“I came down hard on her last night.”
“This is before she ran away?” Rosenbaum asked.
“No, after.” I told him about it: grabbing the sketch and sticking it in Caitlin’s face, bringing her to tears. “Aren’t fathers supposed to ask those questions?”
“Yesterday, at the police station, Caitlin told Tom not to ever ask her any questions about where she’d been or what she’d been doing while she was gone,” Abby said.
“Very interesting,” Rosenbaum said. “And you said you’d honor that wish?”
“I did. At the time. Yes.” I tried to sound reasonable, to get them both to understand where I was coming from with the promise. “I was so thrilled to have her back, I would have said anything.”
Rosenbaum nodded, the wise sage. “I think it’s best if you honor that promise for now. If you make promises and don’t keep them, you’ll only widen the gap between the two of you.”
“But you’re going to get her to talk, right?” I asked.
“I’m going to try,” he said. “But she’s a teenager now, one with a lot of trust issues. At some point, I can’t force another person to say or do things they don’t want to say or do. Building trust with her will be a big key for both of you right now. It’s the best way to start to work against the events of the last four years. It’s like you’re starting from scratch in a way.”
“Don’t you think we should try to focus on the positive aspects of Caitlin being at home?” Abby asked. “We should welcome her and support her.”
“What do you think of that, Tom?”
I looked at Abby. “Abby and I are separated. Abby left me and moved out of our house. It’s tough for us to be supportive and put up a united front if I don’t know whether we’re united or not.”
Abby glared at me. “I’ve moved home for Caitlin’s sake,” she said. She turned back to Rosenbaum. “And we’ve already told Caitlin about our separation. She understands about our rough times, but we’re trying.”
“You know,” Rosenbaum said, “this process of recovery will be twice as difficult if there are unresolved issues between the two of you. We’re here for Caitlin, remember?”
“Okay,” I said. “I guess none of the other stuff is as important.”
“Abby?” Rosenbaum said.
“It’s not going to be a problem with me,” she said. “I’m focusing on the positive.”
Rosenbaum didn’t look entirely convinced, but he kept his concerns to himself. “Then I think we should go with that,” he said. “In the meantime . . .” He leaned over to his desk and picked up a prescription pad and pen. “I’d like to put Caitlin on an antianxiety drug, something to help her feel less defensive and more at ease in your home. It might even help her sleep.” He scribbled, then extended the paper toward us. Abby took it and put it in her purse. “And remember,” he said, “I’m also here to help the two of you. If either of you find yourselves struggling with this adjustment, you can give me a call. Or I can recommend someone.”
“Doctor?” I said. “One more thing. When Caitlin came home last night, she fell asleep in her old room. I heard her talking in her sleep. She said, ‘Don’t send me back.’ She said it over and over. What do you think of that?”
“You mean do I know who she was talking to?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, but experience tells me she probably wasn’t talking to you.” He asked if there was anything else. I couldn’t imagine there could be, so I let him walk us to the door.
Chapter Twenty-eight
We stopped at a department store on the way home to buy Caitlin clothes. Abby led the way. She took Caitlin into the young women’s section and picked out several pairs of jeans, shirts, and sweatshirts, as well as underwear, bras, and socks. They disappeared into a dressing room while I sat outside, watching older women with oversized purses hanging from their arms poke around on the sale racks.
How had this become my life?
How really, truly far gone was my daughter?
They came out with a stack of clothes, and Abby paid for them all with a credit card. I didn’t pay attention to the price. We then stopped in the shoe section, and we bought two pairs for Caitlin. I watched my daughter, hoping to see some glimpse of the child I once knew. A sign of joy or contentment, even vulnerability. It wasn’t there. At least not to my eyes. I remembered taking her to buy her first pair of soccer cleats. I remembered her excitement over getting a Happy Meal at McDonald’s. I remembered her squeals and her energy. None of that was there. No life, no happiness.
In the car, on the way home, Abby tried to converse. “We have plenty of food at home,” she said. “The neighbors have been bringing it by.”
A long pause. Abby started to turn around, but Caitlin’s voice stopped her.
“Like someone died,” she said.