Cemetery Girl

“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.