CHAPTER 52
“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Cait’s father says when he opens the front door to their home. He doesn’t send me away like I expect. Instead, he retreats down the hall, leaving the door wide open.
I step inside and glance around. I’m taken aback for being granted access and shocked for seeing the inside of their home for the first time. The interior is beautiful, stately, meticulous, and very museum like, and the exact environment I imagined Cait growing up in. She was probably taught how to appreciate the Picasso hanging in the hallway before she was taught to play with a toy.
“You want a drink?” her dad calls.
“Water, thanks.” I’ve been hydrating for days, but I’m still hurting from my binge. In the kitchen, Mr. London takes a glass and places it in front of a barstool at the kitchen island. Across from me, he’s organizing a pile of washed vegetables.
“From my garden. This will be it for the season.”
I nod. I can’t believe I’m standing here and we’re talking about carrots and not a restraining order. It’s not exactly the hostile situation I imagined.
“So let’s get to it. Sit.” He tugs a drawer open and selects a cutting knife. It gleams in the afternoon sunshine reaching in from the backyard. I pause at the sight of my nemesis with a weapon. He removes a cutting board and chops potatoes.
I clear my throat. “I guess you know she’s returned to Chicago.”
“I do.”
“And I want to tell her about her and me.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because what happened between you and me needs to be discussed first.”
“Discuss.” He tosses the chopped bits into a bowl.
“I loved her, and you took her away.”
“And now?”
“I still love her.” I grip the side of the counter, waiting for his reaction.
He places the knife on the counter and anchors his hands to the edge before leaning closer. “You think I didn’t see you outside my house every time you sat in a rental car watching us? I could have thrown you in jail ten times over the few measly months you spent in a cell.”
I sit up straighter, knowing I didn’t come here unseen every time. “So why didn’t you?”
I flinch when he simply leaves the kitchen without a word. I glance around at the empty room, unsure if I should follow or remain seated. Just as I’m about to stand, he returns with a black leather-bound book in his grasp. He tosses it on the counter where it lands in front of me. I stare down at it. “What’s this?”
He returns to prepping and continues, “As part of Cait’s recovery, she spent thousands of hours in physical therapy and the same amount of time with a psychiatrist. The doctor gave her that blank book and a pack of colored pencils. She instructed her to fill it with whatever she wanted. It was meant to help with the distress of the amnesia but also help rebuild the muscles in her arm.”
I open the cover and flip to the first page. My eyes glass over. I clear them and reach out to trace the drawing of Cait and me. We’re only a little better than stick figures drawn with a wobbly and unsure hand, but still, they’re us. Despite their lack of facial detail, I’m positive because of how the narrative opens—with roommates. A girl is moving in. A guy builds a beer-can pyramid in the background. I laugh.
The next page shows the two characters studying at a table, the next page, kissing at a concert. The next page is a kitchen on fire. I can’t help but smile with each new image. I flip the page and blush. A loud pop of a laugh escapes in spite of my tears. She drew us in the shower, doing things that no parent should see. But still, I keep flipping and discover every single page is filled with us.
He continues without looking up from his Crock-Pot, where he’s dumping ingredients. “There are two more books. All with the same two people. When asked why she drew them, she said she didn’t know. She couldn’t make the connection. She couldn’t even see their faces. She didn’t even know what she was drawing until she did it.”
It’s the story of us.
“So why didn’t you tell her the truth?” I ask and close the book, placing my hand over the cover.
He sighs. “Because that would mean admitting I was wrong and explaining to my child that I don’t know everything. That her mom and I wronged her by allowing her to restart her life without knowing what she left behind. After that day she had so many struggles, with her body, her mind, and with family. It seemed easier for us and her to forget it and move on.”
I want to be angry but hadn’t I done the same thing? I allowed myself to believe I was doing the right thing for her, protecting her and making her life easier by abandoning our past.
“Can I have the other books?”
He places the lid on the Crock-Pot and exits the room. Over his shoulder he says, “Come with me.”
I tuck the book under my arm and follow. I find him in his office scouring a wall of books. He removes two additional volumes and hands them over.
“Thank you.” I believe these will help when I tell her the truth.
But then another thought emerges. “And where does Mrs. London stand on this?” I look around, searching for her.
“If you’re looking for her apology too, you won’t find it. Ever since she learned Cait’s address, she’s been trying to contact her and warn her about you. Her opinion remains unchanged. If she found out you were here...”
I nod. Not wanting to spend more time in jail, I turn to leave.
“And you forgot this,” he says.
I swivel back and fix my gaze on the sapphire engagement ring sitting on his desk. I never imagined I would see it again. I gave it to her once. Will I be lucky enough to propose again? No, I can’t allow myself to hope for that. I remind myself it’s enough that she’s safe, healing, and moving forward, even if it’s without me.
I pick up the ring, taking on the weight of all it represents. I close my fingers around it and squeeze. Holding my breath, I make a small wish—that Cait will forgive me.
He walks me to the door. When I turn to face him he says, “She’s been on a path back to you since we brought her home. No amount of lies, no restraining order, or anyone else would have been able to stop her.”