Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,76

There was a definite smell of disinfectant that made Abby think of hospitals and isolation, that made her think of loneliness and depression. Her heart tapped nervously against her ribs.

Kim paused before a closed door and rested her hand on the doorknob, facing Abby. “I should warn you Caitlin might be upset. She doesn’t like it when Hank leaves, not since Sondra went off. She’s afraid of losing him, too.”

“We won’t go then.” Abby was hopeful.

“But you have to. Hank won’t see the truth otherwise.”

“The truth?” Abby was at sea.

“About Sondra.” Kim was impatient. “I’ve tried since high school when he had the misfortune of meeting her to get him to listen to me, to see reason. We’ve always watched out for each other, you know? Since we were kids. But he’s totally blind when it comes to Sondra. He can’t believe a woman like her would look at him twice, much less marry him. As if she’s the prize. Hah! If you could see her, nothing but blond hair and cleavage. And Hank? Well, we’re plain people with simple tastes, that’s all.”

Abby lifted her hands. “I don’t know—” what this has to do with me. That’s what she intended to say, but Kim huffed a short syllable of disgust.

“Let me tell you something—” she bent toward Abby “—the first time Sondra left Caitlin, the child was scarcely six weeks old, and Hank called me to come and change her diapers. Sondra was gone the day Caitlin spoke her first word, took her first step. When Caitlin nearly died from an asthma attack, who do you think took the time to learn about it and how to protect her?”

Kim thumped her chest. “Me! I’m the one who knows she can’t live in a house that’s cluttered with the pillows and throw rugs and drapery that Sondra insists on dragging in here. I know green is Caitlin’s favorite color, not pink—everything Sondra gives the child is pink—and that she hates the Barbie dolls Sondra insists are her favorites. I keep this house clean and dust-free and see to it that Hank and Caitlin are properly fed and when that—that whore deigns to show up here, she cries to me and promises she’ll do better and thank you very much but go home.” Kim paused, pressing her lips together. Still, her chin wobbled.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Abby said.

Kim spoke as if Abby hadn’t. “I am the reason Caitlin is alive and well. I am the only mother—decent mother—that child has ever known, and do you know, she made Hank put a lamp in the window and she turns it on herself every night before she goes to bed. ‘For Mommy,’ she says. She waits and waits. It makes me sick. Sondra makes me sick. She isn’t fit to be anyone’s mother, much less Caitlin’s.”

Raw envy and a threat of tears ached under the hotter current of Kim’s indignation, and it worried Abby. It made her sorry for Kim, and she didn’t want to be sorry.

Kim pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “Do you want to know what I hope for, what I pray for?” She dropped her arms abruptly. “That she’s dead. And in case you were wondering? I don’t care if I go to hell.” Before Abby could respond, before she could act on the thought of escape, Kim thrust open the kitchen door. “Go on,” she said, and it sounded like a dare.

* * *

Hank turned from the kitchen sink. The little girl beside him crowded against his legs. Still, Abby saw that she was beautiful, as beautiful as Hank and Kim were homely. Angelic, Abby thought, and yet so solemn beneath her chin-length cap of thick, shiny blond hair.

Hank said, “This is Mrs. Bennett, Caitlin,” and he asked if she could say hello.

But Caitlin shook her head. “Daddy, don’t go.” She was begging him.

“I’ll be back before you can miss me, ladybug, I promise.”

She stepped in front of him, tugging his hand. “But I already miss you.”

Without a word, Abby wheeled and retreated, walking fast, retracing her steps.

Hank caught her elbow near the front door and spun her around. “You contacted me, remember? You set this up. You can’t leave now.”

She yanked her arm out of his grasp.

He brought his hands up and backed off. “I’m sorry, but, please, please don’t go.”

“This was a mistake.”

“You know better.”

Abby eyed the front door, watching herself walk through it. She’d call Hap, apologize for missing her appointment yesterday; she’d say she was