Page 14 of Gone Tonight
It’s that little voice, the tingle, the sixth sense—or as I like to think of it, a compass that points to the true north about people. Sometimes the compass arrow gets pulled off course by physical attraction or alcohol or—especially when you’re a teenager—by the opinions of friends. More often, though, we convince ourselves we’ve misread it.
The compass tries to lead us, but it can’t make us follow.
Catherine has James’s eyes.
They’re midway between round and oval. They’re the shade of a favorite old pair of jeans. They radiate gentleness and calm.
But I have never once kidded myself that they reveal every facet of her soul.
There’s this thing Catherine does when she’s sleepy. She rubs her feet together, like they’re giving each other a little massage. They move slower and slower as her eyelids droop, then they stop right at the moment she drifts off.
James used to do the exact same thing.
The first time I noticed it in Catherine—she must’ve been about two or three—my throat felt like it was swelling shut and I had to pretend I needed the bathroom so I could get away for a minute.
I didn’t know it was possible to pass down habits to a child you’d never met.
And it makes me wonder: What else did Catherine inherit from James?
It would have been easier to feed Catherine fake details about my family and James through the years. But it pains me to lie to her.
So I’ve withstood her questions, remaining firm and immobile. Refusing to let any of them penetrate.
If it’s the last thing I do, I will keep Catherine and the horrors of my past apart.
I stand up from the bench in the glass shelter as the city bus pulls up, my feet feeling achy and a bit swollen like they always do at the end of my shifts. The bus doors exhale open and I step aboard, flashing my pass.
I pull my focus onto the evening that lies ahead. After I shower and change, I’m going to throw together dinner and pop it in the oven. There’s a six-pack of Michelob in the fridge, but I’m not going to drink more than one. I need to keep my mind clear and my mouth from running.
I know exactly what Catherine is up to.
Catherine and I share an Amazon account because all our money goes into one pot. The account is under my name, though, because I set it up.
A few minutes ago, I received an email confirming a new order.Normally I’d assume Catherine bought socks or pens and carry on with my day.
But nothing is normal right now.
I used my phone to navigate to my account—this investigation wasn’t one I needed to hide—and clicked on the recent orders. Catherine’s purchase popped right up.
It’s a kind of journal—Catherine splurged for the hardcover rather than the paperback—titledTell Me Your Life Story, Mom.
It has a map for a family tree. All you have to do is fill in the names.
It has a page with the headline “My Details and Time Capsule,” where you write down things like your place and time of birth, age, and full name.
It has over two hundred questions covering every stage of your life.
I’ve managed to wiggle out of some pretty dicey situations, but I have no idea how to escape this one.
I’m so lost in thought I almost miss my bus stop.
I step off and walk down the block toward our apartment, passing the store Catherine once compared to a wizard’s hat. The tiny, crowded space manages to conjure anything customers want—from lottery tickets to jars of maraschino cherries to organic almond milk.
The owner is out front, sweeping the walkway with crisp, even strokes.
“Afternoon!” he calls out.
I don’t answer. My mouth is so dry I can’t speak.
