Cemetery Girl (19 page)

“Who did you talk to?” Ryan asked.

“Susan Goff.”

Rosenbaum spoke up. “I think it’s best if we talk to Caitlin in a formalized, professional setting. My experience tells me that’s most effective.” He still held the business card in the air between us. “Is that okay with you?”

I took the card and handed it over to Abby.

“Ryan,” I said, “you referred to her as a victim of a crime. Does that mean everyone’s certain she didn’t run away?”

“It’s obvious a crime was committed somewhere along the line. Now it’s up to me to find out what it was.” Ryan jiggled the loose change in his pockets. “And for what it’s worth, I know Susan Goff. She does excellent work for us through Volunteer Victim Services. She’s good people.”

“But still,” Rosenbaum said. “I’d like to see Caitlin.”

“Of course, of course,” Ryan said. “See Dr. Rosenbaum first thing tomorrow.”

Ryan turned to go, and Rosenbaum followed him, leaving Abby and me to sit there and wait for Caitlin to be released to us.

Chapter Twenty-three

W
e drove home in awkward silence. Caitlin rode in the back, just like in her childhood, except now she stared out the window, her face blank and indifferent. She didn’t ask questions or comment on the passing scenery. She didn’t try to convince us to change the radio or CD to something she liked, so I asked her if she wanted to listen to something.

“I’m fine,” she said.

I didn’t know what else to say, and apparently neither did Abby.

Caitlin broke the silence for us.

“Where are you going to drop me off?” she asked.

“Drop you off?”

“You can do that anywhere,” she said.

I tried to talk to her with one eye on the road and one eye on her profile in the rearview mirror.

“We talked about this at the hospital, remember?”

She ignored me.

“We’re going home,” I said. “To the house you used to live in.”

Nothing.

“Your room is just the way you left it,” Abby said.

But that was it. Caitlin didn’t speak again the rest of the way home, not even when we turned down our street and saw the news van from the local TV station parked at the end of our driveway. A police department spokesperson had met with us at the hospital, and we gave our approval toa fairly standard statement, one that said we were happy to be home, thankful to have our daughter back, and eager for privacy. When I hit the turn signal and angled toward our driveway, the cameraman moved out of our way but kept his lens trained on the car. I took a quick look at Caitlin in the rearview. She seemed not to notice.

The reporter and cameraman didn’t follow us farther onto the property, so we were able to pull to the end of the driveway and the back of the house.

Abby and I climbed out, but Caitlin stayed in the car. Abby shrugged and pulled open Caitlin’s door.

“Are you ready to go in?” Abby asked. “Do you need a minute?”

Caitlin looked up, her lips slightly puckered. “This is where you’re taking me?”

“This is home,” Abby said. “Remember it? Here’s the yard and the back door. We left the front porch light on every night since you were gone. Every night. And the key was right there so you could come in if you wanted.”

“Really?” Caitlin said.

“Really,” Abby said. “We were waiting for you.”

Caitlin nodded a little, then stepped out of the car. I hustled with the keys and undid the back lock, opening the door ahead of them and stepping aside.

“It’s all pretty much the same as when you were last here,” I said.

Inside, Abby and I followed behind Caitlin as she went from room to room on the first floor, looking around and taking in the sights with the passivity of an unmotivated home buyer. She took a quick glance out the front window where the news van was still parked. The cameraman appeared to be putting his gear away, and the reporter, a young blond woman who I recognized from the news but whose name I couldn’t remember, was talking on a cell phone as she smoked a cigarette.

“Where’s Frosty?” Caitlin asked.

“Oh,” Abby said. “Oh, honey . . .”

“Is he dead?” Caitlin asked.

“Honey, when you . . . went away, we thought . . . We put him to sleep. He was old . . .”

“He’d only be nine,” Caitlin said.

“He wasn’t put to sleep,” I said.

They both turned to look at me.

“I took him to the pound, and someone else adopted him.” I looked at Abby. “I checked. In fact, if you want, I can try to find out who adopted him and we can try to get him back. Under the circumstances, I would think—”

Caitlin turned away, but I went on.

