world, out to where living people ate things that were green or yellow or red and not in a box or a can.
I was leaving the store when I saw Abby and Pastor Chris getting out of a car together. He waited for her, even went so far as to place his hand on the small of her back as she walked by. I stopped where I was and watched them. I held my plastic bag in one hand, the car keys in the other. It took them a moment to see me. They walked close together, leaning in toward each other as though sharing secrets.
Chris saw me first. Something crossed his face-momentary guilt? — but just as quickly his happy mask snapped into place. His smile grew wider than normal and he called out to me like we were old friends.
“Tom!”
His hands fell to his sides, stiff and straight as tent stakes.
I didn’t say anything. I watched Abby. She looked away, first at the ground, then at the sky; then, when left with no choice, she looked at me.
“Hello, Tom,” she said.
“Hello.”
They stopped, and for a long moment the three of us stood there, Mexican standoff style, while shoppers pushed their carts past us and minivans full of kids and groceries navigated the lanes.
I tried to keep my voice level.
“You two look awfully domestic together, don’t you?”
Chris kept smiling. “Just buying groceries,” he said. “We have a youth group meeting tonight at the-”
“Shut up.”
He blinked his eyes a few times, a hurt puppy.
“Come on, Chris,” Abby said.
“Yeah, go on,” I said. “Go on with another man’s wife. Isn’t there a commandment about that? Or does your church not do the commandments anymore? Is that why people like it so much?”
“Now, Tom,” Chris said, bringing the smile back. “I don’t think there’s any need to say these things to me.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”
Abby took Chris’s arm and pulled him toward the store.
“Go home, Tom,” she said. “Think about what I said about getting help.”
I managed to switch my keys from my right hand to the left, leaving me free to reach into my pocket. I pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, the kind with a zipped top. It held the remains of the flower I’d found in Caitlin’s closet.
“Do you know what this is, Abby?” She stopped and squinted at the bag, confused. “I found this in Caitlin’s closet. It was in her coat pocket.”
She shook her head but didn’t say anything.
“It’s not over, Abby. I know you want it to be over. I know you want to move on. Apparently, you have moved on. But it’s not time yet.”
Abby stared at me for a moment. I thought she was going to say something-anything-but she just turned and started for the store, leaving Chris behind her.
“She had a miscarriage,” I said to him. “Our baby, about a year after Caitlin disappeared. And she didn’t tell me.”
Chris pursed his lips. “It was a difficult decision for Abby,” he said. “I counseled her about it. We prayed about it. She decided it was the best thing to do, to keep it from you.”
“You knew?”
But he was already gone. Having given me a little wave good-bye, he hustled to catch up with Abby, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the parking lot.
Courthouse Coffee sat on the opposite side of the square from the police station and served a very different clientele. During the day lawyers and businesspeople stopped there for lattes and cappuccinos, and at night college students congregated there with their books and laptops. At least once a month, Courthouse Coffee hosted a poetry reading, and a rotation of local artists hung their work on the walls. Because I considered it a student hangout, I didn’t spend much time there, and my awkwardness at entering the coffee shop was exaggerated by the fact that I had no idea how to identify Susan Goff. I had hung up with her without asking how we’d know each other. But as soon as I walked in, I heard my name.
“Dr. Stuart? Tom Stuart?”
I looked around. Most of the tables were occupied, but only one was occupied by a woman who was halfway out of her chair, waving at me. She called my name again and continued to wave, and it felt as though everyone in the room had turned to look at me.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
I crossed to her table and took her in. She wore her gray hair short and a little mannish, and a pair of half- moon glasses sat perched on her nose. She took the glasses off when she stood to shake my hand, and I saw that she was wearing beige cotton pants, white sneakers, and a loose, baggy shirt. Her grip was firm, and her no- nonsense appearance seemed in opposition to the cheeriness of her voice.
“I recognize you from TV,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Lucky me.”
“Do you want a coffee?” she asked. “I love the coffee here.”
“I’m okay,” I said.
We sat on opposite sides of the small table. She maintained a wide yet sympathetic smile, and her gray eyes studied me as though I were the most fascinating person she’d ever met. I placed her age in the midfifties.
“Well,” she said. “You’re on quite a journey.”
“Like I said, Tracy Fairlawn sent me your way.”
“She’s on quite a journey, too.”
“Have you been able to help her?” I asked.
“I listen to Tracy a lot,” Susan said. “I think she needs that.”
“And you think that helps her?” I asked.
“Why don’t I tell you a little more about what I do, and then you’ll understand where I’m coming from,” she said. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not a professional. I’m a volunteer. I’m not a therapist or a licensed counselor. About ten years back, the state realized there were people falling through the cracks. They may have suffered a personal tragedy of some kind, and they may have been reluctant to seek remedies through traditional mental health venues like a therapist or counselor. Volunteer Victim Services was created to fill that gap. It’s just people like me helping people like you. The police or other social service agencies dispatch us if they think there’s a need. We know how to spot larger troubles if they’re there, and we know where to refer people whose problems go beyond the scope of what a volunteer can do. Believe me, we know our limits, and we’re overseen by social workers who know them too. Otherwise, we’re here to listen and help people cope with the transitions tragedy brings to their lives. Does that make sense to you?”
“How did you get involved with this?” I asked.
“My children are grown, and my husband and I split up about five years ago,” she said. “I retired from the school system around the time of the divorce.”
“You were a teacher?” I asked.
“No, a secretary. Sorry, an administrative aide. I worked in the superintendent’s office. When I retired and got divorced, I was looking for something to do, some way I could help people. I didn’t want to just sit around living off my pension and gardening. It sounds really corny and noble, doesn’t it?”
I had to laugh. “It does. It really does.”
“Guilty as charged,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? I was just about to go up for a refill.”
“Okay. Coffee.”
While Susan went up to the counter, I studied the crowd. Normal people having a normal day. I recognized a former student who didn’t look over at me, and a colleague from another department who waved and went back to his laptop. And there I was talking to a complete stranger about the most important thing in my life.
Susan returned and placed a mug before me. “So,” she said, “what’s it been like since you were on
