Cemetery Girl

“Why don’t I tell you a little more about what I do, and then you’ll understand where I’m coming from,” she said. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not a professional. I’m a volunteer. I’m not a therapist or a licensed counselor. About ten years back, the state realized there were people falling through the cracks. They may have suffered a personal tragedy of some kind, and they may have been reluctant to seek remedies through traditional mental health venues like a therapist or counselor. Volunteer Victim Services was created to fill that gap. It’s just people like me helping people like you. The police or other social service agencies dispatch us if they think there’s a need. We know how to spot larger troubles if they’re there, and we know where to refer people whose problems go beyond the scope of what a volunteer can do. Believe me, we know our limits, and we’re overseen by social workers who know them too. Otherwise, we’re here to listen and help people cope with the transitions tragedy brings to their lives. Does that make sense to you?”

“How did you get involved with this?” I asked.

“My children are grown, and my husband and I split up about five years ago,” she said. “I retired from the school system around the time of the divorce.”

“You were a teacher?” I asked.

“No, a secretary. Sorry, an administrative aide. I worked in the superintendent’s office. When I retired and got divorced, I was looking for something to do, some way I could help people. I didn’t want to just sit around living off my pension and gardening. It sounds really corny and noble, doesn’t it?”

I had to laugh. “It does. It really does.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? I was just about to go up for a refill.”

“Okay. Coffee.”

While Susan went up to the counter, I studied the crowd. Normal people having a normal day. I recognized a former student who didn’t look over at me, and a colleague from another department who waved and went back to his laptop. And there I was talking to a complete stranger about the most important thing in my life.

Susan returned and placed a mug before me. “So,” she said, “what’s it been like since you were on TV?”

“Not what I was hoping for,” I said.

She didn’t say anything. She just held that steady, considering gaze on me, the one that said she was ready to hear anything and everything I might have to say. Before I knew it, I was saying more.

“The sketch and the press conference led to a lot of crank calls and not very helpful information. People claiming to see Caitlin’s ghost, or perverts saying they had Caitlin with them right there. I know it’s not unusual for that to happen.”

“No, it’s not,” Susan said. “It makes people feel important, even the pranksters.”

“Has anyone in your family ever been the victim of a violent crime?” I asked.

“We’ve been lucky.” She sipped from her mug. “We don’t have to talk about your daughter,” she said. “We can talk about other things. We can talk about your job, for example. I saw in the paper you teach at the university. What’s that like?”

“Oh, God,” I said. “No one wants to hear about that. I’m writing a book on Nathaniel Hawthorne. That should tell you all you need to know.”

“I love to read,” she said. “I was a literature minor-”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” I said. Despite Susan’s openness, a discomfort gnawed at my insides, a raw rubbing I couldn’t shake. Being there and talking felt unnatural to me. “Maybe this isn’t the best thing for me. It’s unusual-” I stopped and turned away from Susan, letting my gaze wander out the window to the traffic circling the square. I felt muddled and unfocused. “You’re a complete stranger, and I’m somewhat of a private person.”

“I understand that this is difficult,” she said. “We can talk about the weather if you’d like.”

“I don’t know. It’s just. . this sketch, the drawing of this man. It’s the best lead we’ve had, you know? But in some ways it’s making things worse for me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Susan Goff didn’t say anything. She just sat there, coffee mug before her, waiting.

“I’m afraid,” I said finally.

“Of what?”

I paused. “I’m afraid if I admit my doubts, they’ll become reality.”

She kept her steady gaze on me. “What are you afraid of?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t say it. I refused to say it.

“Are you afraid she’s dead?” Susan asked.

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just say that to somebody. You can’t just be so cavalier about it.”

Susan straightened a little in her chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus.”

“Maybe I’m overstepping too soon.”

“Maybe.”