Cemetery Girl

by David Bell

  “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

  Abby’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.”

  And then she was gone.

  PART II

  Chapter Seventeen

  My father died when I was four. Pancreatic cancer. Most of my memories of him are in fragments-little, tattered pieces I carry around with me. They come back at odd moments. I remember the musky smell of his cologne and the rough way his stubbled face scraped against mine. Sometimes when I’m shaving my own face, I wonder how much he and I would have looked alike.

  I remember that his hands were big, with thick fingers, and when he picked me up and held me under the armpits, his grip was so tight and strong it hurt a little. A good hurt that I didn’t mind. And I remember his voice, loud and strong, and the way it almost seemed to ring when he called my name or my mother’s name from across the house.

  But the most coherent memory of him occurred on a spring day about a year before he died. It’s the only sustained narrative memory of him I have.

  My mother wasn’t home. I can’t say where she was or what she was doing, but she wasn’t there, which meant my father was watching me. And I don’t know if he knew he was sick yet or not. If he knew, he would have just found out. More likely, he hadn’t been diagnosed yet, but the cancer was already there, growing inside him, extending its tendrils into his healthy cells and tissue, destroying his body from the inside out.

  Our backyard sloped down to the houses behind us. Some kids a little older than me lived back there. Our mothers knew each other, and from time to time they’d let us all run around together under their watchful eyes. On this particular spring day I’m remembering, I was out with those other kids, a boy and girl named Amy and Kevin. The weather was newly warm, the trees and flowers were starting to bud and bloom, and the parents were probably glad to be able to let us all out of the house to burn off energy.

  But at some point that day, the skies darkened.

  Enormous clouds, thick and purple and looming, grew above us. The wind picked up, making branches and leaves fall to the ground around us. It buffeted our small bodies until we swayed and struggled to stay on our feet.

  There’s a gap in my memory. It’s possible the parents of the other children called them in, or perhaps the other kids decided to run home in the face of the threatening storm. I just know that I ended up in our backyard alone as the storm continued to blow. And it seemed as though the entire world had been set in motion. The trees bucked and bent, the fence that bordered the yard shuddered, and everything that wasn’t anchored down-every leaf, every scrap of paper, every grass clipping-took to the air and swirled around me until I felt as though I were standing in one of those Christmas snow globes, the kind that when shaken produce the kinetic spinning of a blizzard.

  I turned toward the house, moving my little legs a half step at a time. The wind pushed against me, holding me upright as though I were being restrained by invisible wires. Something flew into my eye, a quick stabbing pain. I pressed my hand against the eyelid and kept walking forward as best I could.

  By the time I reached the side of our house and came around into the front yard, rain had started to fall. Thick, pelting drops splattered against my face and into my hair. My breath came in jerking huffs. My one open eye blurred and burned from the tears. And I finally reached a point, standing on the side of the house, where I decided I just couldn’t go on anymore. I let the wind push me back, let my body go slack and loose, and I sat down in the grass, my hand still pressed against my eye. I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was going to die right there, that my life was going to end in the storm, in the side yard of our house.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. It couldn’t have been very long, because I don’t remember getting very wet. But at some point I looked up and there he was. My father, standing over me, his face creased with concern. I thought he was angry with me for being out in the rain, but he didn’t say or do anything to indicate anger. Instead, he bent down and gathered me in his arms and squeezed me tight against his chest. I went limp in his grip and buried my head against the side of his neck. I breathed in his familiar scent, and in that moment I knew what it meant to be home. To be protected. To be safe. And long after my father died and this became the only solid memory of him I carried with me, I used this moment as a measuring stick, a guide to remind me of what a father was supposed to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The business card with Susan Goff’s name sat on the kitchen table amid the crumbs and the morning paper.

  I had picked up the phone twice and put it down twice, changing my mind, before I finally placed the call.

  I was alone in the house. Really alone. Abby had been gone three weeks. Whenever I called Ryan for updates, he offered nothing new and told me to be patient. Liann e-mailed me a few times, just checking in, as she put it, but the lack of developments didn’t give us much to talk about. And my occasional trips to campus only reminded me of how little interest I had in writing a book about Nathaniel Hawthorne.

  Susan Goff answered her phone with a bright, energetic voice that made it tough for me to estimate her age. She could have been in her twenties, or she could have been pushing sixty. But her enthusiastic greeting did have one effect-it disarmed me and made me more at ease than I’d expected to be.

  “I was referred to you by a friend,” I said.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I don’t know. Do we set up an appointment or something?”

  “Yes, of course. But just a casual chat. I hate the word ‘appointment.’ It sounds so businesslike. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Okay. Well, just so you know, my name is Tom Stuart, and I’m calling because of my daughter.” I started to tell her the details of Caitlin’s disappearance, thinking she would want to know them up front, but she gently interrupted me.

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, I know who you are. Yes, yes.”

  “You’ve heard about it on the news.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “From the news. And Tracy told me she’d be giving you my card. This is so very sad. I’m so very sorry for this.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “It was Tracy who referred me to you.”

  “And have you been seeing someone else? A professional therapist?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You need to know up front that I’m not a licensed therapist or a professional counselor. If you need that, I can’t help you.” She laughed a little, a self-deprecating sound. “I volunteer through the police department, but I don’t work strictly for them. I’m not any kind of police officer, and I don’t investigate crimes. In fact, I don’t just work with the victims of crime. I might work with someone who has a loved one who has committed suicide. Or families that have lost someone in an accident. That sort of thing.” She made it sound as casual as helping someone choose wallpaper.

  �
�So you’re just a person who helps people?” I asked. “Couldn’t I just go out in the street and start talking to someone?”

  “I’ve been trained,” she said. “They don’t just throw us out into the community and turn us loose on people in their most vulnerable moments. That wouldn’t make much sense, would it?”

  “Do you hold a license or degree in something?” I asked.

  “Everyone in Volunteer Victim Services goes through an eight-week training session. At least once a year we go back for a continuing ed course, and we all have criminal background checks. Hell, once a month I pee in a cup so the state of Ohio knows I’m not doing any illicit drugs. It’s all to give us a grounding in the basics of helping people in need.”

  “And what do you do for them?” I asked. “What can you. .?”

  “What can I do for you?” she asked. “I’m really just a support system, Mr. Stuart. Someone to listen to your problems. You know, the police officers are so busy with other aspects of the cases they work on. The investigating, the testifying, the prosecuting. That’s not what I do. Mostly I listen. I try not to judge or offer heavy opinions, but if you ask me for one, I’ll share it. That’s up to you. Does that sound like something you would be interested in?”

  I didn’t feel like I could say no, even if I wanted to. She was so there, so in the moment for me. She was so ready to help. And the fact that she wasn’t a police officer or a minister or even a crusader on behalf of victims’ rights made me feel better. She did seem like someone who wanted to help me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Yes. Do you want to make an appointment-a meeting time-for next week?”

  “Let’s get together tomorrow at four,” she said. “Do you know the Courthouse Coffee Shop downtown?”

  “I do.”

  “Let’s meet there,” she said. “If you don’t like me, at least the coffee will be good.”

  A year or so after Caitlin had disappeared, around the time Abby would have been having her miscarriage, she and I discussed what to do with Caitlin’s room. We had been keeping it just as it was the day Caitlin disappeared-the clothes in the closet, the personal items on the shelves. But Abby started to make a case for change. She went out of her way to tell me we wouldn’t throw away anything, but she wanted to pack up some things and move them to the attic, and then paint the walls and rearrange the furniture.