PART 2

Annie didn't move.

He was there, beside her, in the bed. Eric. She felt him get up, heard him step out of the room, away from her, leaving her alone in the bed.

Fine.

Inevitable.

Those who love you always leave you. You grow old and you grow useless and they all go away. They go away without thanking you for what you have done for them, for the weight as you carried them and the pain as you delivered them. Or they give more to their vision, to their career, to their dreams than they do to you.

They love God, preach about God's love for you, and then God takes you mother away. He takes your father.

Annie closed her eyes.

I hate God. I hate everything. I hate what I am.

It was hard to think clearly anymore. She didn't know when this had begun; maybe it had always been this way. Maybe it was when they had said "menopause" and she had come home and looked in the mirror and wondered who this old woman was who was staring back at her. Or maybe it was when she had started to look at her children and had begun to realize that there was nothing that was hers, hers alone, that she had done because she was Annie. Everything was her children, her husband. Everything was other people and more and more those other people just saw her as a utensil.

Maybe. It was hard to think. She just wanted to scream.

The world was moving around her in fast forward. She trembled in terror of it. She had to get control, had to act, had to rein in the chaos.

She thought of Lucy. What had been that look in her daughter's eyes?

Hate? Does she hate me? I have given my life for her and now she hates me?

No.

It was quiet as Annie lay, alone. Outside, she heard a car drive by, the sound growing and then fading.

No.

Lucy's look had not been hate. Something else, but not hate.

Annie closed her eyes, whimpering softly in the maelstrom.

* * *

Another day.

She was cooking when he got home. It had been a long day, longer still after a sleepless night. Eric moved to her, tried to kiss her gently, the way he remembered doing long ago. She pushed him away.

"I'm busy."

He nodded. Her tone was firm and he was too tired to fight. Instead he took his briefcase to his office and then returned, standing in the doorway, watching her. Maybe if he just stood here, she would decide to talk.

He watched for a while; she did not seem to notice him.

Then Ruthie came down the stairs, walked over to her mother.

"Hi. Smells good. What is it?"

"Dinner," Annie answered.

Ruthie nodded. "Can I help?"

"No."

Annie moved away, to the sink. Ruthie watched her for a moment, then walked over to him.

"It smells good," she said.

Eric nodded, looking down into his young daughter's face. She had a bright smile and he tried to smile back.

"It does, doesn't it?"

"It'll be nice to have a real meal again," Ruthie said. "I'm getting tired of pizza every night."

Annie heard; she must have. But she did not react.

Eric looked down at Ruthie. There was the sudden need to explain, to try and explain, to make sure she was all right. She was young and perhaps she was afraid just now.

"I'm sure Lucy will be home soon," he said to her.

Am I lying? he thought.

Annie looked over at him from where she was chopping carrots for a salad. Ruthie shrugged.

"It's all right," she said. "I like having my own room."

Eric watched his young daughter for a moment as the words sank in, and he felt himself go tense. He looked up; Annie was working again.

Perhaps it was the tone of Ruthie's words. Perhaps it was something else.

He didn't know. There was a lot he didn't know anymore. But after some time he did realize one thing. Annie was preparing Lucy's dishes, all of them. Her favorites.

The smells, rich and thick with the memory of her, finally drove him to retreat.

#

That night, when it was dark and quiet and late, Annie sat quietly by the window, her gaze on the street below. Eric watched her for a moment, then spoke softly.

"I enjoyed dinner," he said. "I think everyone did."

She looked at him, didn't answer right away. But at least she looked.

Then she spoke.

"Not everyone."

He nodded, went to her, wrapped his arm around her. She didn't respond, but didn't pull away. He kept his voice gentle.

"I'm sure she's all right," he said. "They've got her name in the missing persons database now."

Annie didn't answer. Her gaze was outside.

Eric didn't move, didn't say anything more. He realized he had spoken as much to himself as to her. He had called Michaels this afternoon; nothing. But Lucy's name was in the system, in the computer. If she showed up in the hospital, or ....

Don't think it.

She hasn't. She won't.

Annie spoke then. Maybe it was to him and maybe it was to the night; he couldn't tell.

"She's going to come home. She's going to come home and it will be all right. She'll say she's sorry."

He tightened his embrace, then felt his gut tighten, and he wondered if he should say anything. Annie was so calm now, so peaceful. And she was talking. But her last statement felt wrong to him.

Aren't there times when it isn't so important to be right? Why can't we just get Lucy home and just talk to her?

Eric said nothing. He could address that later. It was too comfortable, this moment of peace, too rare. He held his wife in his arms for as long as he could.

* * *

The days were long. One seemed to blend into another and it was hard to plan things for her class and to make sure that when Lucy came back, things would be ready for her. That meant making sure that the house was clean, that her room was clean, that all her favorite foods were in the pantry and the refrigerator. It meant making sure that someone was always at home to let her in, and Annie drilled each of them on just how to handle Lucy, just how to talk to her.

Make sure she's safe.

Call the police, but don't let her know that you are doing it.

Call me right away, but don't let her know that either.

Don't let her leave. Do whatever you have to to keep her here.

There was some protest to this last, from Ruthie and Mary. Annie looked at them both closely as they spoke.

"How are we supposed to do that?"

"I don't care. But you keep her here, do you understand?"

Mary looked at Ruthie. Ruthie spoke.

"She's bigger than I am. If she decides to go again, how am I supposed to stop her?"

Annie felt her breathing quicken, felt as the air began to rush in and out, felt herself go tense. And she felt as it all seemed so fast around her, the world and the air and the sudden anger. She spoke slowly.

"I said I didn't care. You keep her here. Do you understand me?"

Ruthie watched her for a moment, then nodded. She didn't look bothered; that was good. Ruthie was a smart, strong girl. She had a good, level head. She would think of something if she had to.

Mary? Mary was an unknown. She didn't do much, save to sit around the house. This was good in that she at least would be here when Lucy came back, and Annie was sure she had learned her lesson and would not let her errant sister get away again.

Because Lucy was coming home. As Mary and Ruthie left to go upstairs and she sat alone in the living room, Annie reflected on this. Lucy would come home. It was just a matter of time. She was a Camden and this was her home. She would come home and she would apologize and Annie would make sure she meant it, but she would, and then she would be home, and she would go back to living in her room and worrying about boys and her hair and her clothes and it would all be all right again, just like it had been before.

It had to be.

Annie turned her head a bit, looked at the large living room window, the one that looked outside. It was danger out there; the world was chaotic and uncertain and the only way to stop it was to keep control. She had seen too many people whose lives were falling apart to think otherwise, too many parents whose children did things that were terrifying and dangerous.

You have to keep them at home. You have to keep them safe.

Daddy never kept me safe.

This last startled her. But it was true, too. He hadn't been there, hadn't intervened when she slid into trouble. Annie closed her eyes, remembering the drugs, the highs, and the terrible way it had ended.

Not this time. Not this time. This time it was going to be all right. Lucy was going to come home and she was going to make it all right, was going to make her all right.

It was quiet in the living room, that good calm that meant that all the kids were all right. She just needed to stay here, stay in control.

Because it is going to be all right, you see.