Ink and Bone(19)

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.

“I don’t know,” she said.

He came to sit beside her, and she didn’t shift away from him, turned to face him instead. He put his arms around her and she held her body stiff, then let go, wrapped her arms around him, too. He buried his face in her hair; then he was shaking. It took her a second to realize he was crying. She held him tighter, feeling less alone in this thing. He was whispering; she couldn’t understand what he was saying at first. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Over and over again like a prayer.





FIVE


Penny dreamed of a room with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and yellow sunlight washing in through big windows. A mobile of red painted wooden fish dangled at a tilt by the bookshelf; there was the smell of toast and coffee. Blankets soft as powder, smelling of fabric softener, tiny marshmallows bobbing in creamy hot chocolate, a chalkboard wall where she could draw whatever she wanted. The last thing she’d scribbled there was a frowny face with tired eyes: I don’t want to go to school today! She could remember the smell of the chalk and how the pink dust got on her clothes.

But as soon as Penny woke in the musty, windowless space she occupied now, all of that disappeared like fairy powder—a sparkling, insubstantial thing that everyone knew didn’t exist—like so many of the dreams that Penny had.