Julia's Daughters (17 page)

“She'll be okay. She's a smart, strong girl. She's like her mother.”

I give a little laugh that sounds more like a stifled sob. “I don't feel strong. I sure don't feel smart. How did I miss this going on in my own home?”

“Quit beating yourself up. You
are
strong,” Laney tells me. “Otherwise, you couldn't have gotten out of your bed and into your car. You couldn't have gotten Haley in that car.”

“But threatening to have her committed?” I close my eyes for a second. “Tell me that's not going to be an interesting conversation later. When this is all over and we come out the other side.”

“But at least you'll be able to have that conversation later,” she tells me. “You'll still have your daughter to be able to have that conversation.”

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “You're right. I know you're right.”

“I am.” I hear her take a sip from her glass.
She's
having wine. “You think Haley's resolved herself to doing this, now that you've made it clear it's what you guys are doing?” she asks me.

“I think so.” I recall incidents from the day. “She's making it plain she's not happy with the situation, but I'm not worried she's climbing out the window anymore.”

“Hotel windows don't open. You don't have a balcony, do you?”

I chuckle. “Fourth floor. No balcony.” My phone beeps and I check the screen. I'm tempted not to even answer the other call when I see Ben's name. But I know that's not going to solve anything. “I gotta go. Ben's calling,” I tell Laney.

“Call me back if you need to.”

“I'll be okay. I'll call you tomorrow night.”

“Sooner if you need me,” she says.

I answer Ben's call.

“She took the cat?” he says when I say hello.

No “Hello.” No “How are things going?”

I lean the back of my head against the door, resolving to buy a bottle of wine tomorrow, somewhere, so I can have a glass tomorrow night. I decided after looking at the map on Caitlin's iPad at dinner that we are going to try to make it to Lincoln, Nebraska, tomorrow. It's probably going to take us twelve hours, with stops for my teeny-tiny bladder, but with the cat in the car, I've given up the idea of taking the scenic route. At this point, I just want to get to Maine with all three of us in one piece.

“Yup. She brought the cat,” I say into the phone. “By the time we heard him, it was too late to turn around. Why didn't you call me sooner, Ben? I called you hours ago.”

“So this is my fault?” He's angry.

And I'm tired. Too tired to fight with him. “It's fine. It'll be fine.” I sigh and brush back the hair that's fallen over my face. I actually looked at hair dye when we stopped to get the disposable cat litter box and a carrier for Mr. Cat. I didn't buy the hair dye, but I thought about it.

“You can't drive across the country with a cat in the car,” Ben says.

I get to my feet. I've left the girls alone long enough. I need to get back in the room. I need to go to bed because suddenly, I'm so tired, I can barely hold my head up. “Sure I can,” I say. “He was fine in the car. He rode on Izzy's lap all the way to Grand Junction. He was pretty tickled when we got the litter box, though.” It's my attempt at a little humor. Ben doesn't laugh.

“What are you doing, Julia?”

“What am I
doing?
What do you mean? I told you what I'm doing. I'm trying to help Haley. I'm trying . . .” I search for the right words, words that will make my husband of almost twenty years understand how broken I've become. How close I came to doing something worse than what Haley has been doing. “I actually think I made a little progress today. We talked about Caitlin and about how much we miss her.”

When Ben doesn't say anything, I go on. “You know, we haven't talked about her. Ben, why haven't we talked about Caitlin and . . . and how much we loved her and how much we miss her and . . .” I don't finish my sentence.

He's quiet for so long on the other end of the phone that I wonder if he hung up. But he hasn't. I can hear him breathing.

His voice cracks when he speaks and tears well in my eyes when I hear the pain in his voice.

“What's the point in talking about her, Jules? She's dead. Nothing we can do or say can change that.”

I take a shuddering breath. “The point is,
we're
not dead. The point is, we have to find a way to live without her, Ben. We have to find a way to help Izzy and Haley live without her. We have to find a way to help Haley forgive herself.”

He's quiet again, and then he says, “Call me tomorrow night?”

