“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?”