Almost Missed You

by Jessica Strawser

  Violet couldn’t help but think of Caitlin, and she fought off a little smile in spite of herself. “I may have a friend like that.”

  “Everyone does.” Dr. Saito rocked back on his heels. “In fact, the few times I met your husband, I’d say he seemed like the one more prone to illogical worrying—not something I see as much among the dads.”

  Violet’s smile faded. “Really?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Oh, he just seemed a little fearful that something would happen to Bear in his care. Nothing specific, just that he’d be faced with some situation where he wouldn’t know what to do. Lots of hypotheticals. He asked about car accidents, anaphylactic shock…”

  Violet started, picturing that terrified little boy on the beach. “Anaphylactic shock?” She’d never had any inkling that it had stayed with Finn the way it had stayed with her.

  He nodded. “But as you well know, that kind of worry comes from love.”

  An increasingly familiar sense of dread began to fill Violet as she headed home. Although she felt that there was nowhere else she should be, she didn’t relish being trapped inside those walls again. Violet had tried to shake off the echoes of that last conversation with Gram, but she couldn’t. Every time she walked into the kitchen, she heard her words again.

  It was like Gram had been able to sense something that had been bothering Violet all along. Even if she put aside all her anger at Finn, even if she pretended that he hadn’t been responsible for plunging her into this nightmare—that by some inexplicable trick of the universe he and Bear had vanished into thin air through no fault of his own—all of her feelings were concentrated with laser focus on how badly she wanted Bear back, with every bit of her being. Whether or not Finn returned was a point she would be willing to negotiate if necessary.

  This never would have occurred to Violet before he’d disappeared. He and Bear together were her life—weren’t they? Her ambivalence about her husband—her fairy-tale-ending husband—frightened her. It made her question all that had come before, made her question herself. At a time when she seemed to be at the center of everyone else’s questioning, that was the last thing she needed.

  As she pulled up to the house, she saw Agent Martin’s car parked out front. He was leaning against it, waiting, sunglasses obstructing his expression, and as he raised his hand in a silent wave, Violet realized that Gram’s questions might be the least of her worries.

  * * *

  Violet had been proud of herself this morning for pulling it together. She had taken a long, steamy shower, the water washing over days’ worth of grief and grime. She had blow-dried her hair, trying not to think of the way Bear liked to drive his Tonka trucks up and down the hallway just outside the door while she got ready, the way he’d giggle when he peeked around the doorframe and she teasingly aimed the warm air in his direction, tousling his curly locks. She had put on clothes suitable for wearing in public. She had made an actual meal, an omelet and toast, and then forced herself to eat it, swallowing bite by bite over the permanent lump in her throat, before heading out to run the most ordinary of errands. Milk and juice. She had let herself believe that maybe acting normal would make a difference. That maybe she just had to force herself through the motions on her own terms, without Gram hovering over her.

  But now that she was sitting here across the kitchen table from Agent Martin, who had declined her offer of coffee or tea, she worried that she looked too together, that he might mistakenly think she was handling things just fine—maybe even too fine.

  “I appreciate you being open to me dropping by,” Agent Martin said, his voice devoid of appreciation. He was not altogether unlike the FBI agents in those dime-a-dozen prime-time dramas. He wasn’t as clever or as ridiculous with his dialogue, of course—no one was. But he did have the persona down, which was to say he had no bedside manner. In the many times they’d spoken over the last week, whether in a formal interview, a routine update, or a chance encounter in the agency’s parking lot, never once had he expressed empathy for what Violet was going through. She didn’t know if that was because he suspected her of something, or because that was just his way, but she hoped she wouldn’t be needing his services long enough to find out. “I’ll get right to the point.”

  Violet nodded.

  “Ever heard the name Maribel Branson?”

  Maribel. A pretty name. She would have remembered it. “No. Should I have?”

  “Your husband never mentioned her?”

  In spite of his brusque façade, the tone of the question seemed to betray its intention. Oh, she thought. Oh. She looked at him despondently. “Is he having an affair with her?”

  The agent eyed her strangely, letting a few beats of silence fall between them. Violet held very, very still. Finally, he spoke. “She’s the woman who died when he fell asleep at the wheel of his car.”

  Violet was conscious of the fact that her breathing had stopped, literally caught in her throat. “When he—what? When? He killed a woman?” She felt dizzy. Little bright spots of color floated into the corners of her vision. She blinked them away.

  Agent Martin leaned back in his chair. He looked around the kitchen and nodded to the empty room, as if letting someone there know that her surprise was satisfactory to him.

  “He was responsible for the accident that caused her death,” he corrected her. “Five years ago this month. But he was never charged. Her family was adamant about that. Just a tragic accident.”

  “She was a pedestrian? Or driving in the oncoming lane?”

  “She was in his passenger seat.”

  Violet blinked harder.

  “She was his fiancée,” Agent Martin said.