I guess that means our heart-to-heart conversation is over. “It might be late.”

“I'll wait up. Be careful.”

I hesitate. “I love you,” I say.

The phone clicks on the other end. I don't think he heard me. I consider calling him back, to say it, to make him hear me.

Instead, I let myself back into the room.

Chapter 28

Haley

 

Hamlet is the one who first came up with the idea of the Witching Time, in a soliloquy. I remember the words from English class:

Thank you, Billy Shakespeare. Mary Shelley is the one who changed it to the Witching
Hour
in
Frankenstein.
Most people don't know that.

It's supposed to be midnight.

For me, it's eleven o'clock. Probably around 11:03.

At 11:03 p.m. on February 17th, hell breathed its contagion on me and my whole family. I was chewing Caitlin out about her irresponsible behavior. The party. The guys. I was trying to decide what I was going to do with her, take her home or drive around for a while until she sobered up. That's what I was thinking when I missed the stop sign.

I stare at the digital clock on the nightstand beside the bed in our hotel room. The numerals are red. It's 11:01 now. In about two minutes, Caitlin will have been dead fifty-two days. Fifty-two days since my heart was knocked out of my chest by a Ford pickup truck and splattered on the pavement.

I rub my forearm on the spot that's crusty. I got some Band-Aids at Walmart tonight when we got the crap for the cat. I got big Band-Aids. I'm hoping that covering them up will make me want to do it less. I kind of want to cut myself now, but I don't have anything to do it with. And I know I shouldn't do it. And I don't want to do it. I don't want to be crazy. Of course, does anyone?

I glance at the other bed. There's a little bit of light coming through the curtains from the security lamps in the parking lot. Mom and Izzy are sound asleep. I can see Mom lying on her back with her blond hair all around her head on her pillow. Kind of like a halo. She's so pretty.

Izzy's curled up in a ball beside her, with Mr. Cat sleeping in her arms. Her red hair is all tangled and in her face. Mom said Mr. Cat had to stay in his carrier and that he couldn't sleep in the bed. I guess Mr. Cat wasn't going for it.

Izzy looks so young when she sleeps. Like when she was a toddler and she used to fall asleep on the couch with her head on my lap while I was watching TV. Mom would say she should go to sleep in her crib, that I was spoiling her, letting her fall asleep and then carrying her to bed. But I never minded. I liked the idea that I was so trustworthy, in Izzy's eyes, that she could relax and fall asleep on me. I know Izzy doesn't remember, but when she was little, I was the one who gave her snacks and played on the floor with her with her toys. I was her favorite sister. Caitlin was never mean to her or anything. I would never have allowed that. But Caitlin was never all that interested in her. She was always too into herself.

I glance in the direction of the window.

I texted Todd earlier. He said he was on his way. I gave him the address of the hotel. I asked him when he'd be here, but he didn't answer.

I check the iPad again. Nothing.

I'm thinking I should leave the hotel room now. Wait for Todd outside. Mom and Izzy are sound asleep. I don't think they'll hear me and if they do, I'll lie and say I'm just going down the hall to get a Coke.

Mom's going to be so upset when she wakes up and realizes I'm gone. I feel bad. But . . . this whole idea of driving to Maine with her and Izzy and that stupid cat? I'm just not into it. I don't want to talk about Caitlin. I don't want to talk about the accident. I get where Mom's coming from, but I don't want to feel better. I deserve to feel this shitty. I deserve it forever.

And they'll be better off without me, won't they? I mean, this is all my fault. Mom wouldn't have spent the last two months of her life crying in her bed if it weren't for me. And Izzy wouldn't be doing weird stuff like talking to herself, hiding under her bed, and smuggling cats across state lines in a Toyota.

I slip out of bed and look quickly at the other bed. Neither of them has moved. I think about changing into my jeans. Right now I'm wearing one of Caitlin's old T-shirts I like to sleep in and a pair of Izzy's sleep pants with Little Mermaids all over them. I didn't bring anything to sleep in. Mom didn't either. Izzy brought like six pairs of sleep pants. I have no idea why. So we all went to bed wearing Izzy's sleep pants. I got Little Mermaid, Mom got SpongeBob, and Izzy, Looney Tunes. I told her that was because she
is
a Looney Tune. She didn't laugh.

