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.
Her voice sounded distant and small from the backseat. I looked in the rearview mirror, but she was still staring out the window. Abby turned back toward her.
“People bring food at happy times, too,” she said. “Like when a baby is born.”
I watched in the rearview mirror when I could. Caitlin didn’t move her head or make any effort to look at Abby.
“You know,” Abby said, “this is kind of like you were born again, though. Isn’t it?”
“Kind of like the Prodigal Son, right?” Caitlin said. “You used to tell me about that.”
“Right,” Abby said, brightening. “You remember that story from when you were little, don’t you?”
Caitlin didn’t answer. Abby didn’t get discouraged.
“Honey?” she asked. “Have you been going to school? Or church?”
I alternated my eyes from the road to the rearview mirror and back again.
“No,” Caitlin said. “And I didn’t miss it either.”
“Well,” Abby said, trying to remain cheerful and not succeeding very well. “We can certainly take care of that one of these days.” She turned back around, and I kept my eyes on the road as well.
When we reached the house, I asked Abby to give me a moment alone in the car with Caitlin.
“Sure,” Abby said, but she didn’t leave right away. She moved her eyes between the two of us, considering us. Then she went to the trunk, gathered the bags, and headed inside, leaving me alone with Caitlin.
“Caitlin?” I said. She didn’t move. “I know you can hear me, right?” Nothing. “Okay. I’ll assume you can.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry if I upset you last night when I showed you that sketch and asked you those questions. I just want to make sure you’re okay, and if someone hurt you or did something to you, I want to know-I want you to know-that, whoever he is, that person is going to be punished and held accountable. We taught you that when you were little, and it hasn’t changed. People are accountable for what they do, and they suffer the consequences for their actions.” My awkward position brought a crick to my neck. “Are you hearing me? Do you understand what I’m saying?” My voice started to rise, but I brought it under control. “Well?”
“You’re not going to ask me anymore?” she said, her voice low and steady. “Those bullshit questions?”
I took a deep breath.
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
She pushed open the car door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind her.