Gone for Good (34 page)

Beth kept her composure, but I could see the hurt and regret in her eyes. Her top teeth bit down on her lower lip.

‘That's such bullshit, Paul,' I said. ‘You're making excuses for your pathetic life.'

He turned to me. ‘It was pathetic. Is pathetic. I agree. I just hope you never get to find out how bad a life can get, Elizabeth. I hope you don't find anything like that out at all.'

Five months after Paul's confession, the three of us – my siblings and I – go to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave. It is mid-March, and the sky is the colour of steel wool. In the corners of the cemetery, in the shadow of the stone walls, snow remains on the ground. The grass is soggy and springy as we walk across it, our shoes squishing in the soaked earth.

What can I say about our lives? They move forward.

I am back in school, arranging my schedule around Ronnie's needs. Ronnie is working at his part-time job and going to speech therapy. He spends fifteen hours a week or so at the Miller Centre, interacting with other adults with Down's syndrome, learning the new skills he may need to live on his own – away from me – someday. Although when that day will come, I cannot say. But it is the goal, a goal Ronnie understands and pursues.

During the times when keeping up with school and Ronnie becomes too much, Dan helps me out. Our relationship has continued to progress. Slowly, but it's progressing. I've tried to keep the door open wide enough to let him in.

Beth is harder to read. She lives her life in Reston Point. She sees her children and grandchildren and works in a local clothing store. We visit and talk as often as we can, although not as much as we did in the immediate aftermath of Gordon's death and Paul's confession. Back then, we all
three clung to one another, survivors of the same wreckage. We spent many a late night talking through the things on our minds, sharing the images from our nightmares.

I used some of the insurance money to install a security system in Mom's house. And, yes, Ronnie and I did move back in there. It seems like the only place to be, bad memories and all.

But over time, we all started to recognize the differences in our lives. If siblings grow up in very different circumstances, in very different times, and for all intents and purposes in very different families, are they still siblings? Can they ever feel the way other siblings feel?

We reach Mom's grave. The grass has grown in and covered her plot. I stare at the headstone. Mom's dates have been etched in next to Dad's. I think about that, the two of them lying side by side for eternity. I've thought about it many times over the past five months, and I can only guess that Dad must have known about all of it before he married Mom. Gordon, Beth, the disappearance. How could he not? But the only person I could ask – Paul – is not someone I am willing to speak to. He sits in his prison cell, alone. I am finished with him. Once and for all. I'd like to say he is no longer my uncle, but I know that isn't true. He is my uncle and always will be. He is part of the story.

I knew my dad well enough to guess how those things about Mom must have made him feel. It wouldn't have mattered one bit to him. He would have taken her on – her life and whatever came with it – without a second thought. He loved her. For Dad, it was always that simple.

The
three of us line up at the foot of the grave in a little half circle. Beth has brought flowers, and she lays them in the grass. We all stand there for a moment, alone with our thoughts.

Then Ronnie says, ‘Sis?'

I look over at him. He wears a winter coat and earmuffs. Beth looks too, and Ronnie notices.

‘Sis and sis?' he says, his voice uncertain.

‘What is it, Ronnie?' I ask.

‘We're not normal, are we?' he asks. ‘I mean, everything that's happened. This family. It's not really normal.'

I don't know what to say to that. Mom lived her whole life making sure Ronnie felt and acted normal, and I am trying to carry that on. Not just because Mom wanted it, but also because I love my brother. I want a normal life for him.

Before I can formulate a response, Beth says, ‘I've been in a lot of families. A
lot
of them. Marriages, in-laws, kids, grandkids. Not one of them is normal. As far as I can tell, there's no such thing, Ronnie.'

This seems to satisfy him. He even laughs a little and nods his head.

‘Okay,' he says. ‘Who wants to be normal?'

The breeze picks up. It moves the clouds, allowing a little sliver of sun to peek through. The wind chills me as well, and I shiver. My brother and sister move closer to me, one from each side.

And that's the way we stand in the cemetery:

Together.

Thanks to all my friends and colleagues in the Western Kentucky University English Department and the Potter College of Arts and Letters for a great work environment. Thanks to Lanna Kilgore for legal advice about wills and other matters. (Any mistakes are mine and not hers.) Thanks to Jim Weems, Glen Rose, Jeff Weems, Barrett Griffin, the McMichael family, and the folks at Lost River Cave in Bowling Green, Kentucky, for the book trailer. Thanks to Marianne Hale and Samantha ‘Super' Starr for assistance and support. Thanks to Kara Thurmond for the website. And, once again, I owe a huge debt to my friends and family.

Major thanks to the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, reviewers, book club members and readers who love books and keep them alive in all their forms. And a special thanks to the Warren County Public Library in Bowling Green and Barnes & Noble in Bowling Green for all of your help and support over the past few years.

None of this would be possible without the efforts of everyone at New American Library/Penguin, including my splendid publicist, Heather Connor, her amazing team, and all the folks in sales and marketing.

Danielle Perez is the best editor on the planet. She knows the right questions to ask, when and how to ask them, and always pushes me to be a better writer. Thanks, Danielle.

Laney
Katz Becker is the best literary agent, guide and advocate I could wish for. Thanks for always demanding the best and getting the best, Laney. And thanks to everyone at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin Literary Agents for their support.

And finally, special thanks to the one and only Molly McCaffrey for love, advice, and support, for tolerating my habit of watching the Reds and for walking in the cemetery with me, even on Halloween. What more could I ask for?

Can't wait for more? Turn the page for a taste of
Cemetary Girl
coming soon from Michael Joseph.

Let me tell you something about my daughter.

My daughter disappeared, and there were times I wondered if she was somehow responsible.