I decide to just put the jeans I wore today into my backpack and wear the sleep pants. It was stupid of me not to have packed more stuff. Talk about cutting off my nose to spite my face. I didn't bring stuff to take to Maine to annoy Mom. Now I'll be driving to Alaska with nothing to wear but two T-shirts, jeans, one set of underwear, and Little Mermaid sleep pants. Serves me right.

Standing by my bed, I feel around to find my black Converse low-tops. I slip one on, then the other, keeping an eye on Mom and Izzy. I grab Izzy's sweatshirt off the chair; I didn't even bring a hoodie. As I snag my backpack off the floor, I look back at the iPad lying on my bed. I should leave it here for Izzy, but without a phone, how will I get on the Internet or text anyone or anything? I guess Todd has his phone, but he's always doing dumb things with it like dropping it in a toilet or leaving it on the roof of his car and driving away. I don't like the idea of relying on his ability to hang on to his phone. I pick up the iPad and close the pink cover over the screen carefully.

I think about leaving Mom a note. There's a notepad and pen next to the TV. I saw it earlier. But what would I say? I'm sorry? For what?

I skip the note. Lame.

At the door, before I sneak out, I look back at the bed. Mom and Izzy haven't moved, but I catch a glimmer of light. Izzy's eyes. She's awake. And she's watching me.

My heart is suddenly banging in my chest. I don't know what to do. Do I just get back in bed? Pretend I was in the bathroom?

With my backpack and the iPad and wearing her sweatshirt? Izzy's a pretty bright girl. Smarter than me. She knows what's going down here.

But why doesn't she say anything? All she'd have to do is reach over and shake Mom. After that, even I can't guess what would happen. Would Mom call the cops and have me committed like she's threatened? Would we go back to Walmart and get some of those zip ties the cops use for disposable handcuffs? I wouldn't put it past Mom to handcuff me to the car, to the bed, to her.

I watch Izzy watching me and I realize she's not going to say a word. She's just going to let me go. I'm glad, obviously, because this will be better for everyone, long-term. But as I open the hotel room door and step out into the hall a profound sense of desolation comes over me and I walk to the elevator remembering what it was like to hold baby Izzy in my arms.

Chapter 29

Julia

 

I drift in the airy place between being asleep and awake. I know I'm not asleep anymore because I feel the warmth of Izzy's hand on my stomach and I hear the rush of air from the air vent near the window. I don't open my eyes because then I'll have to come fully awake and deal with . . . with everything going on in this room and beyond it.

My thoughts drift.

It's almost Haley's birthday. I haven't gotten her a gift. I haven't even thought about it and she hasn't mentioned it. No one in our house has. I guess we've been kind of busy. She'll be eighteen on May 11.

I remember being almost eighteen. Thinking I was an adult. Being frustrated that no one, especially my parents, would treat me that way. Of course, looking back, I certainly wasn't behaving very maturely.

I think about the day I jumped out of my stepfather's car. I could have been seriously hurt. And then I was gone three days. Eventually I realized I had to go home. I had to finish my senior year of high school. I needed food and a place to sleep and do my homework. I'd already been accepted to Cal State in Bakersfield. If I wanted to go the following fall and have my parents at least help pay for my education, I had to make nice with my mom. That meant making nice with my stepdad. Apologizing. Saying whatever I had to say, do whatever I had to do to get back in their good graces.

When I walked back into the house after being gone those three days, I remember Mom being in the kitchen. She had been playing golf. She was still wearing a white visor. She looked up when I came in the door. She didn't run to hug me. She didn't even look all that glad to see me. Or relieved I was okay. I remember how heartbroken I was. She hadn't called a single one of my friends asking if anyone had seen me. I had told myself that she hadn't called anyone because she didn't want to be embarrassed by the idea that her seventeen-year-old had run away from her nice house on the nice lot on the golf course. That she knew I was okay and she knew I'd turn up.

