Cemetery Girl

by David Bell

  I didn’t want to let her out of my sight, fearing a repeat of the night before.

  But something else entered my mind, a sudden, darting thought I hadn’t anticipated:

  Might it be better if we let her go?

  Would everyone be happier if Caitlin wasn’t here?

  I chased the thought away, pushed it down below the surface of my mind. I pointed to the door Rosenbaum had emerged from. “It’s okay,” I said to Abby. “They’ll keep an eye on her.”

  We settled into chairs in Rosenbaum’s inner office. It held a small, uncluttered desk, several comfortable chairs, and even a chaise longue a patient could recline on. A pitcher of water and several glasses sat on a side table, and next to every chair-except the one Rosenbaum landed in-was a box of Kleenex.

  “I received a call from Detective Ryan this morning, and he told me about your adventurous night last night. Remember, you could have called me if you needed to.”

  “It was late,” I said. “Very late.”

  “You’d be amazed at how many late-night calls I get,” he said. “Keep it in mind for the future. But I guess she did settle down and sleep a little?”

  “She did,” Abby said.

  “Good,” he said. “Her attempt to run away isn’t completely surprising. Although going out a second-floor window is pretty bold. That’s a first for me. Like I said, home is the unfamiliar environment right now.”

  “What about-?” I pointed toward the waiting room.

  “I don’t really think Caitlin’s going anywhere right now.”

  “How can you be sure?” Abby asked.

  “I can’t be,” he said, offering that same kind of forced smile. “But I think I am. Right now, none of us can really know anything for certain.” He crossed his legs, ankle on knee, and looked at us, his face pleasant. “I just wanted to touch base with you both about Caitlin and share my initial impressions of our first session.”

  “What did she tell you?” I asked.

  “Nothing. She didn’t open her mouth. That’s not unusual for someone who’s been through what she’s been through.”

  “What has she been through?” I asked. “We really don’t know.”

  “If I can be candid with you, the medical and police reports already tell some of the story. Based on that and other cases like this one, I suspect she has been the victim of some sort of sexual assault, most likely at the hands of whoever took her out of that park that day. And most likely this assault was repeated over the last four years.”

  The same piercing pain hit me, but this time it came on like someone punctured my lungs, letting the air evacuate from my body. I looked at the floor while my mind raced, trying to find a glimmer of hope.

  “So you don’t think she ran away?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t fit the profile of a runaway. And whether she ran away originally or not, if a twelve-year-old girl has sexual relations with an adult man, it’s sexual assault.”

  Abby remained silent, so I looked over at her. She looked dreamy, distant. While I stared she spoke up.

  “Why did she leave again? You said she didn’t feel safe at home.”

  “We don’t really know where she was going, but it’s possible she was trying to get back to whomever she was with. As for why she would go back, that too is fairly common in these cases. Quite a lot has been written about this phenomenon. A lot of case studies and research. You see, the victim identifies with the attacker as a defense mechanism. She becomes more attached to him than anything else. After four years, those attachments to this man run deep, much deeper than what she now feels for either of you.” Rosenbaum’s voice was calm, almost soothing, and somehow that made the impact of his words even more terrible. “I won’t kid you-this is a long, uphill climb here. Some of these victims never testify against the people who’ve harmed them. They never see it as a crime.”

  “Jesus,” I said. I still didn’t feel like I could get enough air. Rosenbaum’s eyes wandered over both of us. There was more to say, and it looked like he was gauging whether or not we could handle it.

  “Caitlin may think of this man as her husband. She may have been told this for the last four years. Adolescence is a profoundly important time in someone’s development. To have such trauma intrude upon that time can have catastrophic psychological consequences. I remember a case in Columbus during my residency. The young woman corresponded with the man who took her for many, many years, even while he was in prison.”

  “Oh, God,” Abby said.

  “We’re talking years of therapy here, not days or months. And we may never know exactly what happened while she was gone.”

  He paused, but neither one of us said anything.

  “It’s not just trauma for her, you know,” he said. “It’s trauma for you. How are the two of you handling the adjustment so far?”

  “It’s only one day,” I said, grasping to put a positive spin on things.

  “And an eventful one at that,” he said.

  He smiled again. It seemed less forced and more natural. But I sensed his question for us was probing at something.

  “I think-” Abby said, then hesitated before she began again. “I think Tom has some unrealistic expectations for Caitlin.”

  “Oh?” Rosenbaum said.

  “He wants to push, and like you said, it’s going to take time. A lot of time.”

  “Tom?” Rosenbaum said.

  “I came down hard on her last night.”

  “This is before she ran away?” Rosenbaum asked.

  “No, after.” I told him about it: grabbing the sketch and sticking it in Caitlin’s face, bringing her to tears. “Aren’t fathers supposed to ask those questions?”

  “Yesterday, at the police station, Caitlin told Tom not to ever ask her any questions about where she’d been or what she’d been doing while she was gone,” Abby said.

  “Very interesting,” Rosenbaum said. “And you said you’d honor that wish?”