Caitlin wasn't like most kids – she wasn't immature or childish. She wasn't ignorant. In fact, she possessed a preternatural understanding of how the world worked, how
humans
worked. And she used that knowledge to deceive me more than once, which is why sometimes – I am ashamed to admit – I questioned her role in what happened.

Caitlin disappeared four years ago – when she was twelve. But the first time I became aware of her ability to deceive she was only six, and the two of us were spending a Saturday together. There were many days like that one with Caitlin, and I always remember them as some of the happiest. Quiet. Simple. As easy and effortless as floating in a pool of water.

On that particular day, Caitlin was playing with a group of kids from the neighbourhood. Back then, a number of families with small children lived on our street, and the kids were all about the same age. They ran around together in the yards, playing on swing sets and jumping in leaves. No matter where the kids went, a set of adult eyes watched them. We liked the neighbourhood for that reason.

Unfortunately, shortly after we moved in, and not long after Caitlin was born, the city widened the boulevard that
sat perpendicular to our street in the hope of accommodating more traffic. This brought more cars to our neighbourhood. Every parent on the block felt the same degree of concern, and some talked about moving away. But we wanted to stay, so we made a rule for Caitlin: do not ever cross the street without one of us watching. Not ever.

Anyway, on that Saturday – although it was only later that it would become
that Saturday
– with my wife, Abby, out of the house for the evening, I cooked hamburgers in a skillet, managing, as always, to splatter the stove top with a liberal amount of grease. I also baked frozen premade french fries in the oven; it was exactly the kind of meal a dad makes when he's left in charge of his daughter.

At dinnertime, I stepped into our front yard, expecting to see Caitlin nearby with the other kids, or at the very least I expected to hear their voices. But I didn't. I stood in the late-afternoon shade of the big maple in front of our house, and I looked one way, then the other, hoping to catch sight of Caitlin and her little posse. I was just about to call her name when I finally saw her.

She was standing at the far end of the street, where they had widened the thoroughfare a few years earlier. I knew it was Caitlin, even from that distance, because she had left the house that afternoon wearing a bright pink top, and that electric burst of colour stood out against the muted browns and oranges of the fall. I started toward her, lifting my hand and getting ready to wave, when Caitlin made a quick move towards the street.

I'll never know if she saw the car.

It turned onto our street, moving faster than it should
have, and its grille filled my vision, looming behind Caitlin like a ravenous silver mouth.

My heart jumped.

I froze, and for a long moment, time ceased.

Then the driver slammed on his brakes and stopped a couple of feet from my child.

Inches from crushing her.

But Caitlin didn't hesitate. She took one quick glance at the car, but despite its proximity to her body, she kept on walking across the street, into a yard, and around the back of the house, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I remained rooted to my spot, as dumb and still as stone, my mouth frozen in the process of forming the shout that never came.

After a brief pause, the car moved forward again. It came down the street slowly, right past me. A couple about my age occupied the front seats; the man was driving. His wife or girlfriend waved her arms frantically, her face angry, no doubt chastising him for his carelessness. And the man held his right hand in a placating gesture as though asking for calm, for time to explain. They didn't even notice me.

What should I have done? Flagged them down and chewed them out? Pulled the man out of the car and pummelled him with my fists? The truth was that Caitlin had darted in front of them, and if she had been hit or run over, I couldn't have blamed them for the accident. My daughter was careless, extremely careless and – more importantly – disobedient. And, yes, I had been careless, too. I had let her go too easily, too thoughtlessly. I deserved my share of the blame as a parent.

I
went back inside the house, where the smell of fried hamburger hung thick in the air, and waited for Caitlin to enter the front door.

You might think I grew more and more angry as I waited, that I paced and stewed and contemplated the appropriate punishment for a child who blatantly disobeyed me and almost ended up dead as a result. But I didn't. Abby and I agreed we would never raise our voices to Caitlin, and we would certainly never lay hands on her in anger.

About thirty minutes later, Caitlin came bustling through the front door. She strolled into the kitchen and bounded up onto a chair.

I set the table with paper plates and napkins. Caitlin sniffled and carefully wiped her nose with a tissue. She looked at me, her face cheery and full of expectation.

‘Can we eat?' she asked.

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘Caitlin, honey, I want to ask you something.'

‘What?'

I took a deep breath. ‘Did you cross the street while you were out? Did you cross the street without permission?'

She didn't flush or blink or swallow. ‘No, Dad.'

‘Are you sure, honey? Are you sure I didn't see you crossing the street?'

Her voice remained calm. ‘I'm sure, Dad. I didn't.'

I held a paper napkin and twined it between my fingers. I released it, letting it drop to the table. Caitlin, for her part, didn't seem to notice. She stared back at me, eyes wide and innocent. They were completely free of guile.

I said, ‘Are you telling me you didn't cross the street and
almost get hit by a car? I saw you, honey. I was in the yard watching you.'

Her face flushed a little. A tint of red appeared in her cheeks, and while Caitlin wasn't a crier, I thought she might break down after being caught in such a blatant lie. But she didn't crack. She remained composed, a little six-year-old poker player.

‘I didn't, Dad,' she said. ‘No.'

I didn't lose my temper or send her to her room or give her a patented fatherly lecture on the importance of telling the truth. I didn't do anything except stand up from the table, go to the stove, and make her a plate of food. I brought back the food and put it in front of her. The two of us sat there, as the sunlight slanted through the kitchen window, eating our burgers and fries like an all-American father and daughter. We chewed our food and talked about her friends and what time we thought her mom would be home. We never again spoke about crossing the street or her near fatal run-in with the car.

And I never told Abby about it.

At some point, all parents realize their children have layers that may remain forever unexplored. Maybe I learned it sooner than most. For whatever reason, Caitlin's uncharted depths formed a black hole at the centre of my being, and when she disappeared six years later, I thought of that moment often.