They clinked glasses and chatted about mindless things. Catching-up things. Whatever-happened-to sort of things. He watched her keenly as the conversation meandered over familiar territory—friends, relatives, local businesses changing hands, obituaries. Finally, they ran out of topics.
Kate tensed, not knowing where to begin. How to broach the subject. So she ran headlong into it and said, “Henry Blackwood’s going to be executed soon.”
Bram nodded solemnly. “Next week.”
“Did you get an invitation from the Department of Corrections?”
“I threw it away.”
“Me too.”
“I’d be satisfied just to hear about it on the news.”
“Dad?” she hedged. “Do you think it’s possible he didn’t do it?”
He stared at her. He put down his fork. An oppressive weariness came over him. “Who’ve you been talking to? Is it those anti-death-penalty people? They’re relentless. That’s why I screen my calls.”
“No,” she muttered. “It’s just that over the years, a few other girls from the area have gone missing… or turned up dead… Hannah Lloyd and Makayla Brayden… and I was wondering if you thought it was possible—”
“No,” he said stiffly. “Not possible.”
“But, Dad…”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Kate.”
She felt his anger like a splash of cold water.
“Is that why you came home? Because you’re wasting your time.”
“Wasting my time?” she repeated. James was right. Nothing ever changed.
They ate the rest of their meal in sullen silence. In between bites, her father gazed out the window. As the silence solidified between them, he began to relax. His shoulders lost their tension. His face released its tight lines. He seemed to take comfort in the growing distance between them.
A sourness settled into her stomach. Back in Boston, Kate was a doctor. Here, she was a doctor’s daughter. Back in Boston, she cured sick children. Here, her sick mother could never be cured. Here she was an object of pity. A nobody. A nothing.
After lunch, she went upstairs to wash up. The floorboards creaked in all the familiar places as she approached Savannah’s bedroom at the end of the hallway. She paused on the threshold and recalled the night she’d lost her little shadow.
Where are we going, Kate? What’s the big deal?
Shh. Promise you won’t tell.
I won’t! I promise.
We’ll get into trouble if Dad finds out.
I won’t tell a soul! Where are we going?
Savannah had been bursting with excitement at the prospect of a nighttime car ride. Yay! Cool! She was up for anything. Their father was working late, as usual, and Kate had just gotten her driver’s license.
Can you keep a secret?
Yes!
It’s totally confidential.
My lips are sealed. See? I’m throwing away the key.
Now Kate went over to the bureau where Savannah’s old Magic Eight Ball sat gathering dust. She picked it up and turned it over. Reply hazy, try again. Savannah’s beat-up skateboard stood on its leading edge in a corner of the room. Her old-fashioned canopy bed held a jumble of Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls. On the nightstand was her cherished Hello Kitty backpack, its yellow Nickelodeon button still pinned to the strap. The room hadn’t changed in sixteen years. Savannah would’ve been twenty-eight years old today. A beautiful swan.
Kate put the Magic Eight Ball down and opened the dusty cigar box full of things her sister used to collect—marbles, feathers, insect casings, a headless doll. The china doll used to be hers, except one day it disappeared. Kate only found out where it went after Savannah’s death. The doll minus its head belonged to Savannah now.
She went to stand in front of the drafty old-fashioned windows overlooking the backyard. Through hairline cracks in the glass, she spotted her favorite tree—a muscular oak with fort-like branches. And there was the old shed where they stashed their bikes and roller-skates. Nothing had changed, and yet her sister’s absence was deafening.
She felt a chill creep over her as she hurried downstairs. “Dad?”
“In the living room.” He’d settled into his favorite armchair, a cracked-leather monstrosity. His polished loafers were parked on the threadbare rug and his feet were crossed on the matching ottoman. His socks were brown. He rested heavy sections of The New York Times in his lap and peered at her over his reading glasses. He wore a look of polite resistance—she was interfering with his routine.
“Can we talk?” she asked. “I mean really talk?”
He shook his head. “Not about that.”
“No, Dad,” she agreed. “Not about that.”
“Because I refuse to pick at old scabs.”
“Okay. No picking. I promise.”
“All right.” He put the newspaper down. “I’m all ears.” He had aged quite a bit in her absence. His hairline had receded, his paunch was a little rounder, and his jowls sagged. Gravity was winning.
She plopped down in the wingback chair and confessed, “It’s been hard for me to come home after having lost so much at such a young age… It’s not easy to overcome.”
“No,” he said soberly. “I don’t expect it would be.”
“But I have a few questions about those early years. Do you mind?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I have any answers, but go ahead.”
“I remember feeling an undercurrent of tension between you and Mom.”
“I loved your mother.”
“I know. But she wasn’t always happy, was she?”
He shrugged. “Nobody’s happy all the time.”
“True. But I sensed she wasn’t happy in her marriage.”
He rested one mottled hand over the other. “I can be a difficult guy,” he admitted.
“I realize her illness must’ve been hard on you…”
“I think that’s why you became a psychiatrist, Kate. To find out what went wrong.”
“Maybe,” she hedged. “But I also wanted to be a doctor like you.”
“Ah.” He nodded, as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Despite the fact that she’d asked for a stethoscope for her fifth birthday. The year after that, it was a microscope, so she could start preparing for her medical degree.
“What else would you like to talk about? You have my undivided attention.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Undivided?”
“Why? Don’t you think I’m listening?”
“Half of you is listening. The other half is dying to get back to the book review.”
He clasped his hands over the newspaper as if to prove that he didn’t care, but they both knew it wasn’t true. “I’m listening, Kate,” he said with a rubbery edge to his voice.
She heaved a frustrated sigh. “You may be listening, Dad, but we aren’t exactly connecting, are we?”
He squinted at her. “Is that my fault?”
“You have to admit, you were never the easiest person to get along with.”
“True.”
“And this is probably the longest conversation we’ve had in… I don’t know how many years.”
He shrugged. “I’m a busy guy. You’re a busy gal.”
Kate leaned back in her chair. “You never remarried,” she said. “Why not?”
“I never felt the urge, I guess. I loved your mother. That was enough.”
“I remember the two of you fighting a lot.”
“We didn’t fight.”
“Bickering. Arguing. Having a lot of disagreements.”
“‘A lot’ is a relative term,” he said. “To a child, it might seem like a lot. It was probably average.”
“That’s true.”
“Thanks, Kate. I’m glad that I could be right about something.”
“Sorry, was I being critical?”
“No. Just exacting. Like me.” He smiled.
“What precipitated Mom’s breakdown?”
“Don’t you remember? She became depressed to the point where she started hearing voices telling her to leave me. To leave us.” He squirmed. “Feels like I’m on the hot seat.”
“You said we could talk—”
“Relax. I was joking.”
“How am I supposed to know when you’re joking?”
“You don’t know?” he asked with disappointed eyes.
“No. You’re always so serious.”
His shoulders slouched. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I never know when you’re joking,” she admitted.
“Never? That’s pretty definitive.”
She felt defeated. “Well, anyway. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it. You look tired. Maybe we should call it quits?”
“Are you sure?”