The next morning, after another night of troubled sleep on the couch, Caitlyn and I are discussing her upcoming sleepover while I make waffles for breakfast. She’s excited, but something is gnawing at my chest. It finally hits me as the bus rumbles away with Caitlyn on board; tomorrow night will be the first night that Caitlyn and I have spent apart since Nicole’s death. Granted, she’s only going to be next door, but the idea of us not sleeping under the same roof casts a shadow over my afternoon. I spend another day, staring at the blank page, unable to write. I even stupidly get emotional over the idea that one day, Caitlyn will move out, and I’ll be alone. Yes, I’m perfectly aware that she’s eight. I’m attributing my heightened emotions to my lack of sleep.
So, throughout the course of the day, I decide that tonight, Caitlyn and I are going to have some fun.
*
I’m waiting to pounce when she comes in through the door after school.
“Do you have any homework?” I ask.
“A little,” she answers, apprehensively.
“Let’s do it. Let’s get it done, right now.”
“Why?”
“Because you and I are hitting the town.”
We rifle through her reading and math assignments. I try not to help her too much, but I want our evening underway and make my math hints entirely too obvious.
Once we finish, we head out to the car.
“What do you feel like for dinner? Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Can we have waffles?” she asks. “I know we had them for breakfast, but I like waffles.”
“Excellent choice.”
We find an IHOP just outside of Kingsbrook and feast on Belgian waffles, swimming in syrup and piled high with whipped cream. After that, we go roller skating, which is painful on such a full stomach, but she holds my hand as we skate around the rink, so it’s worth it. I’m treating it like I won’t see her for months, rather than a simple twenty-four-hour period where she’ll be next door.
By the time we make it back to the house, I’m wiped out, but Caitlyn is wired.
“Okay. That is a wrap. Go get ready for bed,” I tell her.
“I’m still awake.”
“How? How is that possible? Because I’m beat.”
“That’s because you’re old,” she laughs.
“Hardy har har, Little Missy. Get ready for bed. You need a good night’s sleep for Mildred’s tomorrow.”
“Ugh …” She rolls her eyes and heads upstairs.
I sort through the mail as water begins to run through the pipes in the wall, on its way to the upstairs bathroom. There’s some junk mail for Nicole. It’s irritating to get the odd mailer from a magazine or credit card company addressed to her. It’s an unwelcome reminder that she’s gone.
The water shuts off and a moment later, I hear a rhythmic thumping coming from her room.
“Caitlyn?”
I climb the stairs and find her jumping on her bed.
“Hey! Knock it off! We talked about this,” I admonish, but not too harshly.
“You said I could do anything I wanted tonight,” she says, in between leaps.
“Except break the bed, young lady.”
She lands with a giggle in a sitting position.
“So, ‘anything I want’ doesn’t mean ‘anything I want’?” she asks.
Great. She’s beginning to grasp the concept of technicalities.
“Fine. One more thing, but I have to approve it, and then you have to go to sleep.”
She scrunches up her face in thought and it’s like a lightbulb turns on over her head.
“I want to play hide-and-seek like at Sarah’s birthday party!” she proclaims.
I nod. “All right.”
She flies from the bed and down the stairs.
“Just one round,” I say, following her. “Then you have to go to bed.”
She stops in the middle of the living room and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Do you want to turn the lights off like at Sarah’s party?” I ask.
She hesitates and grows worried.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We can leave the lights on.”
She frowns. “Then it’ll be too bright.”
The evening is suddenly in danger of ending on a downer.
“I’ve got it!” I proclaim and head towards the kitchen.
There’s a bag of tea candles in the pantry that Nicole and I purchased forever ago at IKEA. I bring them into the living room and hold them up. Caitlyn approves. We spend the next twenty minutes or so placing lit candles in every room, hallway, and even on the stairs. The only room we ignore is the basement. Then, we turn off the lights.
The effect is breathtaking. This is the lighting the house was built for. Every room is filled with a soft, flickering glow and dancing shadows.
“All right,” I say, once we return to the living room. “You want to hide first, or should I?”
“I want to hide first.”
“Okay. I’m going to go into the bathroom and count to fifty. You better hide good.”
She eagerly nods, but stands rooted to the spot, not wanting to give away the direction she’s going to run.
“Here I go.” I slowly begin stepping backwards towards the bathroom. “One … two …”
“Dad! You can’t start counting until you’re in the bathroom!”
“Three …”
“Dad!”
I finally back into the bathroom and slowly close the door as I continue loudly counting. “Four …”
The door clicks shut.
Her footsteps hurtle across the living room and up the stairs. I feel bad that the house won’t let her conceal where she’s going and continue counting. Her footsteps run down the upstairs hall and suddenly stop right above me. Then, in between the numbers I’m calling out, I can hear her talking but it’s too muffled to understand. Her tone sounds like she’s quietly pleading with someone. I wait, straining to hear …
She stops talking.
What is she waiting for?
Oh, shit. I’ve stopped counting.
“Thirty-nine …” I call out.
Immediately, her footsteps resume down the hall, and as best as I can tell, stop in the upstairs bathroom.
I continue counting, speeding it up to reach the end.
“Forty-eight … forty-nine … fifty!” I open the door and step out. “Ready or not, here I come!”
I begin ‘stalking’ through the rooms on the first floor, pretending to be a giant ogre who is genuinely mystified as to where she could be.
“Where is Caitlyn?” I say, in a deep, gravelly voice as I roam the living room and poke my head into the Writing Room. “Where is she?”