“We know you loved Frosty. And he was crazy about you. When you left, he used to sit by the door and cry. Didn’t he, Abby?”

“He did,” she said. “He was so sad not to see you.”

“You didn’t like Frosty, did you?” Caitlin asked. She turned and directed the question at Abby.

“I liked him,” Abby said.

“You didn’t like me to walk him. You thought I was getting away from you.”

“No, honey. I worried about you, of course. That’s what moms do.”

“We can get another dog,” I said. “Or we can try to get Frosty back.”

Caitlin turned away and shrugged a little. “Whatever,” she said. “Just don’t say everything’s the same, because it isn’t. That’s bullshit.”

Abby jumped a little but kept her cool.

“Your room is the same,” Abby said, staying on message. “Maybe we need to update it a little. And clothes. The clothes you have here wouldn’t fit anymore, I guess. Do you have any clothes from . . . where you were staying?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Whenever you’re ready, we can go out and buy some things,” Abby said.

When Caitlin remained silent, Abby looked at me, helpless.

“Would you like to go up to your room? Maybe you’d like to take a nap?”

It took a long time, but finally Caitlin nodded.

We trudged upstairs, the three of us. Caitlin went and sat on her bed, while I remembered standing in that closet and feeling the piercing pain of her loss go through me like a lance.

“I bet the sheets aren’t clean,” Abby said.

“I got used to dirty sheets,” Caitlin said.

Abby sat next to Caitlin and leaned in close.

“Where was that, honey? Where were you sleeping without clean sheets?”

Caitlin didn’t answer. She stared at me.

Abby pressed on.

“If you tell us, the police can help find the man responsible. It was a man, right? An older man who did this to you?”

Caitlin’s eyes widened, expressing an urgency to me, so I spoke up.

“Why don’t we let the kid sleep, okay, Abby?”

Abby looked a little wounded, a little betrayed by my comment. But it was just a flash.

“Honey,” she said, “I know this is tough, but you can talk to your dad or me about whatever you want, whenever you want. You know that, don’t you?”

“Who’s been sleeping in the guest room?” Caitlin asked.

“Why do you ask that?” Abby asked.

“I saw the door open when we came up here, and the sheets were messed up. Did you have company?”

“Buster was here visiting,” I said.

“Really?” Caitlin perked up a little.

“Have you seen your uncle Buster?” Abby asked. “You know, since you’ve been gone.”

“Why would you want to know that?” Caitlin asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

“We do have to be honest with you about something,” Abby said. “Dad and I . . . we’ve been having some tough times in our marriage. It happens when people have been married for a long time. We’re trying to sort it out.”

“You mean with counseling or something?” Caitlin said.

“Yes,” Abby said. “Some of that. But we’re both here for you now. We’re both going to be in the house with you and helping you any way we can. Together. Right, Tom?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re taking me to a shrink tomorrow, aren’t you?” Caitlin said.

“The police think it would be best,” Abby said. “They have things they want to talk to you about.”

Caitlin looked at me when she next spoke, her eyes locked on mine, a reminder of the promise I’d made to her at the police station. “I don’t want to go somewhere and answer a bunch of fucking questions. I’m not interested.”

“Caitlin . . .” Abby looked shocked, even hurt. “When the police ask you to do something, you have to do it. And I think it will be good for you. Don’t you, Tom?”

Caitlin held her gaze on mine, waiting for my help. But I’d promised only that I wouldn’t ask, not that I wouldn’t let a professional do it. “Right,” I said. “You should go tomorrow.”

“And I don’t think you should talk to us that way,” Abby said. “I know it’s been a long time . . .” She stood up, gathered her composure. “Do you need something to sleep in? Clean clothes or anything?”

“This is fine,” Caitlin said. She kicked her shoes off, revealing gray, dirty socks, and flipped back the covers on her bed.

“Just call us if you need anything,” Abby said on her way out.

I lingered in the doorway, watching my daughter settle into bed.

“It must be weird being back,” I said.

