Nobody's There (12 page)

Taking the envelope from her backpack, Abbie hid it just where she had planned.

“Now what?” she asked her reflection in the mirror over her chest of drawers, but the reflection stared back with a blank, almost questioning look. If there were any answers, Abbie certainly didn't have them.

M
rs. Thompson arrived home late for dinner. Abbie had made a baked chicken dish, and around the edges of the Pyrex pan the Italian sauce had dried in ragged black curls. “I'm sorry,” Abbie said, but her mother took a bite and tried to look blissful as she chewed it.

“I like it crispy,” she said. “It's delicious.”

Davy ate quietly, but when Mrs. Thompson asked him what he'd done in school he opened up and told her about the science project he was working on with P.J.

Abbie could see the surprise in her mother's eyes and her eagerness to soak up every one of Davy's words.

After he'd asked to be excused and had bolted
from the kitchen, Mrs. Thompson turned to Abbie. “Davy's coming around,” she murmured in delight. “I've been pricing therapists, trying to find the right one—one who'd understand, one I could afford. But maybe things will work out without therapy. Tonight he was so much like he used to be.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “He didn't seem angry with me.”

“Mom, Davy's not angry at you,” Abbie said. She reached over to place a hand over her mother's. “He's angry at what he doesn't understand. His whole world has changed, and he doesn't know why.”

Mrs. Thompson's hand turned so that her fingers could curl around Abbie's. She gave Abbie's hand a squeeze and looked into her eyes. “Is it that way with you, too? Are you angry because you can't understand what has happened?”

“No,” Abbie said. “I do understand what happened. It's simple. Dad doesn't care about us. He only cares about himself. He wants to believe that he's still young and good-looking, and he found a woman who'll help with his make-believe.”

“A very young woman.”

“She's not so young,” Abbie blurted out. “She's got crow's-feet and wrinkles under her chin, and her neck's beginning to sag.”

As her mother instinctively touched her own chin with the tips of her fingers, Abbie added, “You should see her up close. She wears too much makeup, probably trying to cover a lot of flaws.”

Mrs. Thompson studied Abbie closely. “How do you know all this?” she suddenly asked.

“She works as a waitress in the coffee shop across the street from the entrance to the college,” Abbie said. “Mrs. Merkel and I … we stopped there for soft drinks.”

“So that's where he met her,” Mrs. Thompson said softly. She thought for a moment, then asked, “What were you doing out by the college?”

Abbie shrugged. “Mom,” she said, “Mrs. Merkel calls me her driver. She says that's all I'm good for. I just take her wherever she wants to go.”

But Abbie could see the wheels still going around in her mother's mind. “Why that particular coffee shop?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

Abbie wasn't sure if the question was meant for her or if her mother was asking herself, but she said, “Mrs. Merkel went to that big bank in the same shopping center. She wanted to stop for some iced tea first.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Thompson said. She seemed satisfied. “How are things working out with your Mrs. Merkel?”

Why does everyone call her
my
Mrs. Merkel?
Abbie wanted to shout. For just an instant she wondered if she should confide in her mother about Mrs. Merkel's activities. But she knew the answer was a strong no. Her mother would be alarmed, she would complain to Mrs. Wilhite, Abbie would be pulled from the Friend to Friend program,
and who knew what the judge would decide to do to her?

“Why are you shaking your head?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Was I?” Abbie asked, startled. “Oh, I was just thinking about Mrs. Merkel. She gets kind of crabby at times.” Abbie looked at her mother, desperate for an answer. “Does everybody get like that when they're old? I don't want you to get crabby, Mom, and I don't want to be crabby either.”

Mrs. Thompson laughed. “I once read that when you get old you just become more of what you already are. If you've always had a sense of humor and liked people, you just become nicer. If you've always been a grouch, you probably get to be more of a grouch.”

Abbie laughed. “I think Mrs. Merkel was born a grouch,” she said.

Mrs. Thompson stood. Before she picked up her plate and utensils to take them to the sink, she bent to kiss Abbie's forehead. “I'm doubly proud of you for being able to get along with her,” she said. “When will you go back to visit her? Thursday? Saturday?”

“Tomorrow. Wednesday,” Abbie said, and sighed. “She told me it was very important.”

Frowning, Mrs. Thompson said, “You don't have to visit her every day. I read the material you were sent. It said two or three times a week.”

“I know, Mom,” Abbie said. “But she insisted.
So just tomorrow I'll need the car again. Okay? I'll try to work things out with her.”

Mrs. Thompson nodded as she opened the dishwasher. “Okay, honey. After I get these dishes in here, I'm going upstairs to take a long bath. I'm tired, right down to my toes.”

Abbie began to carry the rest of the dishes to the sink. “Take your bath now, Mom. I'll do the dishes,” she said.

Gratefully Abbie's mother kissed her again and left the kitchen. Abbie could hear her in the den, cautioning Davy to do his homework before watching television. But the TV's volume grew even higher after Mrs. Thompson's footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Abbie had just finished loading the dishwasher and was drying her hands on the kitchen towel when someone knocked on the outside door to the kitchen. Startled, she looked out the window, into the shadows of the deepening twilight, and saw her father standing on the kitchen steps.

