voices, as each time they said my name they were met with more silence. Soon, my mom came home and her voice joined the chorus.

But I couldn’t respond. I had to stand there and watch for Jesse. It was my duty, as his wife. I had to be the first to spot him when he made landfall.

When I noticed someone coming up to the roof, I assumed it was my dad and I thought, Good, he can look, too.

But it was Marie.

She stood there, looking at me, as I held the binoculars up to my face and stared at the ocean.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing?” she said as she started walking toward me.

“I’m going to find him.”

I felt Marie put her arm around my shoulder. “You can’t . . . that won’t . . . work,” she said.

“I have to be looking for him. I can’t give up on him.”

“Em, give me the binoculars.”

I wanted to ignore her, but I needed to explain my logic. “Jesse could come back. We have to be watching.”

“He isn’t coming back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You just can’t stand that I’m no longer in your shadow,” I said to her. “Because it means you aren’t the center of the world anymore. Jesse is coming back, Marie. And I am going to sit here and wait until he does. Because I know my husband. I know how incredible he is. And I’m not going to allow you to make me feel like he’s anything less just because you like it better when I feel small.”

Marie reared her head back, as though I’d struck her.

“I have to stay here and watch for him. It’s my job. As his wife.”

When I saw the look on my sister’s face in that moment, a mixture of compassion and fear, I realized that she thought I was crazy.

For a moment, I wondered, Oh, my God. Am I crazy?

“Emma, I’m so sorry,” she said as she put her arms around me and held me the way a mother holds a child, as if we were of the same body. I was not used to that type of sister, the type of sister that is also a friend. I was used to having just a sister, the way some of your teachers are just teachers and some of your coworkers are just coworkers. “Jesse is dead,” she told me. “He’s not out there somewhere trying to come home. He’s gone. Forever. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”