Page 110 of All The Ways to Miss You

I stare down at it. “What’s this?”

He returns to prepping. “As part of Cait’s recovery, she spent hundreds of hours in physical therapy, and the same amount of time with a psychiatrist. The doctor gave her that blank book and a pack of colored pencils. She instructed Cait to fill it with whatever she wanted. It was meant to help with the distress of the amnesia, but also help rebuild the muscles in her arm.”

I open the cover and flip to the first page. My eyes gloss over. I reach out to trace the drawing of Cait and me. We’re little better than stick figures drawn with a wobbly and unsure hand, but still, they’re undeniably us. Despite their lack of facial detail, I’m positive because of how the narrative opens—with roommates. A girl is moving in. A guy builds a beer-can pyramid in the background. I laugh.

The next page shows two characters studying at a table, and on the next, the two are kissing at a concert. After, a kitchen is on fire. I can’t help but smile with each new image. I flip the page and blush. A burst of laughter escapes me in spite of my tears. She drew us in the shower, doing things that no parent should see. But still, I keep flipping and discover every single page is filled with us.

He continues without looking up from his Crock-Pot, where he’s dumping ingredients. “There are two more books with the same two characters. When asked why she drew them, she said she didn’t know. She couldn’t make the connection, couldn’t see their faces. She didn’t even know what she was drawing until she did it.”

It’s the story of us.

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” I close the book, placing my hand over the cover.

He sighs. “Because that would mean admitting I was wrong and explaining to my child that I don’t know everything. That her mom and I wronged her by allowing her to restart her life without knowing what she left behind. After that day, she had so many struggles—with her body, her mind, and with her family. It seemed easier for us and for her to forget it and move on.”

I want to be angry, but didn’t I do the same thing? I allowed myself to believe I was doing the right thing for her, protecting her and making her life easier by abandoning our past.

“Can I have the other books?”

He places the lid on the Crock-Pot and leaves the room. Over his shoulder, he says, “Come with me.”

I tuck the book under my arm and follow, finding him in his office, scouring a wall of books. He removes two additional volumes and hands them over.

“Thank you.” I believe these will help when I tell her the truth, but then another thought emerges. “And where does your wife stand on this?” I look around, searching for Senator London.

“If you’re looking for her apology too, you won’t get it. Ever since she learned Cait’s address, she’s been trying to contact her and warn her about you. Her opinion remains unchanged. If she found out you were here . . .”

I nod. Not wanting to spend more time in jail, I turn to leave.

“You forgot this,” he says.

I turn back and fix my gaze on the sapphire engagement ring sitting on his desk. I never imagined I would see it again. I gave it to her once. Will I be lucky enough to propose again?

No, I can’t allow myself to hope for that. I remind myself it’s enough that she’s safe, healing, and moving forward, even if it’s without me.

I pick up the ring, taking on the weight of all it represents. I close my fingers around it and squeeze. Holding my breath, I make a small wish—that Cait will forgive me.

Judge London walks me to the door. When I turn to face him, he says, “She’s been on a path back to you since we brought her home. No amount of lies, no restraining order, or anyone else would have been able to stop her.”

present day

Cait

fifty-three

“You knew me—before?”

My voice quavers when I repeat the earth-shattering question. My eyes lock with Evan’s. Though he hasn’t answered, he wears a guilty expression.

No. No. No. I shake my head. This can’t be true, but I can see the photographic proof for myself. My fingers release the frame as if it’s on fire. It falls, crashing to the floor. The glass cracks and shatters. I back up several paces, crunching the pieces beneath my heels.

I spin, my gaze bouncing between the smiling faces in the rest of the photos. They’re everywhere—the dresser, hanging on walls, and in a frame next to the bed. I find a younger version of Evan and myself in every single one.

My heart thunders and my limbs turn jittery. This doesn’t make sense.

I search to find the spirit of myself here, in the way the room is decorated, the artwork, the clothing, the computer, the books, and everything else. I’ve been searching for who I was for so long, I can’t comprehend this crucial slice of my past life has been here behind a locked door all along.

Evan places the jug of milk down and approaches, but I scurry away to the far side of the room, using the bed as a barrier. He raises his hands and retreats, giving me more space.