She didn’t respond. She turned over on her side, showing me her back, and as far as I knew, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

An hour later, I slipped upstairs, moving carefully, stealthily, trying not to make any noise that might wake Caitlin. The door to her room was still cracked. I slipped up to the door and pressed my ear close, listening. It took me a minute to separate the sound of Caitlin’s breathing from the fuzzy background noise of our house. The hum of the refrigerator, the soft whoosh of the heat, the traffic noise outside, the wind. But I managed to hone in on Caitlin’s breath, and each exhalation and inhalation brought me a greater sense of ease. She was here. She was really here. She lived, she existed under our roof again.

Before I turned away, I heard a new sound, one that broke through the rhythmic breathing. At first, I thought she might be coughing, but as I listened, the sound crystallized and became recognizable as human speech. Caitlin’s voice, murmuring.

I leaned closer, bent down so my ear was level with the doorknob. She was saying the same thing over and over, almost like a chant or a mantra, but I couldn’t make it out. She stopped and, again, I thought of backing off, but then the words resumed, a little louder this time, a little clearer. I understood.

“Don’t send me away,” she said. “Don’t send me away.”

I reached out and peeled the door open a little. A narrow band of light leaked into Caitlin’s room from the hallway, crawling across the floor and stopping just short of her bed. She lay in the same position I left her in—facing the wall, back to the door. She was asleep. Dreaming. But her voice kept repeating the words in the dark.

“Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away.”

Chapter Twenty-four

A
bby dug through the refrigerator. One of the neighbors had brought us a dish of lasagna, and the oven ticked as it preheated.

“You don’t have any vegetables in here,” she said.

“I guess not.”

“Were you just upstairs?” she asked, closing the refrigerator door. “Is she okay?”

“Still sleeping.”

“Should we wake her to eat something?”

Don’t send me away . . .

“No,” I said, still distracted by the words she’d spoken in her sleep. “Let’s just let her be.”

Abby frowned. “If you’re sure . . .”

I went over to the lasagna pan and lifted the foil. Lots of cheese, just the way I liked it. I actually felt hungry for a change.

“Tom? Where do you think she was?”

I let the foil drop. “She was with that man.”

“You think I pushed her too hard upstairs.”

The oven beeped, indicating it had reached the right temperature. I opened the door and slid in the heavy pan of food. “I guess we can eat in thirty minutes or so,” I said.

Abby wore a distant look, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the ceiling.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Do you ever think you don’t want to know what happened to her?” she asked. “What if it’s too awful to hear? Those things they told us at the hospital, about the sex . . . What if she’s been raped or abused? The way she’s been acting . . . it’s like she’s been through something awful, something that stunned her. I would have been happy to have that psychiatrist come home with us.”

“We’re fine without that,” I said. Caitlin’s whispered sleep talk cycled through my brain, like a taunt.
Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away.
“The police are going to push her to tell. If there’s an arrest, she’ll have to talk about it.”

The back doorbell rang.

“Who is that?” Abby asked. “Could it be Ryan?”

I pressed my face against the glass.

“It’s Buster.”

“Oh.”

“Could he have heard?” I asked.

I opened the door, and he answered the question for me.

“What the fuck is going on up here?” His voice was loud, almost crazed. “What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me?”

His voice rose and squealed with excitement, like a prepubescent boy.

“Yes, it’s amazing,” I said.

“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you call?”

I led him into the other room, away from Abby, who didn’t even look up or greet him. “It’s been kind of crazy here, you know? It’s been a long day.”

“I wanted to come visit. I want to see the girl. Shit.”

He was almost hysterical. Bizarrely so.

“We’re trying to get our bearings.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. You need some family time and all that, try to put the pieces back together again.” He stood in the middle of the living room, rubbing his hands together and nodding. “I guess that makes sense. I’m family, too. I thought I could help.”

“You can. In a couple of days. In fact, I mentioned you to Caitlin, and her eyes lit up.”

“Really?”

“Really. She’ll want to see you.” I looked up at the ceiling, listening. Wondering. “But she’s asleep now. Really zonked out. It’s been a hell of a day.”