Cemetery Girl (17 page)

“What are they going to do at the hospital?” Abby asked.

I knew.
I knew I knew I knew
. I didn’t want to hear it, but I knew.

Ryan confirmed it.

“They’ll do a complete exam. Gynecological included. They’ll be looking for evidence of sexual assault and pregnancy.”

Abby made a small noise in the back of her throat.

“Someone who needs to be checked for those things didn’t run away,” I said.

Ryan stood up. “Wait here, and I’ll go see if things are ready. I thought I’d give the two of you a moment together before we bring you back. I think maybe you have some things to get straight before you see Caitlin.”

“Ryan?” I asked. “Is this going to be all right?”

He offered me a small smile. “Your daughter’s back. Doesn’t that mean this is a good day?”

When he was gone, I turned to Abby.

She didn’t look at me.

“Abby?”

She remained rigid as a block of wood.

“Abby? Are you okay?”

“I was at the church, working, and then Ryan called me.” She was looking at the floor. “I knew something bad was happening, something about Caitlin. I wasn’t expecting this today, Tom. This just comes out of nowhere.”

“It’s not a bad thing, Abby.”

“Why did you say such awful things about me?” she asked, raising her head.

“Are you looking for an apology? Because I’m not offering one.”

“Do you really think I don’t deserve to be here?”

“It’s not about you, Abby. Your feelings have nothing to do with this day.” I stood up. “But I can tolerate the idea of you being along for this. I’m willing to put up with that . . . for Caitlin. But I’m also not going to wait for you. They should be ready for us now, so get up and let’s go.”

Her upper body tilted forward, then back, and she slowly rose to her feet. She stood there for a second, looking like an unsteady drunk, one who didn’t trust that the world wasn’t about to tip over and throw her to the floor.

“Tom?”

“What?”

“I can’t do it.”

“You can’t—?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t go see her.”

“Oh, Abby. Come on.”

“Don’t push me, Tom.” She held her hand out. “Don’t give me some guilt trip about how I’m some kind of bad mother because I don’t want to . . .
can’t
. . . go see Caitlin right now.”

I looked to the door, my anxiety rising.
She was here. Caitlin.

“Why don’t you want to go back there? Tell me.”

“I’m scared, Tom. Okay? I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I might see. Of what Caitlin is going to be like now. Of what she’s been through. We’ve talked about a lot of things since she’s been gone. Is she still alive? Who took her? We never talked about what we’d do, what it would be like, if she did come back. I never really thought about it. Not in detail. And now . . .”

I went to her and crouched down, so we were at eye level.

“Abby, this is what we wanted. This is what we’ve been waiting for. You should go back there.”

She didn’t move.

“Abby?”

“I just need more time.” She looked away. “Give me more time.”

Ryan stuck his head in the door, looking like a giant turtle emerging from its shell.

“We’re ready,” Ryan said.

I straightened back up.

“Abby’s going to take another minute while I go back.”

Ryan’s eyes shifted from me to her and back to me again. He looked uncertain, but went ahead.

“Whatever works,” he said, holding the door open for me. “Let’s do this, Tom.”

I took one last look back at Abby, expecting her to change her mind. But her head was down, and she didn’t look at me.

Chapter Twenty-one

E
ven though I’d spent a lot of time in the police station, it still felt like an incomprehensible maze of hallways. We passed small rooms with closed doors, the brass finish on their knobs rubbed off to reveal the darker metal underneath. Two uniformed cops sat in a small office, one that overflowed with paper. They laughed as we approached and then, seeing us, lowered their voices. They continued laughing after we’d passed. Ryan didn’t speak. He walked in front of me, his head bobbing with his movements, his broad shoulders and thick middle nearly filling the entire hallway.

Something like adrenaline burned through me. Every pore and hair follicle in my body tingled with anticipation. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. And I resisted the urge to reach out, shove Ryan to the side, and charge ahead to the room where they were keeping Caitlin.

Finally, Ryan stopped in front of a metal door.

“Okay,” he said. “Take your time. But remember, she does have to go to the hospital at some point.”

