“What are you doing here?” I remained standing, watching him.
“I came to see my niece. I’m family, too. Remember? I know sometimes you want to act like we’re not, but we are, even if you want to deny it.”
My hand was on his shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d reached out to hold him, but my grip was tight. I let go.
“No more interrogating, okay?”
“Okay. Jesus.” He stared into his mug. “She looks different.”
“She’s older.”
“She’s skinny. Worn. Like she’s been through it. And she has that awful, dykey haircut. What are the cops saying?”
I went over to the table and sat at the opposite end from him. “I don’t know. All we do is hurry up and wait.”
“We’ll never know what happened to her,” he said. “The cops, they’re never going to get anywhere.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, studying his face.
“Do they think she ran away?”
“Maybe.”
“Or they think I did it, right? They’re chasing their tails.”
“She’s back,” I said. “That’s what’s important.”
But the words felt put on, like I was speaking lines from a script.
I heard Caitlin and Abby on the stairs, then in the kitchen. Before they entered the dining room, Buster said, “You keep telling yourself that, Tom. Just go ahead and keep telling yourself that.”
I knew it would bother Abby, so I asked Buster to stay and eat with us. The four of us sat down at the table together, facing a meal of ham, scalloped potatoes, and green beans left by someone from Abby’s church. Between the church and some neighbors, we had enough food to last for weeks. We were all ready to eat, even Caitlin, but Abby bowed her head and closed her eyes. She reached out for Caitlin’s hand, and I was happy to see that Caitlin made no effort to return the gesture. Instead, she grabbed her fork and started eating while Abby murmured a prayer, her eyes shut so tight it looked like it hurt. When Abby opened her eyes again and saw Caitlin eating already, she pursed her lips a little but didn’t say anything.
Caitlin’s eating made me cringe, but for a different reason. She ate quickly, shoveling the food from the plate to her mouth with the rapidity of an automated machine. She didn’t pause long enough to take a breath or use a napkin to wipe her face. And when she chewed, she kept her mouth open wide, the food on display for all to see, her teeth and lips making smacking sounds that would have put Frosty to shame. Abby and I had ridden Caitlin hard when she was little, making sure she knew good table manners, but it was all out the window now. She conducted herself like she’d been living in a zoo for four years. Abby and I didn’t even bother to look at each other during the meal. We each knew what the other was thinking.
All that effort wasted . . .
But Buster spoke up.
“Settle down there, girl. You’re eating like the Iraqis are coming up I-75.”
Caitlin ignored him and kept going.
She did look better in her new clothes—a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and new sneakers. She didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge any of the mindless conversation the three of us made, and when her plate was clean, she laid her fork aside and belched. She began fidgeting with a necklace. It was a simple gold chain with a small amber stone. Topaz maybe? She took the stone between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it back and forth on the chain.
“That’s pretty,” Abby said, her teeth gritted just a little.
Caitlin just nodded.
I watched Caitlin swing it back and forth, a nervous tic. I wanted to know what made her touch it that way and who she thought of when she held it.
“That’s your birthstone,” Abby said. She kept eating, but the skin around her mouth drew tight. She looked like she was chewing broken glass. “Very pretty, very pretty.”
Detective Ryan called as we were finishing our meal. He said he was on his way over to talk to us, the sooner the better. I shared this with everyone when I hung up the phone. Buster poured himself another cup of coffee, but he squirmed in his seat and checked the clock on his cell phone repeatedly. Finally, he stood up and said he was leaving.
“Really?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay and find out what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to stay and get hassled by the cops. Besides, I have the drive back. . . .”
“Makes sense,” Abby said.
Buster bent down and gave Caitlin a hug.
“We’ll talk soon,” he said.
She nodded, almost smiling.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
I walked with him to the front door. “We took her to a psychiatrist today, and she didn’t say a word.”
“A shrink? Really? Jesus, Tom. That’s worse than that fruity pastor at Abby’s church. What’s he going to do for you?”
“He can tell us what’s wrong, or get her to tell us what happened.”
“You need a shrink for that?”
The doorbell rang.
“Shit,” Buster said. “I should slip out the back.”