Julia's Daughters (12 page)

Chapter 19

Julia

 

“I guess I'll see how it goes,” I say to Laney on the phone. I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom. I'm trying to finish packing, but I can't seem to do two things at once: talk and pack. In my old, pre-Caitlin's-death life I could do ten things at once. “But I'll let you know where we are. My plan is to take about a week, maybe go see some sights on our way. I don't know. The Grand Canyon or something. I guess it depends on which way we go.”

“See who throws whom off a cliff first, you or Haley?” she teases.

“I hope not,” I say, feeling a moment of wavering. “Is this really a good idea? Taking my obviously troubled daughter on a cross-country trip? Once I get her in the car, then what? What if she refuses to speak to me for three thousand miles? What if she doesn't? I have no idea what to say to her. God, Laney, she's so much like I was.”

“Minus the black eye pencil,” Laney quips.

“Minus the black eye pencil,” I agree. “If I had been in her position, at her age, I'd have been wracked with guilt too. What do I say to her? How do I help her get through this?”

“You can do this,” Laney tells me softly into my ear. “I don't know what to tell you to say, but I know you'll know when the time comes. You're a good mother, Jules.”

I hear footsteps and glance up to see Ben walking in the bedroom.

He goes to close the door.

“Leave it open,” I tell him, moving my cell away from my mouth so I'm not shouting in Laney's ear.

He stands there looking at me.

I say into the phone, “How about if I give you a call tomorrow night?”

“Promise me. No incommunicado, Jules. You have to promise me.”

“I promise. Thanks for calling back. I know it's late.”

“Never too late. Never. I'm glad you're coming, Jules.” She sounds emotional. “You're doing the right thing.”

I don't know if that's true or not, but at least I'm doing
something.
And the fact that Laney thinks I'm doing the right thing makes me feel better. Less like a lunatic, at least. And Laney didn't have any doubt that I could manage to drive my daughter and myself across country and manage to find Maine without being raped and murdered, our bodies left alongside the road. “Thanks, Laney. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” I hang up and toss my cell on the bed.

“What's with the door?” Ben gestures to it. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“We'll just have to talk quietly. I don't trust her. I wouldn't put it past her to run away.” I go to my nightstand and unplug my Kindle from its charger. The battery was dead. I hadn't opened it since Caitlin died, which seems odd when I think about it. I've always been an avid reader. I used to read a book a week, sometimes more. I don't know why I want to take it with me. “I sent an e-mail to Joe, resigning,” I tell him.

“You didn't even call him?
Jules.
”

I ignore his tone, a mix of condemnation and disappointment. “I wasn't up to it.”

He watches me wind up the charger. “So you're really doing this?” he asks, still glued to the same spot, in our bedroom, but not
really
in our bedroom, hovering near the open door. Not quite fully committed. A reflection of our relationship?

“I'm doing it.” I nod harder than I need to and we meet each other's gazes. He's upset with me. But I'm not sure exactly why. I don't think it's because he's certain getting Haley into counseling right away is our best course of action. I feel like my taking Haley to Maine is . . . an inconvenience. An inconvenience because he'll have to do something with Izzy. An inconvenience because he'll have to tell his mother what his crazy wife has done with his crazy daughter.

I don't like the idea that somewhere deep inside, the idea that I'm going to tick off his mother gives me a little thrill.

He rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “Jules . . .” He says it in a sigh. As if he's trying to get up enough energy to care.

I wish he'd yell. At least then I'd know he
did
care. I don't mind if he disagrees with me. I just want him to feel something,
anything,
strongly. I want to think that this . . . his seeming
lack of caring,
about anything, is a result of the loss of our daughter. But I know that's not true. I saw signs of it before Caitlin died. Months ago . . . years ago.

Like our sex life, I can't exactly put my finger on when things changed. Or why. I think it must have happened sometime around when Haley went to high school. I took the part-time job. Ben started putting more hours in at work and fewer hours in at home. His explanations (or excuses?) were completely reasonable; the family business took a big hit when the economy floundered and then didn't recover. He and his brothers went back to working on properties instead of managing from the front seats of their pickups. And when Ben came home, he was tired; he didn't want to hear about my boring day filled with numbers from my accounting job, or tracking down the right kind of glitter for the new skirts I was making for Caitlin's cheer team. And to be fair to Ben, I didn't press it. He was giving more time to his business and his brothers and mother, but I didn't challenge it. If I'm painfully honest with myself, maybe I even contributed to the fractures in our relationship. We stopped going out on dates by mutual consent; we were both so busy. Dinner out was expensive; the money could be better spent on braces or a new refrigerator. Both of us were full of excuses and explanations to justify ourselves and our behavior toward each other.

Ben and I stand there facing each other and I think about all we've been through over the years, the good and the bad, and a sense of nostalgia passes over me. When we get past this, when I feel like Haley is stable, I wonder if maybe Ben and I should look into marriage counseling. Maybe we just need a little help finding our way back to each other. I know I love him. I think he loves me. But I feel as if we're so far apart right now, even standing so close.

“And you're going to just leave Izzy?” he asks.

“You say that like I'm moving to Australia. I'm not
leaving
Izzy.” I throw up both my hands. “Haley and I are going to Maine. We'll be back.”

“You tell Izz?”

I lower my hands to my bony hips. “She's not too happy with me. She wants to go.”

“That's a bad idea.” He walks over to his dresser where I've stacked a pile of his boxer briefs and socks. I actually washed some clothes today for the sake of washing, not because the cat puked on stuff.

“I explained to Izzy that Haley needed to get away from here for a few days and that she was staying here with you. I hung your polos in your closet.”

“Thanks.” He doesn't smile when he says it.

