Missing

Missing

Enrique had designed the layout of the house - and when I realized it was impacting me, I changed everything. I moved pictures, rearranged furniture, and filled the rooms with new colors and light. It helped a great deal and the house felt comfortably "mine"

Months passed. My business grew, I made local friends, and I spent more time with family. I dated a little. Then an old friend, Christian, came to town for work and needed a place to stay. The guest room was empty, and the company felt good. A month later and I was formally inviting him to move in - I had so much unused space and we both shared how happy we were that life brought a series of events that led us to this amazing arrangement. Within a few weeks the house felt alive again, full of warmth and noise instead of silence.

Sometimes I would find something of Enrique’s. A mug, the Bluetooth lock, a small notebook. I would smile, remember him fondly, and put it back. One night in June I found the box again - I assorted through the items, marveling at how it didnt cause any emotional reaction anymore - the bright pastel green briefs, the socks, the ashtray, the notebook, the lock. I stared at it for a while, then threw it all away. Not out of anger. Just to make space for the present. 

An hour later Christian and I were finishing dinner and he brought up Enrique, curious as to how I was feeling and if I had spoken to him. I observed it had almost been 3 months since had spoken and that it felt like a very long time ago. 

The phone rang not long after. Unknown number. I ignored it. It rang again. Then again.
By the fifth time, I answered. 

A woman was speaking Spanish so fast I couldn’t follow. Her voice was shaking. I caught bits and pieces: madre, no llamadas, desaparecido. I asked her to slow down. A man took the phone and introduced himself as Francisco in a light spanish accent. He said he lived with María Bella, Enrique’s mother, who was in Spain and didn’t speak English. She was worried. Her son called her every other morning, without fail. But now it had been a week, she was getting nervous and wanted to know if I had seen him or spoken to him, did I know someone she could call if not, she mentioned that he had been indicating to her that he would be returning to my place soon (this was news to me)

I affirmed I hadn't spoken to him in months but that Id ask around and I assured her that he was smart and hard-working, he waas fine. I tried to sound calm and reassuring, but when the call ended, I felt my stomach twist.

I messaged Pipe and another mutual friend, Gustavo. Neither had heard from him. We were about to file a missing-person report when we learned we didn't have to. 

One of Enrique’s cousins had posted in a Missing Persons” Facebook group, sharing his photo and last known location. Within an hour someone commented with a link.

It was a mugshot. He was in jail.

It had been eighteen days since his arrest. His eye was red and bloodshot. He looked lost and terrified. The charge read “attempted conveyance.” Later we would learn it meant trying to open the back door of a broken-down car. His backpack had been stolen days before, and he had no ID or phone.

He hadn’t gone missing. He’d been there for the better half of a month, isolated. 

His mother couldn’t call nor he call her. Only US numbers were accepted and nobody would tell her anything. Pipe asked a cousin named Félix to visit. When Félix finally did, he said Enrique looked awful. Limping, quiet, bruised. His left eye still red, his voice flat. He said the guards mostly ignored him because he didn’t speak English.

Félix convinced one of the guards to let him pay for a call home. Within seconds, Enrique and his mother were crying on the line. Félix overheard parts of it. The way he was arrested at gunpoint. How the guards mocked him for being poor. How the medical exam was invasive and humiliating. How he had been attacked twice. No clean water, no soap, no change of clothes wearing the same underwear and socks for almost 10 days.

His public defender hadn’t visited since the arraignment. He told his mother that a bond existed, but his lawyer warned him not to post it. There was an immigration flag on his record. If he tried to bail out, ICE might pick him up.

I sat in the dark, staring at my phone, realizing this wasn’t just another chapter of distance. This was the start of something much, much worse.