But when my mom saw me when I walked into our kitchen, she looked disappointed. Like she'd been hoping I wouldn't turn up.

“You're in a lot of trouble, girly.” That's what she said. That was all she said.

Growing up, I always believed my mother loved me.
In her own way,
I used to tell myself. I made excuses for her. Things were hard after my dad left. When she met Francis, it was a stroke of luck for her. But being married to him was difficult. He was a hard man to please. It was only natural that he took priority over me. I was just a little girl. And when I got older, I was difficult. I was moody and I didn't always make the best choices. It wasn't until college that I became the Goody-Two-shoes my daughters have accused me of being.

I wonder if my poor relationship with my mother is why I'm not doing a better job with Haley right now. But I've tried so hard to not be my mother. To be involved in my girls' lives. Shoot, I've devoted myself so much to my girls that I don't have a personal life. And my marriage is certainly not doing all that hot.

My mother was so strict with me . . . or rather my stepfather was and my mother always did as he said. I wonder if that made me too lenient with my girls. Is that why Haley's such a mess? Is this my fault, somehow?

Or am I just overthinking this whole thing?

And does it matter how we got here?

I lift my hand over my head and stretch. I slept surprisingly well last night, considering the weight of my woes. It was nice to have Izzy snuggled against me. And the cat.

I roll over slowly. I'm actually looking forward to today. We're going to cross Colorado through the mountains, through the Arapaho National Forest, and into Nebraska. With my merry band. I'm thinking we might delve right in today, once I'd had my coffee. We need to talk about the night Caitlin died. The details are blurry to me because I was in such shock. I wonder if they're blurry to Haley. Does she want to talk about it? Maybe not. And that's okay, but I feel like I should give her the opportunity.

I open my eyes and I see Haley's form in the bed. Then I realize her head is not on the pillow and she's not in her bed. It's just the way the blanket and bedspread are rolled up. I feel a flutter of panic in my chest and I sit up, eyeing the bathroom door. It's closed.

The clock says it's 8:15.

I throw my feet over the side of the bed and walk toward the door. I'm wearing a T-shirt I packed and a pair of Izzy's sleep pants. SpongeBob of all things. I don't know how I forgot to pack anything to sleep in. “Haley?” I whisper.

At the bathroom door, I tap lightly. I don't want to wake Izzy. “Haley?”

It's closed, but not all the way. She doesn't answer. I don't hear any water running. I hate to cross any lines of privacy. My mother used to do that and it really upset me, but—“Haley?” I hear the slightest hint of panic in my voice.

Again, no answer. I push the door open. No Haley. I open the shower curtain. No Haley.

My heart hammering, I grab the room key off the desk as I yank the front door open. I don't take the time to wake Izzy. I run out into the hall in bright yellow PJ bottoms, a bubblegum pink T-shirt, and no bra.

No Haley in the hall, either.

There's a breakfast buffet. Maybe she went down to the lobby for a cup of orange juice. I push the call button on the elevator. Then I push it a second time and a third when the elevator doesn't respond fast enough to suit me.

As the doors finally open, I hear Izzy calling me from the doorway of our room. “Mom? Where are you going?”

“Coffee. Stay in the room.” The elevator doors begin to close and I step in.

“But, Mom, there's a—”

“Go back in the room, Izzy!”

The doors shut and the elevator begins to drop. On the first floor, I race out the doors before they open completely. The breakfast area is just off the lobby. There are a dozen people helping themselves to hard-boiled eggs, cold cereal, and pastries. No Haley. I force myself not to run.

Off the lobby, I check the ladies' bathroom. All three stalls. Not there, either.

Now I feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest. Where is she? Where's my daughter? How could I have been so stupid? I should have slept on the floor in front of the door. I should have figured out a way to keep her from taking off. I should have known she was going to do this. I should have stayed home like Ben wanted me to. I should have stayed in bed with the blanket over my head.