  “I did. At the time. Yes.” I tried to sound reasonable, to get them both to understand where I was coming from with the promise. “I was so thrilled to have her back, I would have said anything.”

  Rosenbaum nodded, the wise sage. “I think it’s best if you honor that promise for now. If you make promises and don’t keep them, you’ll only widen the gap between the two of you.”

  “But you’re going to get her to talk, right?” I asked.

  “I’m going to try,” he said. “But she’s a teenager now, one with a lot of trust issues. At some point, I can’t force another person to say or do things they don’t want to say or do. Building trust with her will be a big key for both of you right now. It’s the best way to start to work against the events of the last four years. It’s like you’re starting from scratch in a way.”

  “Don’t you think we should try to focus on the positive aspects of Caitlin being at home?” Abby asked. “We should welcome her and support her.”

  “What do you think of that, Tom?”

  I looked at Abby. “Abby and I are separated. Abby left me and moved out of our house. It’s tough for us to be supportive and put up a united front if I don’t know whether we’re united or not.”

  Abby glared at me. “I’ve moved home for Caitlin’s sake,” she said. She turned back to Rosenbaum. “And we’ve already told Caitlin about our separation. She understands about our rough times, but we’re trying.”

  “You know,” Rosenbaum said, “this process of recovery will be twice as difficult if there are unresolved issues between the two of you. We’re here for Caitlin, remember?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess none of the other stuff is as important.”

  “Abby?” Rosenbaum said.

  “It’s not going to be a problem with me,” she said. “I’m focusing on the positive.”

  Rosenbaum didn’t look entirely convinced, but he kept his concerns to himself. “Then I think we should go with that,” he said. “In the meantime. .” He leaned over to his desk a
nd picked up a prescription pad and pen. “I’d like to put Caitlin on an antianxiety drug, something to help her feel less defensive and more at ease in your home. It might even help her sleep.” He scribbled, then extended the paper toward us. Abby took it and put it in her purse. “And remember,” he said, “I’m also here to help the two of you. If either of you find yourselves struggling with this adjustment, you can give me a call. Or I can recommend someone.”

  “Doctor?” I said. “One more thing. When Caitlin came home last night, she fell asleep in her old room. I heard her talking in her sleep. She said, ‘Don’t send me back.’ She said it over and over. What do you think of that?”

  “You mean do I know who she was talking to?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry, but experience tells me she probably wasn’t talking to you.” He asked if there was anything else. I couldn’t imagine there could be, so I let him walk us to the door.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  We stopped at a department store on the way home to buy Caitlin clothes. Abby led the way. She took Caitlin into the young women’s section and picked out several pairs of jeans, shirts, and sweatshirts, as well as underwear, bras, and socks. They disappeared into a dressing room while I sat outside, watching older women with oversized purses hanging from their arms poke around on the sale racks.

  How had this become my life?

  How really, truly far gone was my daughter?

  They came out with a stack of clothes, and Abby paid for them all with a credit card. I didn’t pay attention to the price. We then stopped in the shoe section, and we bought two pairs for Caitlin. I watched my daughter, hoping to see some glimpse of the child I once knew. A sign of joy or contentment, even vulnerability. It wasn’t there. At least not to my eyes. I remembered taking her to buy her first pair of soccer cleats. I remembered her excitement over getting a Happy Meal at McDonald’s. I remembered her squeals and her energy. None of that was there. No life, no happiness.

  In the car, on the way home, Abby tried to converse. “We have plenty of food at home,” she said. “The neighbors have been bringing it by.”

  A long pause. Abby started to turn around, but Caitlin’s voice stopped her.

  “Like someone died,” she said.

  Her voice sounded distant and small from the backseat. I looked in the rearview mirror, but she was still staring out the window. Abby turned back toward her.

  “People bring food at happy times, too,” she said. “Like when a baby is born.”

  I watched in the rearview mirror when I could. Caitlin didn’t move her head or make any effort to look at Abby.

  “You know,” Abby said, “this is kind of like you were born again, though. Isn’t it?”

  “Kind of like the Prodigal Son, right?” Caitlin said. “You used to tell me about that.”

  “Right,” Abby said, brightening. “You remember that story from when you were little, don’t you?”

  Caitlin didn’t answer. Abby didn’t get discouraged.

  “Honey?” she asked. “Have you been going to school? Or church?”

  I alternated my eyes from the road to the rearview mirror and back again.

  “No,” Caitlin said. “And I didn’t miss it either.”

  “Well,” Abby said, trying to remain cheerful and not succeeding very well. “We can certainly take care of that one of these days.” She turned back around, and I kept my eyes on the road as well.

  When we reached the house, I asked Abby to give me a moment alone in the car with Caitlin.

  “Sure,” Abby said, but she didn’t leave right away. She moved her eyes between the two of us, considering us. Then she went to the trunk, gathered the bags, and headed inside, leaving me alone with Caitlin.

