“Anything,” Caitlin said. “You just don’t know anything. Either one of you. You’re both a couple of fucking idiots.”
Abby let her eyes linger on Caitlin a moment longer; then she turned back. “I guess I don’t know anything, do I? I want to. Very much, Caitlin. But I’m trying to remind myself that there are things in this life I just won’t know or understand. And I guess I’m okay with that. I’ve tried to accept it.” She turned a little, back toward Caitlin. “But the less you talk to us, the more you have to talk to the police. And you know how that’s been going. So really it is your choice. I hope you understand that.”
With that, Abby climbed out of the car. We sat and watched while she disappeared into the building. When she was gone, I dropped the car into gear and headed out of the lot.
“How do you feel about skipping out on the shrink today?” I asked. “Seriously. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Where?”
I was out in traffic now, heading back toward town. “To see a friend of mine,” I said, trying to sound normal, almost cheery.
“You have a friend?”
“It’s either the friend or the shrink,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice. “You pick.”
“I pick neither.”
“Then it’s Rosenbaum.” I paused. “But she’ll be disappointed. She wants to meet you.”
“Your friend’s a woman? Is she your girlfriend?”
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
She clammed up and sat back against the seat. I kept driving, leaving her to her own devices. After a few minutes, she spoke up. “I did talk to him because I was pissed at you,” she said. “You’re right.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Is it weird for Mom to have a boyfriend?” she asked.
“You think he’s her boyfriend?”
“He is. She told me.” She waited a beat. “She said she loves him.”
“Bullshit.”
“She does. I can tell she loves him.”
“You mean the way you love John Colter?” I asked.
She looked out the window. “It’s not like that at all,” she said, almost dreamy. “You’ve never been away from someone you love.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Who?”
“You.”
I waited for a response and again looked for one in the mirror. This time, I thought—hoped—I saw something there, some registering of emotion. A slight swallow, a blinking of her eyes, a flush to her cheeks.
But she said nothing. She stared out the window, silent.
I called Susan from the car and explained what I wanted to do and who was with me. We agreed it wouldn’t be a good idea to meet in public again, so she gave me directions to her house. Susan lived in a small bungalow not far from campus in a neighborhood dominated by run-down student rentals. Her house was the nicest and best kept on the street.
When I parked in front of the house and turned the car off, I said to Caitlin, “We’re here.”
“Who is this?” she asked. “Someone you work with?”
“No.”
“Is she a shrink? I’m tired of that.”
“She tries to help people figure stuff out.”
“Sounds like a shrink,” she said. “Have you figured anything out?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m sort of in the middle of things.” I looked back at her. “Do you want to go in and talk to her?”
Susan must have seen the car pull up. She came out onto the broad front porch that stretched the length of the house. She wore the same plain pants she always wore and an oversized flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She held up her hand and gave us a tentative wave.
“She kind of looks like a man,” Caitlin said.
“She’s not,” I said. “In fact, I thought you might like to talk to a woman for a change. I know these things can be difficult to talk about, especially with men. Maybe a female perspective would help.”
Caitlin seemed to be considering this. She nodded. “Okay. I’ll hear what she has to say. Anything’s better than that idiot shrink.” She reached for her door handle.
“Hold on,” I said.
She let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m not running off. Don’t worry.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “I want to tell you something.”
She settled back against the seat, her eyes cautious.
“I know I shouldn’t have hit you the other day,” I said. I chose my words carefully. “But I was angry. You know, as a parent, I feel responsible for everything that happens to you. I feel like there must be something I could have done differently, and if so, we would have gone down a different path. You might have gone down a different path.”
“What’s wrong with the path I went down?” she asked.
“You were gone for four years. We missed you. We lost you.”
“You mean you didn’t choose it for me.”
“Nobody chose it,” I said. “I know that.”