I stand in the middle of the room, wondering what I should have packed that I've forgotten. It feels strange to just have a small bag, but this isn't a vacation. I don't need bathing suits or ski pants. I just need clothes to cover my body. I think I have what I need. My toiletry bag is on the bathroom sink; I'll throw it in my bag in the morning. I guess anything I've forgotten, I can buy. I've got a credit card.

“You wanted to talk to me about something,” I remind him.

His back is to me. He's putting away his clothes. “I wanted to discuss alternatives to driving to Maine, but I guess you've made up your mind.”

“I guess I have.” I run my hand through my hair, realizing how tired I am. I walk over to my bed and pick up my pillow.

“Where you going with that?” he asks.

I hug the pillow to me. “I'm sleeping with Haley. I don't want her sneaking out in the middle of the night.” I drift toward the door, thinking there must be something else we should be saying to each other. After all, I'm not just leaving Izzy behind, I'm leaving him, too.

He throws socks into a drawer. “I'm surprised she didn't climb out the window already.”

“Couldn't. I nailed it shut from the outside.”

“You did
what?
”

In the doorway, I turn to him, hugging my pillow to my chest. He's got that look on his face again. Like I'm crazy. It didn't seem like a crazy idea when I did it. It seemed logical. Listening to Haley's muffled protests from the other side of the window was almost funny.

“I got two big nails out of the shed and drove them into the windowsills on the outside so her windows won't open.”

“And now you're sleeping with her.” He looks over his shoulder at me.

I think about it, considering for a split second that maybe it
was
overkill. It's not. Haley's angry. She's also scared. Not just to be in a car alone with me, but with herself. I think being scared is what will make her run if she gets the opportunity. “Yes.”

He turns away from me, shaking his head.

I go in to walk down the hallway, feeling a little bit like a mother lion protecting her cub. Right now, protecting Haley from the outside world seems fairly simple. I wonder, though, how a mother lion protects her cub from herself.

 

 

 

Morning comes quicker than I expect.

I slept in Haley's double bed with her, ignoring her protests and the pillow she wedged between us for fear I might bump into her while she slept. I even escorted her to the bathroom in the middle of the night and this morning, when she insisted she needed a shower, stalling I'm sure; I went in with her. I looked for sharp objects she might be able to use to cut herself and confiscated cuticle scissors and two pairs of tweezers. I told her to leave the door unlocked. When she made a smart-ass comment about needing privacy to shower, I showed her the little key over the doorjamb. She slammed the bathroom door in my face, but I had gotten the upper hand and we both knew it.

With Haley in the shower, I knock on Izzy's door. “You up?” I call.

“I'm up!” she hollers. I can hear her jump out of bed. “Getting dressed.”

I rest my hand on her door, considering going in and trying to talk to her again. Trying to explain why I have to do this.

Instead, I go down the hallway to Caitlin's room, hesitate, then open the door. But I don't go in. I just stand there on the threshold, like my husband, not fully committed. I want to go in, but I'm not sure I should. I'm afraid if I do, the pain that's overwhelmed me for the last fifty-one days will swallow me up. And I can't let that happen. I can't for the sake of my other teen daughter who needs me. I can't for the sake of my family.

Caitlin's room looks as it did the day she died, minus the dirty clothes on the floor that I know Ben picked up. Her bed is still unmade. There's an open calculus book on her desk and her school backpack hangs over a chair. There's even a water glass still sitting on her nightstand. It's empty. I stare at it thinking that if I bring it to my lips, I might touch where her lips had been.

I close my eyes for a second and grip the doorjamb. I need to clean out her room. It's time. It's not healthy to let her room sit like this, like she's coming back, because she's not. Haley and Izzy need to take what they want of hers and I need to pack up her things and donate them.

But not today. When we come back, I'll do it.

I back up to go, afraid that if I stand here too long, I'll climb into her bed, where the sheets still smell faintly of her, and I won't be able to climb out. As I pull the door shut, I catch a glimpse of bright pink. Caitlin's running shoes. On impulse, I grab them. I have no idea why. She and I wear . . .
wore
the same size. Holding her sneaks with two fingers, I close the door. I stuff the running shoes in my bag on the bed. I'm already dressed. I grab my phone and slip it into my jeans pocket, pick up the bag with my purse in it, and head for the kitchen.

Ben's leaning on the counter reading the newspaper. Like it's any other day. “Coffee's made,” he says without looking up.

“Thanks.” I drop my bag on the floor and retrieve a mug from the cabinet. I keep stealing glances his way. I feel like I should say something. Like
we
should say something to each other. I watch him. Head down, eyes on the paper, he picks up his mug, brings it to his mouth, and takes a sip, slurping a little. He's always had good table manners, good manners in general, but the slurp irritates me. Always has.

He swallows and puts the mug down again. I can't remember the last time he pressed his mouth to mine. Just before Christmas, maybe? We both got a little drunk at a neighbor's party. We had sex when we got back here. Not great sex, but when is drunk sex ever great after you get out of your teens? It was the last time we touched intimately. And that makes me sad. We had such a good sex life for so many years. I miss it.

I walk over to lay my hand on his on the counter. It takes him a second to look up. “Two weeks,” I say quietly. “That's all we'll be gone. Just two weeks.”

He doesn't take my hand in his or make any attempt to touch me. He just keeps his hand there on the counter. “You think you can fix her in two weeks?”

I shake my head. “No. Of course not, but . . .” I pull my hand away, feeling silly. Clearly he's angry with me. He doesn't want to touch me. He doesn't want to be touched. “But maybe if I can get her to talk—” I stop and start again. “If I can get her away from here, away from all the things that remind her of Caitlin every minute she's awake, maybe we can work through some of her feelings. Maybe . . .” The truth is that I don't know exactly what I think I'm going to accomplish. I just know I have to do this.