I nodded.

“Did you work things out with Abby?” he asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll cover for her.”

Ryan opened the door and made a gesture into the room. I couldn’t see who was in there, even as I stood on my toes and craned my neck to see around Ryan’s big body. A female police officer came out. She nodded at me as she passed, and Ryan pushed the door open wider.

He turned to me. It was time.

“You can close the door behind you for privacy,” he said.

How many times does a life turn in a moment? For me, twice in four years. Once when Caitlin disappeared, and then again, right there, when she came back.

I moved through the doorway. It was a small, cramped room, a kind of lounge or break area for the employees of the station. A round table with four chairs sat on the left, the morning’s newspaper scattered across it. Along the back wall, there was a percolating coffeemaker and a refrigerator covered with handwritten notes and newspaper articles. And then on the right, a long, low couch, where a teenage girl sat holding a mug of coffee.

I pushed the door shut behind me.

I’d imagined this moment many times, but I could never allow my brain to work through the scenario completely. I could picture a young girl, that twelve-year-old who’d vanished while walking Frosty, squealing and jumping into my arms. As time passed, I couldn’t update it, couldn’t conceive of what she might look or act like. So I left it blank. But now, here I was, being considered by the cautious eyes of a teenage girl who was supposed to be my daughter.

Was she? Really?

Ryan’s words and observations had promised it. But a lot of people bore scars. The fingerprint evidence wasn’t back yet . . .

“Caitlin? Honey?”

Her eyes looked large, as always—just like Abby’s—but this was accentuated by how thin she was. She looked sickly, like someone recently recovered from a long illness. Her skin was pale, her cheeks almost without color. Caitlin always wore her hair long, but this girl’s hair was cut short, almost chopped, as though someone who wasn’t a professional had used a pair of household scissors to whack it off. She wore a loose, baggy NCPD sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, and her shoes were scuffed and dirty.

She didn’t say anything. She watched me with those big eyes, white and blue orbs that tracked me from across the room.

I watched her, too. Studied her. The facial features, the shape of her nose, the set of her jaw. I saw Abby in that face, as always. My mother, too. And, yes, a touch of me somewhere.

It was her.

It was Caitlin.

“Caitlin?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you.”

Her voice was flat, emotionless, as though I were a passing acquaintance. And the voice was huskier, more raw. Not the voice of a little girl but that of a postpubescent young woman.

I approached the couch and sat down next to her. She eyed me a little suspiciously, but didn’t pull away or get up.

I couldn’t hold back.

I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close to me, crushing her against my body. I kissed her head, her cheeks.

“Oh, Caitlin, my Caitlin, my sweet baby girl. I missed you. I missed you so much. My baby . . .”

She let me hold her and hug her, but she didn’t return the gesture. She remained stiff under my touch, and I only let go when my fingers and hands began to ache.

I leaned back, taking in a full view of Caitlin’s face. The changes only accentuated her resemblance to Abby, and, in fact, the Caitlin who sat before me looked remarkably like the high school photos of Abby—slender, big eyed, not entirely confident under the gaze of the camera.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Fine? Are you sure, honey? They’re going to take you to the doctor in a minute.”

“Why?”

“To check you over, to make sure you’re not hurt.”

She squirmed a little, looking uncomfortable. “They won’t find anything. I’m not hurt.”

I brought my hand up to her cheek, then cupped her chin like when she was a baby. There were some blemishes, teenage acne. I soaked her in until my vision blurred and grew watery.

Caitlin either didn’t notice or chose not to comment.

“You were gone for so long. We thought you . . . I started to think . . .”

I noticed how greasy her hair looked, a few days unwashed. Caitlin was a neat child, almost fastidious, yet she smelled a little, the rough scent of an unwashed body and stale cigarettes. I remembered the admonition to not ask questions, not to press, but my mind spun like a wheel.

“Who did this to you?” I asked. “Where were you?”

She looked away. “It’s over, I guess.”

“What’s over? No—” I said. “Where were you? Who took you?”