  “Caitlin?” I said. She didn’t move. “I know you can hear me, right?” Nothing. “Okay. I’ll assume you can.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry if I upset you last night when I showed you that sketch and asked you those questions. I just want to make sure you’re okay, and if someone hurt you or did something to you, I want to know-I want you to know-that, whoever he is, that person is going to be punished and held accountable. We taught you that when you were little, and it hasn’t changed. People are accountable for what they do, and they suffer the consequences for their actions.” My awkward position brought a crick to my neck. “Are you hearing me? Do you understand what I’m saying?” My voice started to rise, but I brought it under control. “Well?”

  “You’re not going to ask me anymore?” she said, her voice low and steady. “Those bullshit questions?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  She pushed open the car door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  As I came through the back door, I heard Abby gasp. I rushed in and found Abby and Caitlin standing at the entrance to the dining room-and Buster sitting at the head of the table, a mug of coffee steaming in front of him.

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  “You need to find a new place for the Hide-A-Key,” he said. “I would think a family that-you know-you might be more careful. Besides,” he said, standing up, “I wanted to come by when she’s awake. Right?”

  Caitlin stood close to Abby, uncertain. Abby rested her arm on Caitlin’s shoulder, a protective gesture. But Buster didn’t relent. He opened his arms wide.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” he said.

  And Caitlin nodded, almost spasmodically. “Buster!” She went to him quickly, allowing herself to be folded up in his arms. He squeezed her tight. I watched them, saw the real emotion on Buster’s face as he held on to my daughter. He eased his grip and held her back at arm’s length, looking her over.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”

  Abby cringed at his language, but Buster didn’t notice.

  “I never thought I’d see you again, girl. I really didn’t. This is like some sort of dream come true. You’re back from the dead.”

  A blush rose on Caitlin’s cheeks, but she didn’t say anything.

  “You’re going to have to tell me all about it,” he said. “Where you were, what you were doing. All about your adventures.”

  “Maybe Caitlin needs to come upstairs and change her clothes,” Abby said. “We got her a bunch of new clothes just now.”

  “Yeah?” Buster looked Caitlin over again. “You’re right. It looks like you’re wearing your mom’s clothes. No sixteen-year-old should have to do that.” He let her go. “Okay, but we’ll talk after that.”

  Before Abby and Caitlin left the room to go upstairs, Abby looked back at me. “Maybe you can fill William in on all that’s been happening,” she said.

  When they were gone, Buster sipped his coffee.

  “What is your deal?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were talking to her like she’d been on a cruise or something. After you came by last night, she ran off. Or did you know that already?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “Do you know?”

  “Jesus, Tom.” He shook his head. “Can you for once-for five fucking minutes-just forget about your own bullshit? And Abby’s? Will you?”

  “What are you doing here?” I remained standing, watching him.

  “I came to see my niece. I’m family, too. Remember? I know sometimes you want to act like we’re not, but we are, even if you want to deny it.”

  My hand was on his shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d reached out to hold him, but my grip was tight. I let go.

  “No more interrogating, okay?”

  “Okay. Jesus.” He stared into his mug. “She looks different.”

  “She’s older.”

  “She’s skinny. Worn. Like she’s been through it. And she has that awful, dykey haircut. What are the cops saying?”

  I went over to the table and sat at the op
posite end from him. “I don’t know. All we do is hurry up and wait.”

  “We’ll never know what happened to her,” he said. “The cops, they’re never going to get anywhere.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, studying his face.

  “Do they think she ran away?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or they think I did it, right? They’re chasing their tails.”

  “She’s back,” I said. “That’s what’s important.”

  But the words felt put on, like I was speaking lines from a script.

  I heard Caitlin and Abby on the stairs, then in the kitchen. Before they entered the dining room, Buster said, “You keep telling yourself that, Tom. Just go ahead and keep telling yourself that.”

  I knew it would bother Abby, so I asked Buster to stay and eat with us. The four of us sat down at the table together, facing a meal of ham, scalloped potatoes, and green beans left by someone from Abby’s church. Between the church and some neighbors, we had enough food to last for weeks. We were all ready to eat, even Caitlin, but Abby bowed her head and closed her eyes. She reached out for Caitlin’s hand, and I was happy to see that Caitlin made no effort to return the gesture. Instead, she grabbed her fork and started eating while Abby murmured a prayer, her eyes shut so tight it looked like it hurt. When Abby opened her eyes again and saw Caitlin eating already, she pursed her lips a little but didn’t say anything.

  Caitlin’s eating made me cringe, but for a different reason. She ate quickly, shoveling the food from the plate to her mouth with the rapidity of an automated machine. She didn’t pause long enough to take a breath or use a napkin to wipe her face. And when she chewed, she kept her mouth open wide, the food on display for all to see, her teeth and lips making smacking sounds that would have put Frosty to shame. Abby and I had ridden Caitlin hard when she was little, making sure she knew good table manners, but it was all out the window now. She conducted herself like she’d been living in a zoo for four years. Abby and I didn’t even bother to look at each other during the meal. We each knew what the other was thinking.