She began to back away, but he had glimpsed her and called out, “It's just me, Abbie. You don't need to be alarmed.”

A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. “I didn't want to frighten you by just walking in,” he said. “That's why I knocked.”

Abbie leaned against the kitchen counter for support.
Mom should have changed the locks
, she thought.
Did she think Dad would be sorry and come back? Did she hope everything would be the same again?
“Mom's not here,” she told her father. “She went upstairs.”

“I didn't come here to talk to your mother,” Dr. Thompson said. “I came to talk to you, honey.”

“I'm not here either,” Abbie told him. “Remember? I'm nobody. I'm nothing.”

He frowned, looking puzzled. “Don't play games,” he said. “Let's get to the point. You were in a situation today in which you could have been pleasant and polite to Jamie. Instead you were rude. She was distressed.”

“She tattled to you?”

“I don't like your choice of words, Abbie. She simply confided her unhappiness.”

Abbie gripped the edge of the counter. “I wasn't intentionally rude to her. I was … well, you could say,
distressed
, myself, when she came to our table. I didn't know she worked there.”

Dr. Thompson looked stern. “Did you say hello pleasantly, as you've been trained to do?”

Taking a deep breath, fighting down her resentment, Abbie said, “Now
you've
used the wrong word, Dad.
Taught
is what you should have said, not
trained.
Trained is what you do with pet poodles.”

He flushed but continued. “Did you call Jamie by name—Ms. Lane—and introduce her to your guest?”

“Dad—”

“Or did you encourage your guest to be rude to Jamie too?”

Abbie pushed herself away from the support of the counter, taking a step toward her father. “The woman I was with was not my guest. She
was assigned to me in that Friend to Friend thing I'm doing while I'm on probation. Mrs. Merkel has a mean disposition, and she's rude to everyone, including me.”

“Don't exaggerate, Abbie. It doesn't help your case.”

“Case? Am I on trial? Did you come to talk to me or just to lecture me? Don't you want to hear my side of what happened?”

“No, I don't,” Dr. Thompson said. “It's important to me that Jamie is happy and feels accepted.”

Abbie opened her mouth to speak, but her father interrupted. Reaching for her hand, he said, “Abbie, honey, this is all very difficult for me.”

Abbie jerked away. “For
you
, Dad? It doesn't have to be.”

“You don't understand.”

“No, I don't.”

“If you'd just try …” He stopped speaking, frowning as he thought. Finally he raised his head, looking at Abbie with a sorrowful expression. “Abbie, I hope you understand that I will not tolerate your causing Jamie to be unhappy. You will not behave rudely to her in the future.”

“But I didn't. That is, I won't. I—”

“There is no reason for you to go to that particular coffee shop again. I forbid it.”

“You can't! Dad, I have to take Mrs. Merkel wherever she wants me to go, and she told me we were going back to that coffee shop.”

“That's an easy problem to remedy. You can encourage her to go somewhere else.”

“You don't understand. She has … well, a certain project in mind.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does. If I don't do what Mrs. Merkel wants, she can cause trouble for me.”

Dr. Thompson sighed. “The trouble you find yourself in is trouble you have caused for yourself. I've given you an order. You are absolutely not to go inside that coffee shop again, and when you meet Jamie in the future—under happier circumstances, I hope—you are to be polite and pleasant. I'd like to plan sailing dates with you and Davy and Jamie in the near future. Theater productions at the college, weekends in Corpus Christi—there are endless possibilities for family activities. Do you understand why it's important for you to have a good relationship with Jamie?”

“You are not acting like my father, so why should I do what you want me to do?” Angry and frustrated, Abbie burst into tears.

When she was finally able to control her sobs and was wiping her eyes on the kitchen towel, she saw that her father had left.

“Abbie?” Mrs. Thompson spoke from the door that led into the den. “Honey? Were you crying?”

Abbie nodded. She moved into her mother's open arms and rested her damp cheek against her mother's, inhaling the fragrances of bath oil and lotion, hungry for comfort.

Finally her mother stepped back and searched Abby's face. “What happened?” she asked. “What made you cry?”

Abbie gently shook her head. She couldn't handle all the problems that had been dumped on her. Mrs. Merkel … Jamie Lane … her father.

And she couldn't tell her mother everything that had happened. She couldn't even tell her that her father had just been there. Her mother would be angry and hurt, maybe even frightened. She had enough to worry her. Testing, Abbie found she could speak without setting off a fresh batch of tears.

“I won't need the car tomorrow Mom,” she said. “I'm not going to visit Mrs. Merkel after all. I've got homework and a long-term project in English.”

“You're right to limit your visits,” Mrs. Thompson agreed. “The Friend to Friend people don't expect you to go every day.”

At the moment Abbie didn't care what Mrs. Merkel might do to her. She didn't care if she ever saw Mrs. Merkel again. She felt the way she had when she was a little girl. Inside her mother's arms nothing could harm her, nothing could frighten her. “Hold me tight, Mom,” Abbie said, and stepped into another of her mother's hugs.

A
t the school gate the next morning, Nick Campos met Abbie with a wide grin.