“Where’s my mom? Is she here?”

“She’s here.” I hesitated. Was Caitlin trying to change the subject? “She’s in the other room.”

“I’d like to see her. Can I see her, please?”

“Of course, honey. Of course.” I held her hand. “She’s upset by all of this, your mom. It’s hard on her. It’s been hard on both of us. I know it’s been harder on you—don’t get me wrong—but we’ve been so worried.”

“Did you get divorced or some shit like that?”

Shit?

“No. Why would you ask me that?”

She stared straight ahead and spoke in a monotone, almost programmed voice, like she was repeating something she’d heard somewhere.

“I just know that relationships can be strained, they can be put under a lot of pressure when things change. Sometimes relationships don’t survive the changes. That’s part of life.”

She nodded when she finished speaking, a kind of exclamation mark to the statement. For the first time, I saw real emotion in her eyes. She looked upset, as though she didn’t really believe or understand what was just said. I wondered where those words had come from, if she’d been coached to say them.

“Who told you that, Caitlin? Where did you hear all that?”

“I’d like to see Mom now, I guess.”

I didn’t want to leave her, even for a minute, but her little speech unnerved me in a way I couldn’t explain. I stood up and looked out the door to where the female officer waited. I told her Caitlin wanted to see her mother.

“Tell my wife, Abby, I think she needs to come back here, please.”

When I went back in, Caitlin stared at me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I need to ask you to do something, something pretty important.”

I went across and resumed my place on the couch. I started to reach for her hand but saw she was keeping them both in her lap, intertwined with each other. I settled for resting my hand on her shoulder.

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I need a favor from you, a big one.”

Her voice took on a slight tremor. It picked up a hint of the emotion I saw—and which still remained—in her eyes.

“After four years, I owe you a few favors, I guess.”

She looked down at her hands, bit her bottom lip. “I don’t want you to ever again ask me where I was or what happened while I was gone. Please.”

I let my hand slide off her back. “We don’t have to talk about it today. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She shook her head. “Not just today. I don’t ever want you to ask me about it. Ever. You have to promise me that. Please.”

“But, honey, they—People are going to want to know. They have to know. If a child disappears for four years, they have to know—”

“I’m not a fucking child.”

I leaned back. “Who taught you to talk that way?”

“Come on. Promise.”

“If something happened to you, something that embarrassed you or made you feel ashamed, it might be better to talk about it.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

Now she looked up, locked her eyes onto mine. If I’d been offered this deal the day before—have your daughter back, but you can’t ask her where she’s been—I’d have taken it faster than the speed of light.

“Okay, I promise,” I said. “No more questions.”

She nodded and looked at her hands again, her face displaying no real sense of satisfaction or relief.

The door clicked open, and Abby entered. She held her head up and displayed a genuine smile. Her eyes were full of tears.

“Oh,” she said, her hand to her chest. “Oh. Oh.”

She didn’t come across the room toward us. She stood by the closed door, staring at us, her hand still to her chest, like a patron struck speechless by a beautiful work of art.

Then Abby dropped her purse and rushed across the room. She fell onto the couch next to Caitlin, wrapping her in her arms. I looked away but heard the sound of Abby crying and sniffling.

Caitlin stood up suddenly. Without warning, she left the couch, slipping out of Abby’s grip and taking a few steps toward the center of the room. I thought Abby might have overwhelmed her, piled too much affection and attention onto her too quickly, but Caitlin didn’t look bothered or distressed. She still wore the same preternaturally calm expression on her face, her features as smooth and undisturbed as the unbroken surface of a quiet lake. She didn’t say anything. She simply moved away, the coffee mug still in her hand, and stood there in silence, her gestures suggesting she was tired of hugging her long-lost parents and now she wanted to be left alone.

Abby and I looked at each other, as puzzled as we were when a newborn Caitlin cried and cried for hours for no apparent reason. But we could always guess then. Colic. Gas. Hunger. Fear. My mind scrambled, and I concluded it was all too much, too soon. I needed to remember not to push too hard.