By the time I reached the side of our house and came around into the front yard, rain had started to fall. Thick, pelting drops splattered against my face and into my hair. My breath came in jerking huffs. My one open eye blurred and burned from the tears. And I finally reached a point, standing on the side of the house, where I decided I just couldn’t go on anymore. I let the wind push me back, let my body go slack and loose, and I sat down in the grass, my hand still pressed against my eye. I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was going to die right there, that my life was going to end in the storm, in the side yard of our house.
I don’t know how long I sat there. It couldn’t have been very long, because I don’t remember getting very wet. But at some point I looked up and there he was. My father, standing over me, his face creased with concern. I thought he was angry with me for being out in the rain, but he didn’t say or do anything to indicate anger. Instead, he bent down and gathered me in his arms and squeezed me tight against his chest. I went limp in his grip and buried my head against the side of his neck. I breathed in his familiar scent, and in that moment I knew what it meant to be home. To be protected. To be safe. And long after my father died and this became the only solid memory of him I carried with me, I used this moment as a measuring stick, a guide to remind me of what a father was supposed to be.
Chapter Eighteen
The business card with Susan Goff’s name sat on the kitchen table amid the crumbs and the morning paper.
I had picked up the phone twice and put it down twice, changing my mind, before I finally placed the call.
I was alone in the house. Really alone. Abby had been gone three weeks. Whenever I called Ryan for updates, he offered nothing new and told me to be patient. Liann e-mailed me a few times, just checking in, as she put it, but the lack of developments didn’t give us much to talk about. And my occasional trips to campus only reminded me of how little interest I had in writing a book about Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Susan Goff answered her phone with a bright, energetic voice that made it tough for me to estimate her age. She could have been in her twenties, or she could have been pushing sixty. But her enthusiastic greeting did have one effect—it disarmed me and made me more at ease than I’d expected to be.
“I was referred to you by a friend,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said. “What can I help you with?”
“I don’t know. Do we set up an appointment or something?”
“Yes, of course. But just a casual chat. I hate the word ‘appointment.’ It sounds so businesslike. Don’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Okay. Well, just so you know, my name is Tom Stuart, and I’m calling because of my daughter.” I started to tell her the details of Caitlin’s disappearance, thinking she would want to know them up front, but she gently interrupted me.
“Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, I know who you are. Yes, yes.”
“You’ve heard about it on the news.”
“Yes.” She paused. “From the news. And Tracy told me she’d be giving you my card. This is so very sad. I’m so very sorry for this.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It was Tracy who referred me to you.”
“And have you been seeing someone else? A professional therapist?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You need to know up front that I’m not a licensed therapist or a professional counselor. If you need that, I can’t help you.” She laughed a little, a self-deprecating sound. “I volunteer through the police department, but I don’t work strictly for them. I’m not any kind of police officer, and I don’t investigate crimes. In fact, I don’t just work with the victims of crime. I might work with someone who has a loved one who has committed suicide. Or families that have lost someone in an accident. That sort of thing.” She made it sound as casual as helping someone choose wallpaper.
“So you’re just a person who helps people?” I asked. “Couldn’t I just go out in the street and start talking to someone?”
“I’ve been trained,” she said. “They don’t just throw us out into the community and turn us loose on people in their most vulnerable moments. That wouldn’t make much sense, would it?”
“Do you hold a license or degree in something?” I asked.
“Everyone in Volunteer Victim Services goes through an eight-week training session. At least once a year we go back for a continuing ed course, and we all have criminal background checks. Hell, once a month I pee in a cup so the state of Ohio knows I’m not doing any illicit drugs. It’s all to give us a grounding in the basics of helping people in need.”
“And what do you do for them?” I asked. “What can you . . . ?”
“What can I do for you?” she asked. “I’m really just a support system, Mr. Stuart. Someone to listen to your problems. You know, the police officers are so busy with other aspects of the cases they work on. The investigating, the testifying, the prosecuting. That’s not what I do. Mostly I listen. I try not to judge or offer heavy opinions, but if you ask me for one, I’ll share it. That’s up to you. Does that sound like something you would be interested in?”