I turn and begin stomping up the stairs. “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum …”
I stand at the top and stare down the hallway.
“Caitlyn …? Oh, Caitlyn?”
A candle is on the nightstand in her room, giving it an other-worldly glow. The pile of stuffed animals on the window seat watches me as I prowl around the room. “Where is that stinker?” I say, loud enough for it to carry down the hall to the bathroom where I know she’s hiding. I stomp over to her closet. “Is she in HERE?!” I dramatically throw open the door. Of course, she’s not. “Hmmm …”
I leave the closet open and stomp out into the hall. “I think I smell her …” I start walking towards the bathroom. “I smell her in the room where all stinky girls go and hide …”
I reach the bathroom door and grasp the handle.
There’s a sound behind me.
Startled, I turn just in time to the see the hem of Caitlyn’s nightgown as she disappears into her room. Then, there’s the sound of her closet doors closing.
“You, little lady, are quite the scamp,” I laugh.
She had been hiding in the guestroom and tried to sneak into her room after I searched it.
I triumphantly walk back down the hall, into her room, and over to the now-closed closet doors. “That was really clever to try to hide in your room after I searched it.” I grasp the knob. “But now … I’VE GOT YOU!”
I throw open the closet doors.
The clothes hang from the rack and the basket is on the floor … but Caitlyn’s not here.
“Caitlyn?”
I can’t wrap my head around this. I kneel down and push the clothes basket aside. I turn on the closet light. It’s empty. “Caitlyn?”
“Dad?”
I jump and pull myself out of the closet. Caitlyn is standing in the doorway, looking disappointed and hurt.
“How did—? Where were you?” I ask.
“I was hiding in the bathroom. In the shower.”
I look from her to the empty closet and back. “But … you ran across the hall … I saw you.”
I realize her hurt and disappointment aren’t directed at me.
Caitlyn looks around the room.
“Katherine, I told you not to play,” she says.
I glance around, trying to figure out who she’s talking to.
“Sweetheart … who’s Katherine?”
Her eyes find me. The candlelight flickers across her face. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid of my daughter. It’s like she knows something I don’t and she’s trying to protect me from it.
“I don’t want to play anymore,” she mumbles and goes downstairs, leaving me alone in her room.
June 15th, 1900
Today, my wish was granted! Well, not all of it, but I finally go to see him!
I won’t bore you with more of my miserable situation, the pharmacy’s woes, or Father and Carol’s constant arguing.
This entry is going to be about nothing but him!
The decorations in the square for the Fourth of July Celebration have started. They’ve begun constructing the games and concession stalls that will fill the green.
I’ll admit that I don’t think much of Kingsbrook, but the speed of the construction and the scale of the decorations are impressive. The view out of the pharmacy window is filled with men building the stalls and women hanging the bunting from every lamppost and the gazebo. At least it is something new to watch from behind the counter at the pharmacy, which is where I spend most of my time.
Father was in the storeroom, executing his plan to save the pharmacy with cheap liquor. He purchased it from a man in Portland. I asked him ‘who?’ and he would only answer, ‘an associate’. It arrived in a wooden box. The bottles were big, bulky, and unlabeled. Father also received a shipment of smaller, sample-sized bottles. He had already made a sign advertising it as one of the finest cognacs from Paris. So, as I was saying, he was in the storeroom, transferring the cheap alcohol into the smaller bottles, when I spotted a group of official-looking men walking across the square, led by the Mayor.
There was Thomas. He stood out from the rest of the group with his blue eyes and tall frame.
“Father, I’m stepping out,” I said.
“Where are you going?” he asked from behind the curtain.
“Out. Only for a moment.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. There was no one in the store, so he didn’t have to worry about any theft taking place.
I ran around the counter, out the door, and into the warm afternoon.
The air was filled with the sounds of hammers and saws.
I had no plan. I only wanted to see him and for him to see me.
I could barely make out what the Mayor’s voice was saying above the din of construction. He was explaining the parade route through the square and the order of the festivities. The group of men surrounding him were nodding, chatting, and laughing among themselves.
I wanted to get Thomas’s attention without anyone else noticing but it was impossible. I couldn’t wave like a child, making a scene, and embarrass him in front of everybody.
Finally, the Mayor made a sweeping gesture around the square, saying something about a marching band. Everyone in the group followed his gesture with their eyes. To my satisfaction, everyone continued following the Mayor’s gesture except for Thomas, who stopped when he saw me.
Our eyes met. His lips curled into a smile and he nodded in my direction. It was our own little moment amid the crowd.
I know it wasn’t much, but it was everything that I had been hoping for. That one look, that one nod, erased days of misery and boredom.
So, of course, it had to be slightly spoiled.
Among the group being led around by the Mayor was his daughter, Patricia Fleming.
My focus had been on Thomas and I hadn’t seen her. She had been lost in the crowd, but as they moved on, she stopped and was staring at me. She had only been a few feet away from Thomas and it was clear from her expression that she had seen the whole thing. She nodded at me in that condescending politeness that she has perfected.
So be it. Let her be jealous all she wants that I’m the center of Thomas’s attention.
I didn’t return her acknowledgment. Instead, I turned and walked back into the pharmacy, feeling lighter than air.
The rest of the day was spent watching an endless loop of the memory of his smile and that nod.
At one point, Father came out of the storeroom and asked me why I was humming. I wasn’t even aware that I was doing it.
I guess that is what it’s like when the sun smiles at you.