Cemetery Girl (13 page)

“I saw what I saw,” she said. “I did.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Have you thought about what you’d do if she came back?” she asked.

“You mean Caitlin, right? Have I thought about her coming back home?” I asked. “Of course. Many times.”

In great detail. Convincingly so. Caitlin running into my arms. Caitlin saying my name. Caitlin happy and smiling, a beautiful young woman ready to resume her life.

“I hope you get to see that come true,” she said.

She smiled a little, but it didn’t possess much warmth.

“Is something wrong, Tracy? Is there something you need to tell me that you’re having a hard time getting out?”

“You’re a religious man, right?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I just thought since you saw that . . . vision in the park yesterday.”

I squirmed a little in my chair. “I wouldn’t call it a vision.”

“But you saw something. Something you believe in. Like me at the club.”

For the moment, I followed the train of her thought. We were alike, she and I. We were both witnesses to things central to Caitlin’s case, and while others may have had their doubts, we were both certain. We believed ourselves and each other at the very least.

She started twirling her hair again. “I haven’t had an easy time of things, you know.”

“Since we met—”

“In life.”

She looked at me again, without smiling. Her eyes were hard, impermeable. Like colored glass.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I didn’t know where our conversation was going. I thought she was looking for reassurances from me, for an understanding that I felt happy about her coming forward and telling her story to the police. But something hovered beneath the surface of her words, something slippery and elusive I couldn’t get a handle on.

“See, I want to help you,” she said. “That’s why I called Liann, even though I’d been in trouble before and I don’t really like the police.”

“I understand.”

“I’d like to help you more.” She still twirled the hair. And with her other hand, she tapped a fingernail—the polish chipped and dark—against the armrest of the chair.

“Let me show you something.” She bent down out of my sight and rustled around in her bag. She popped back up holding a business card. She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, then passed the business card across the desk to me. “Here. I brought this for you.”

I reached out. It was a business card for someone named Susan Goff of “Volunteer Victim Services.” A local phone number was listed under her name.

I knew my face betrayed my skepticism. “What is this?” I asked.

“She’s a lady who helps people.”

“A therapist?”

“She’s not a therapist,” Tracy said. “I don’t even know if she went to school.”

I tried to hand the card back. “I’m not really interested in that.”

“I met her through a friend,” Tracy said. “But she works with the cops too.”

The name sounded familiar to me.
Volunteer Victim Services
. Ryan had mentioned them to us more than once, but we never called or followed up. “The police are already working on this,” I said.

“She’s not a cop,” Tracy said. “She’s . . . just someone to talk to, someone who’s willing to support you no matter what. She’s not working any angles.”

“Everybody has an angle, don’t they?” I asked.

“Susan’s nice. She’s not a lawyer or anything like that. She understands people and things.” Tracy rolled her eyes a little. “I mean, I know Liann’s trying to help me and everything, but she’s only willing to do so much, you know? She wants to help me, but she wants to help me on her terms. If I ask her for something, something outside her agenda, she shuts me down.”

“Have you been in therapy?” I asked.

“That’s all bullshit,” she said. “Therapists, social workers—you just tell them what they want to hear. They check off their little boxes on their little forms, and they pass you on to somebody else.” Tracy bent down again and brought out her cell phone. She studied the display and frowned. “I have to go in a minute. But keep that card and use it if you want. Maybe you could talk to Susan. I’ve talked to her before, and she’s really helpful, you know, with life and relationships and stuff. She listens to me. Really listens to me. You know what it’s like when someone really listens to you?”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

“Susan’s not a bullshitter. Not at all. She tells you the truth if you want to hear it. And if you don’t have a minister or a shrink or anything, you need someone to talk to. Right?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Think about it. Okay? She just . . . she knows things. A lot of things. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. And she’s comfortable talking about stuff that’s tough to talk about.”

“Is this what you came to tell me?” I asked, holding the card in the air between us. “Is this all?”

She squirmed a little in the chair, shifting her weight from one side to the other as though fighting off an unpleasant itch.

“Tracy? Is there something else?”

“Remember how I said I had a daughter?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was lower. “You know how kids are expensive to raise.”

“I don’t follow.”

She squirmed some more. Side to side, rocking like a metronome.

“Are you asking me for money?”

“You see . . .” She paused, let out a long breath. “I’ve been thinking about what I saw that night. Thinking and thinking . . .”

“And?”

She slumped a little, her body going slack in the chair.

“Tracy?”

“I want to remember more,” she said. “I want to help more.”

She stopped short. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower engine kicked to life, making a low rumble across the campus.

“What do you know?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“If you think you can come in here and mess with me, toy with my emotions—”

She moved quickly and was up out of the chair, reaching for her bag and brushing her hair back out of her face. She didn’t even look at me, but turned for the door.

“Tracy, wait.”

My hand went to my back pocket. I never carried much cash. I dug around and found forty-two dollars. I held it out to her.

She turned and looked at me, looked at my hand and the money, but didn’t make a move to take it. I tossed it onto the desk.

“Take it,” I said. “I don’t care.”

She still didn’t move. Her top teeth rested on her lower lip.

“Buy diapers or something. But if you know anything else . . .”

She took two steps forward and picked up the money. She looked at it for a moment, then folded the bills in half and slipped them into the front pocket of her shorts.

“That man is very bad,” she said.

“Do you know him from somewhere? Have you seen him before?”

She backed away, her eyes averted from mine.

I started around the desk. “Tracy, if you know something and you don’t tell—”

She held her hand up between us, telling me to stop. I did.

“Tell Liann,” I said.

“I told the truth already,” she said. “I told my story.”

“Is there more?”

She nodded toward my desk. It took a moment for me to understand what she meant. Then I saw it—the card.
Volunteer Victim Services
.