  15

  A FEW BLURRY MONTHS AFTER AUGUST 2011

  Finn did not want to go to Caitlin and George’s for dinner. He knew everything about it would be perfect—the artisanal cheeses and bread Caitlin would have expertly selected from the international market, the elegant wine pairings, the elevated comfort food she was sure to serve as a main course, the decadent desserts, the married-couple banter between her and George, delicately choreographed to put guests at ease, to make them laugh, but not to raise eyebrows with any jabs that had too much truth to them. The perfection of it all was what he dreaded most. It would make him envy them, which would make him hate himself even more than he already did, which hardly seemed possible these days. But he had to go. He’d declined too many of their invitations at this point. Plus he didn’t want to seem ungrateful now that they were his landlords. At least he could drink his way through the evening—the trip home was no longer a drive across town. Now it was a mere walk next door.

  Fresh out of the shower, he wiped the steam from the mirror with the palm of his hand and slathered shaving cream on his face. Behind him, water dripped from the faucet into the antique tub, a constant sound that had become like a clock ticking down his moments alone in this ancient, empty house. He’d considered getting a dog to fill the space, to fill the silence, but it seemed decidedly unfair to the dog. He didn’t trust himself to care for another living thing. He could barely drag himself out of bed these days. The credit for that went to Caitlin.

  It was during the year he hadn’t seen much of George and Caitlin—the year of Maribel—that they had bought their crumbling mansion in East Walnut Hills, restoring it top to bottom. Caitlin had fallen instantly in love with its stately façade, the semicircle of marble columns fronting the grand entrance, the brick and stone walls and arches that had withstood the years remarkably well, the fireplaces and the dumbwaiter and the gate to the storybook secret garden out back. Her only hang-up in putting an offer on the place had been the house next door—a three-story Victorian that had been converted into a multifamily years before and fallen into such disrepair that it was in danger of being condemned.

  So George had bought that one too. Its renovation had focused on shoring up the structure as opposed to the cosmetics, just sufficient to bring things up to code. As for the curb appe
al, it really was wondrous what a fresh coat of paint and some flowers could do. He’d planned to sell it once the current tenants’ leases were up. The only ones left were up on the third floor—a couple of shaggy-haired younger guys who began and ended conversations with “Peace, brother” and weren’t home much. But then Finn’s own home—his own world—had fallen down around him. George and Caitlin had called through the darkness and offered him a place to stay. Rent free, until he could find a job, get back on his feet. It was an offer he literally couldn’t afford to refuse.

  He would have preferred to leave entirely—leave the state, the country, even. He fantasized about the anonymity of getting lost in a faraway urban hub like London, or on one of those remote Greek islands where time seemed to have stopped decades before he’d ever laid eyes on Maribel. But he didn’t have the money. He and Maribel had put down nonrefundable deposits on the historic church she’d had her heart set on for their ceremony, on the opulent ballroom overlooking Fountain Square they’d sentimentally snatched up for their reception, on the brass band she’d known right away they had to have. They’d made the most important—and most expensive—arrangements quickly, knowing that the logistics of wedding planning would be more difficult after they moved away. Her parents had offered to pay for it all, but Maribel had wanted the day to be wholly hers and Finn’s, free of squabbling with her mother over the centerpieces or the menu. Finn hadn’t even batted an eye as their bank accounts dipped dangerously low—they had all the time in the world to earn it back. Together. Asheville would be full of riches for them. From their happiness, the rest would come.

  Finn had already downsized his possessions to the bare minimum. What Maribel didn’t bring to Asheville, they planned to buy together—or make, with their own four artistically gifted hands, in their new studio.

  Instead, the meager belongings he had left he’d piled into the back of a U-Haul and unloaded here, all the while waiting to be awakened from his bad dream. He hadn’t hung anything on the walls. There wasn’t a photo to be found. Looking around, anyone at all could have been living here. He could almost pretend it wasn’t him. If only.

  The knobs of the sink squeaked as Finn drained the whisker-filled water and rinsed the basin. He wasn’t bothered by the fixtures that barely worked, or the radiators that hissed, or the tile grout that was beyond the point of ever looking clean. He could understand now why people became so obsessed with the notion of other eras, even the idea of time travel. It was the stuff of silly science fiction and fantasy only until you had one day, one moment, you desperately wanted to go back to and stop yourself from doing the horrible thing that would ruin everything—and that you would never, ever forgive yourself for.

  If one of Finn’s creaky walk-in pantries or child-size built-in cupboards or understair crawl spaces would turn into a portal to another day, another time, he would jump through and emerge on the night of their engagement party. First he would relive it—Maribel in his arms, dancing after all their guests had left, drunk on champagne and love and plans for the life in front of them. Then he would erase the ill-fated, mistakenly romantic notion to drive, sleep-deprived and hungover, to the coast the next day.

