Cemetery Girl

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 center of my being, and when she disappeared six years later, I thought of that moment often.

Part I Chapter One

Somehow, the dog knew he wasn’t coming back.

I picked up Frosty’s leash and jiggled it while walking to the door, but he didn’t follow. Ordinarily, that sound made him jump and run, his nails clacking against our hardwood floors, but this time he slinked away, head down, eyes averted. I called his name, but he ignored me. So I went to him.

Frosty was a big dog, a yellow Lab, gentle and friendly and smart enough to recognize something unusual in my voice, something that told him this wasn’t going to be a normal walk.

I made a grab for his collar. Frosty tucked his head down against his shoulder so I couldn’t attach the leash. Up close, I smelled the rich scent of his fur, felt his hot breath against my hand.

“Frosty, no.”

My frustration grew, and I gritted my teeth, felt the molars grind against one another in the back of my mouth. Frosty ducked even more. Without thinking, I brought my free hand up and gave him a little swat on the snout. He surprised me by yelping, and I immediately felt like a jerk, an indefensible son of a bitch. I’d never hit him before, not even during training.

He cowered even more, but when I reached out again, he lifted his head, allowing me to attach the leash to his collar.

I straightened up, took a deep breath. I felt utterly ineffectual.

“What’s going on?”

I turned. Abby stood in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were wide as she considered me. Even though it was Saturday, she wore a black skirt and striped blouse. Her feet were bare. She used to dress down on weekends, but now she dressed the same every day, as though she were about to rush off to church because she probably was.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I thought I heard the dog squeal.”

“He did. I hit him.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m getting rid of him,” I said. “Taking him to the pound.”

“Oh,” she said. She raised her hand and placed it against her chest.

“Isn’t that what you want? You’ve been after me to do it for almost a year.”

“Yes, I do want that,” she said. “I thought you didn’t.”

Frosty sat at my feet, head down. Defeated. The refrigerator cycled, made a low humming noise and then shut off. I shrugged.

“You keep saying we have to move on with our lives. Right? Turn the page?”