“Think about calling Susan,” she said.

Then she slipped through the door and closed it behind her almost soundlessly.

Chapter Sixteen

A
bby’s car sat in the driveway. It was filled with more boxes, more clothes, the remains of what she needed from the house.

Three boxes sat on the kitchen table with clothes on hangers draped over them. The clothes were from the winter—heavy coats and sweaters. I stood beneath the overhead fluorescents, a light fixture we’d always planned to replace but never did. I ran my hand over the fabric of her sweaters. I brought the sleeve of one up to my nose and took a deep breath. I always used to enjoy Abby’s scents—the fruity shampoos, the sweet soaps, even the smell of her sweat when she exercised or worked on something around the house. But this sweater smelled musty, the product of a closed closet.

“You’re home.”

I dropped the sleeve. Abby stood in the doorway, holding a canvas bag full of clothes.

“I was in the office most of the day,” I said.

“Good.” Abby came farther into the room and put down the bag. “This is the last of it,” she said. “I’ll take it out to the car.”

“Do you want me to help?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s my stuff. I’ll take it.”

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “It’s not that heavy.”

She picked up one of the boxes and elbowed the screen door open, letting it slam behind her. I went out into the other room and sorted through the mail. Bills mostly. A newsmagazine.I leafed through it, scanning the headlines about war and political crises. While I did that, the back door opened and closed a couple more times. I finally gave up on the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. I went back to the kitchen and saw just the canvas bag remaining on the floor. I looked outside and saw Abby bent into the backseat of her car, the dome light a tiny white spot in the darkening evening. She and I hadn’t even talked about the property, about the cars and the bank accounts and the credit cards we still owed money on. Friends of ours who had been down the same road spent weeks working out every detail.

But then another thought occurred to me: those people all had children. They
had
to plan and hash things out. Abby and I were breaking up like young marrieds, like a boyfriend and girlfriend who’d shacked up and then simply grew bored with each other.

She came back in and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need some water,” she said.

“Did you read the news stories?” I asked. “I’m just wondering.”

She took a deep breath. She stood at the sink, her back to me. “I did. I saw all the news coverage. People would have told me about it anyway.”

“You don’t believe any of it?”

She put down her glass but didn’t turn around. “Tom, I think you should see someone. A professional.”

“A shrink?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I raised my hands in an exaggerated shrug.

She turned around. She folded her arms across her chest but didn’t answer. In the harsh light from above she looked older but still beautiful, not all that different from when we first met.

I stepped closer. “Is it because of what I said in the paper? About the girl in the cemetery?”

“That’s part of it.”

“You’re the one who has so much faith. Why don’t you believe me?”

She shook her head. “Because God doesn’t work that way.”

“How do you know? Did Pastor Chris tell you?”

“When Caitlin disappeared, I said we should go to counseling. Remember that? Not marriage counseling but counseling to help us deal with the loss. Remember?”

She wanted an answer, so I gave her one. “I remember.”

“And you said you didn’t want to go, that you didn’t need it because nothing was really lost.” She hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arms as though she were cold. “I didn’t argue about it. I didn’t push you. I thought we needed it—we both needed it—but I also knew that death meant something different to you because of your dad. When my dad died, I was older. We were married already and had Caitlin. But I know your dad’s death is a wound for you, and so when Caitlin disappeared . . . I know how much it meant to you to have your own child since you were your dad’s only child. It’s complicated with Buster. He’s your half sibling. And I know there was guilt on your part. Guilt about letting her go out that day, about letting her cross the street with Frosty and go to the park. And to the extent I contributed to that, I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

I reached for a chair and Abby did likewise, but then she stopped and held out her hands as though the thought of sitting down disgusted her.

“No, Tom. I can’t.” She was still holding up her hands, and she was crying. She started with two deep sniffles; then her chin puckered. “I can’t.”

“Abby . . .” I didn’t sit either. I reached out for her. I placed my hand on her arm. My own emotions—pity, love—crept up on me unexpectedly.

She lifted her free hand to her face and wiped at her tears.

“Come on,” I said. “Sit.”

“No, no.” She pulled back. “I can’t. Just listen.”

She backed away from me and again swiped at her face with her hands. She took a deep, sniffling inhalation of air and seemed to regain a measure of her composure. I didn’t sit or move. I waited. I knew she had more to say, more to direct at me.

“You disappeared on me, Tom.” She cleared her throat. “You wanted children more than me, remember?” Her composure slipped again. “And I’m so very glad we did it. Even now. Even after all of this. I think of our girl . . . that sweet, baby girl.”

“We tried to have another one,” I said. “We could try again. I don’t think it’s too late.”

Abby shook her head and looked away. She seemed more distraught, more upset. “No,” she said. “I can’t do that anymore.” She kept shaking her head.

“You mean the toll—”

“Tom, it worked.”

“What worked?”

“I did get pregnant again, after Caitlin was gone. When we were trying. I did get pregnant, but I had a miscarriage. I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The room felt closer, more contained. I became aware that my mouth was hanging open. “We had another baby?”

“A miscarriage,” Abby said.

“And you didn’t tell me?” I still wasn’t sure I understood.

“I was protecting you,” she said. “In your state of mind, with Caitlin gone, I didn’t think you could handle it.” She reached up, wiped at her nose.

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Because . . . because I don’t want to walk away with you thinking I wasn’t willing to do all I could for this marriage.”

“By lying to me?”

“I have to go, Tom. I really do.” She bent down and grabbed the canvas bag, and without stopping her motion or slowing down, she breezed across the room and to the back door. “Think about what I said, Tom. About getting help. See a therapist. Or ask Ryan. He might know someone. You can work with someone about your family, about your stepfather, about the rejection you felt there. I think you need it.”