No. I couldn't have stayed home.
We
couldn't have stayed there. We had to do this. We had to get away from the house and all the sadness there.

There's no way I could have known Haley would leave the hotel room. Where the hell would she go? We're in Colorado. She doesn't know anyone in Colorado. And yesterday, at least by the afternoon, she had seemed . . . if not enthusiastic, at least tolerant of the idea of making this trip.

The cool morning air hits me as I rush out the front doors and come to a halt under a white and green canopy. The pneumatic doors whoosh and click behind me. No Haley. No Haley on the benches near the door. No Haley in the circle drive. Someone is parked in front of the door; a man is loading suitcases into the back of his minivan. I can hear children's voices drifting from inside the van.

The car. It's the only place I can think to look. After that? I don't know what the hell I'm going to do.

I run barefoot, in my daughter's pajama pants, along the front of the hotel. The pavement is cool on my feet; there are loose stones that hurt. We parked in the side parking lot. We used that side door, with our passkey, to get in last night after we had dinner.

I fly around the corner, looking for my little SUV. There are more cars in the parking lot than there were last night and it takes me a second to orient myself. I spot my car in the third row, but it's partially obscured by a white pickup truck.

I run into the parking lot and behind the row of cars. As I come around the white truck, I stop abruptly. Haley's lying on the hood of my car reading a tattered copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

“Haley,” I say, coming around the car.

She looks me up and down, taking in the pajamas and bare feet I'm sure, then back at her book. She's leaning back against my windshield, legs stretched out like she's lying in a lounge chair. “School property,” she says, indicating the paperback. “I guess I should return it.”

I can't catch my breath. I lean forward, panting. “What—are—you—doing—out—here?” I manage.

“You thought I left?” She says it quietly, putting the book down on the hood.

I stand up and meet her gaze. My heart is still pounding in my chest. I feel light-headed. But I'm so relieved. I'm so thankful to see Haley's inky black hair that I don't even care that it looks like she dyed it with shoe polish. “
Did
you leave?” I ask her.

She holds my gaze for a long moment. “I'm here, right?”

A dark spot on her sleeve catches my eye and I stare at it. It's the arm she cuts and I'm pretty certain that splotch I see is blood.

She looks down at her arm and touches the wet shirt. Then she looks up at me.

“Oh, Haley,” I breathe. “Did you—”

“Only a little bit.” She speaks in a single exhalation and I see the pain in her eyes. Pain that hurts me so deeply that I feel wobbly on my legs.

I take a step toward her. I want to ask her what she used to cut herself, but it doesn't seem right to ask. What does it matter?

“It's not bad,” she says. I can tell she's upset.

I'm still staring at her arm. “Let me see, Haley. Will you let me look at it?”

She hesitates and then slowly pushes up her sleeve. I immediately see a piece of bloody white gauze. Fresh blood.

Slowly she peels back the gauze and I see two wet wounds, but they're the same ones I saw Sunday and they're not actively bleeding anymore. Just oozing a little. It looks like she just dug at the old ones; there are no new cuts.

I fight my panic, trying to tell myself this is good. No
new
wounds. This is actually good. “You should clean that up and put fresh gauze over it. Maybe get some big Band-Aids next time we stop at a store, like the kind for skinned knees,” I say, keeping my voice even. Then I look at her as she pushes down her sleeve to cover the bloody bandage. “You okay?”

She hangs her head. But then she nods, and looks up at me. “I think I'm okay.”

I have so many questions, but I sense this isn't the time to ask them. It may even be years before I can. I need to be in the moment, though. I need to say and do the right thing at this moment. “I want you to tell me when you feel like you want to do this. Can you try and do that? Can you tell me?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

And the way she says it makes me think maybe she will. She has a long way to go, but there's something in her eyes this morning that I haven't seen since Caitlin's death. Life?

“What's going on?” Izzy appears from between two parked cars. She's in her PJ bottoms and bare feet, too. “Are we at least getting dressed before we go?”

I stand there, hands on my hips, still trying to catch my breath, and laugh out loud.