The tiles of the downstairs bathroom are nice and cool on my back.
It’s six-thirty in the morning and about an hour since my last dry heave. I’ve been downing Advil to stop the hammers in my head. My mouth tastes like asphalt, and I only got about three hours of restless, drunken sleep. The worst is over, but this is the kind of hangover that costs you an entire day.
I have to get up. Caitlyn will be awake soon and I need to make breakf-uuuuuck. Let’s not think about food.
I pull myself off the floor, go upstairs, take an ice-cold shower, and pull on some clothes. The shock to my system makes me feel semi-human.
I walk down the hall and gently knock on Caitlyn’s door.
“Caitlyn?”
There’s no answer, so I slowly open the door.
“Caitlyn, I want to talk—”
She’s not in her room.
“Caitlyn?”
“I’m down here,” she responds from the kitchen.
I find her sitting in the kitchen alcove with a bowl of Fruit Loops in front of her that she’s not eating; she’s only pushing her spoon around in the now-discolored milk.
“Hey.”
She continues stirring.
“You want me to make you anything? Toast? Waffles?”
She shakes her head.
“Caitlyn, listen, I’m really sorry for what I said.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a flat, unconvincing tone.
“No, sweetheart, it’s not. Not at all. I’m having a really hard time right now, and I know you are, too. I was a jerk last night and I’m sorry. You don’t have to pretend that your imaginary friend talks to Mom. If you want to talk to me about Mom, you can. I want you to.”
Without a word, she gets up and walks out of the kitchen, mumbling something about getting ready for school. She goes through the living room and up the stairs.
“You need to apologize to Ms. Hancourt toda—” I call after her but her door shuts.
I make some coffee and wait for her to come back down, but as the minutes wear on, I realize she’s running out the clock until the bus arrives.
Sure enough, her footsteps hit the stairs just as the bus pulls up at the end of the driveway. I get up and walk through the living room but only catch a glimpse of her back as she opens the front door.
“Have a good day, pumpkin. I love—”
The door closes behind her.
The house is silent.
“Damnit,” I whisper and head for the Writing Room.
*
For two hours, I try to get the words out, but I’m distracted. I’ll scratch out a few lines and then I’ll see Caitlyn’s wounded expression flash through my mind. I’ll wait for it to pass, scratch out a few more lines, and it happens again, and I’ll remember the horrible things I said to her.
Finally, I curse and hurl my pen against the wall. It’s going to be another non-productive day.
I can’t write, but I need to do something active. I don’t want to sit on the couch and wallow in the misery of this hangover or the memory of last night. The only solution I can come up with is to get some housework done.
To make the best use of my time, I’ll get some laundry going while I clean.
I collect the dirty clothes from my room and then head to Caitlyn’s room.
I open the closet and grab the clothes basket. I’m about to close the door but instead, I stare at the empty space under the hanging clothes, imagining a little girl hiding there, smiling up at me.
“So, this is where you hang out, huh?” My frustration suddenly spills out. “You know what? I’d really appreciate it if you left my daughter alone and not get her into trouble at school. And while you’re at it, leave my wife out of it. It’s bad enough Caitlyn thinks you’re real, but telling her that you speak to her dead mother? What sort of friend does that? And I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry.”
Silence.
I’m standing here, berating an empty closet, like an idiot.
Basket in hand, I close the closet door, and began walking to the—
Clink.
I stop.
It came from inside the closet, like a coin dropping onto the floor.
I turn back and wait.
Nothing.
Putting the basket down, I go back and slowly open the closet door.
There, sitting on the floor of the closet in a small puddle of water and flecked in mud, like it’s just been pulled from the bottom of the lake, is Nicole’s wedding ring.
July 28th, 1900
I’m lying in bed.
I don’t know what to write … or even if I should write.
It had been weeks since I’d heard from him. Days of sitting and waiting. Carol hasn’t returned. I asked Father about her and he said that she sent a telegram that said she was staying in Philadelphia for a few more days. I think he’s lying. There was no telegram. He doesn’t know where she is or when she’s coming back. He’s quieter and continues to drink.
Mr. Carrington’s promise that he would send for me when Mrs. Carrington was gone was the only thing sustaining me.
So, this morning, I nearly sprang over the counter when the courier arrived. I tore open the letter. Mr. Carrington had made good on his promise.
I went about putting the items on the very short list together. I was about to head through the storeroom to the bicycle in the alley, when Father called out to remind me to have Mr. Carrington pay his account. In fact, he insisted upon it. I guess it has come to that. Father needed him to pay his account, now, no matter how small the balance. I took some change from the drawer.
When I arrived at the Nightingale House, I did my best to make myself presentable and walked to the porch. I checked under the pot on the table and found the key he told me about. My hands were shaking and I felt short of breath. There were so many things I wanted to ask him. I opened the door and went inside. I called out his name but there was no answer. I walked to the dining room, thinking that I might see him through the window, out by the lake. There was a note on the table. It read: They’re all in Boston. Join me upstairs.
I placed the items on the table and walked up the stairs. The bedroom door at the end of the hall was open.
I nervously pushed it open and found him waiting by the fireplace.
Without a word, he moved to kiss me, but I stepped back. He asked what was wrong and I told him what Patricia Fleming had said. He grew upset and said that Patricia Fleming was telling salacious stories. It had all been a misunderstanding that was in the past. He also told me that Patricia Fleming was just jealous of me, because he had turned down her advances some time ago.
I asked him what his feelings were towards me.
He told me how beautiful I was. How much he cared for me and how empty he felt without me.
The w