All Merri’s lists of should haves and must do’s were an endless parade. So, in the end she neither relaxed nor hiked. She wound up sitting down with a book; which was okay and a bit of a luxury in and of itself.
But part of her was keeping vigil, just waiting for them to come back. She could envision them coming through the door. One of them would almost certainly have skinned a knee or have incurred some other minor injury. There would have been some kind of drama; Wolf would be out of sorts that the outing had been nothing like he’d imagined it. Perhaps because he always treated the kids like they were twenty-year-olds who didn’t need his assistance in any way—when they needed his assistance in almost every way. Jackson maybe less so. But Abbey was a little drama queen—no event could occur without some theater from their girl.
Merri read awhile, did some crunches. Then she walked over to the refrigerator, thinking she could whip up something great for dinner. But they needed another trip to the store. Maybe she’d take the car into town. She tried not to think about the bottle of little blue pills in her bag, the one she’d promised not to bring with her. She’d taken too many already, couldn’t take more. She waited as the shadows started to grow long. The light had taken on a particular pretty golden quality when she started to worry a little.
*
“Fine,” Wolf said now. “If you think it will help.”
He stopped short of saying “help you.” Wolf had given up on Abbey. No, that wasn’t true and wasn’t fair. He’d closed off the part of himself that was alternately raging and catatonic with grief. Part of him had died; she could see it in his eyes, which grew haunted in the evenings. The other part had slipped into survival mode. He’d slowed his life down to one day at a time—home and family. As far as she could see, he did nothing but work and take care of Jackson, try to take care of Merri.
He’d forced them all to move out of the Upper West Side building that had been their home for fifteen years and into this loft. Too many memories, stagnation, clinging to a past that was gone, one way or another. She’d raged at him. How could they leave their home, pack up her room? The only solid thing left in their lives. The callousness of it rocked her. What would Abbey think when she came back and found that they’d moved her things to another home, put her iPod Touch, her first teddy bear, her endless rows of books, her school uniforms, her dresses—into a room that she’d never seen.
“None of that matters,” said Wolf. “Can’t you see how worthless it all is? Without her energy, it’s just junk. If—when—she comes home, no matter what, we’ll all need a fresh start. Especially Abbey.”
Wolf had been adamant; even Jackson seemed eager to move on. But their son had always been desperate to please his father. He’d do anything Wolf wanted; the man could do no wrong.
That’s when she left—not left, exactly. She didn’t have another place to live. She was homeless; when she didn’t sleep here, she slept in her car somewhere up by the cabin. How could she have a home, a life, when her daughter was missing, when every moment she wasn’t in motion, doing something, she was imagining every possible horror?
“I want to go up there for a couple of weeks,” she said.
This was it; this was her life. Gone were the normal routines that once seemed as immutable as the rising and setting of the sun—make breakfast, take the kids to school, hit the gym, work till lunch, eat, get the kids, run around to various after school activities, work again after the kids went to sleep. How hectic it all seemed, such a grind sometimes—dishes, laundry, homework, clean your room, did you remember to do this or that or the other thing. The task list only grew, as soon as one thing was accomplished, three other things were added. Holidays and school events, birthday parties, and parent-teacher conferences. How beautiful and distant it all seemed now, like a village you saw from a cliff, far below and nestled in rolling green hills. She wanted to go back there, but it was too far.
“What about Jackson?” Wolf said.
She bit back the rise of sadness, helpless rage, that feeling of constantly being pulled apart. “I need to do this,” she said. “For her.”
He blew out a big breath, sad and hopeless, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes. His thick curls fell in a careless tousle. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. She liked him best like this—rumpled, tired. This was the real Wolf. The one who didn’t feel like he had to put on a show of himself—adventurer, travel writer, Ivy League–educated man of the world.
“And if nothing?” he asked. Just a whisper, like they were speaking to each other in church.
She’d anticipated that question, had thought about making grand promises, that she’d try to move forward, that she wouldn’t spend so much time up there, that she’d start therapy again, doctor of his choice. But she didn’t have the energy to make promises she didn’t mean.