  He’d make sure he never dozed at the wheel. Never allowed the car to drift across that center line. Never caused the head-on collision that ended Maribel’s life on the side of a lonely highway. Or if he couldn’t stop it entirely, he would reach into the car with his retrospective hands and turn the wheel a few degrees to the right, just enough so that the life claimed would be his, not Maribel’s. The driver, not the passenger. That was justice. That was the way it should have happened, if it had to happen at all.

  Instead, Finn had walked away. Literally, figuratively. He’d been mercifully knocked unconscious, then came to in the hospital with nary a scratch. Evidently, he hadn’t yet gotten around to changing his emergency contact to Maribel. Caitlin had been phoned. And Caitlin had been swift.

  He supposed he was lucky that she’d never formed a tighter bond with Maribel, that rather than being sidelined by grief, her first thoughts were of him. With event planning came a certain amount of crisis management, which she now counted among her specialties. “This could follow you forever,” she’d told him stoically. “We can’t let it.” He’d stared at her, dazed. But she’d already pled her case to George, who’d phoned his father, who’d made some calls of his own. Buried by shock and horror at what he’d done, Finn vacillated between periods of utter numbness and inconsolable hysteria. He didn’t have the presence of mind to ask how his name had been kept out of the papers. Or why, upon being advised by an impeccably dressed lawyer not to admit, on police record, to having dozed at the wheel, he’d never been pressed on the matter, never seen the inside of a courtroom. Never mind that he’d already told Maribel’s family the truth. They hadn’t wanted him charged anyway. He didn’t know for certain whether their appeal would have been enough, or whether he owed an uncomfortably large debt to George’s father.

  As for the other driver—whose truck, rather than its passenger, had borne the brunt of the collision—he was just happy his insurance claims were settled so easily. Yet somehow none of it had cost Finn a dime.

  “She told me this would kill you, after losing your parents,” George told him weeks later, when it belatedly occurred to Finn to protest. “And my wife loves you like a brother. She’s beside herself. I told her you’re built of stronger stuff than that, but … Just let us help stop another tragedy from following this one, okay?”

  The Bransons had been so gracious—too gracious. It might have been easier if they’d screamed at him the way he was berating himself. “It was an accident, Finn,” her mother had said. “Maribel loved you with all her heart. You were about to become a part of our family, and we don’t want to walk away from that—you’re all we have left.” They even offered to ease the burden of the money he’d lost on the wedding, to help pay for it with Maribel’s small life insurance policy from her employer. “She wouldn’t want to see you buried by this,” her father told him, his hand firmly on Finn’s shoulder. They were all of them so, so sad. But they weren’t angry. The only angry one was Finn.

  That was the most shameful part of it all. He couldn’t hide his anger, nor could he allow it to rain down upon them when they were facing things so bravely on their own. He couldn’t remain a part of their lives, couldn’t even look them in the eye. The guilt was going to eat him alive no matter what, he could already see that. But he deserved a slow, agonizing death by guilt—anything quicker would be too kind. And staying in touch with them would only speed the process.

  So he had accepted Caitlin and George’s offer to move in here. Those first weeks, George was overseas for work, and Caitlin came by almost every day—after work on weekdays, and then on weekend afternoons, too, after she’d run all her errands. He sometimes wondered if she didn’t have something better to be doing, some other friend to spend time with. Then again, he didn’t exactly have room to talk. She’d dish up takeout for two, uninvited at the kitchen table. She’d uncork bottles of wine he didn’t feel like drinking. She’d bring DVDs from her classic movies collection, pop them into his player, and deliver commentary the whole way through. He thanked her for the food but ate in silence, he drank the wine without tasting it, and he developed a fondness for the black-and-white starlets from a different era, though he never let on that he did. When the films were over, Caitlin would simply eject the disks, wash out the popcorn bowl by hand, bid him good night, and walk home. Despite his lack of talkativeness and the absence of any outward appreciation for her presence, she kept coming.

  It was a new experience, sharing space with Caitlin without the two of them engaging in an unannounced, unjudged competition to see who could be the most clever or the biggest smart-ass. Sure, she’d been there for him after his parents died, but that had been more of a distract-him-from-the-sadness approach, whereby she dragged him to parties and he feigned having fun until eventually the feigning
stopped. Never—not back then or any other time—had they spent so much time together and said so little. Finn was amazed that she wasn’t growing sick of his melancholy. And then he began to question if she was really coming just for his sake after all. He’d never before considered that it might be lonely being married to someone like George. And when he stopped viewing her visits as sympathy calls, Finn found that he started looking forward to them rather than dreading them. It seemed as if everyone else in his life had disappeared along with Maribel. He knew he might have pushed them away—but they’d let him, easily. They hadn’t pushed back. But Caitlin had. The silence between them become companionable.

  One day, she brought him a listing for a graphic design job with a wedding photographer who had a storefront down the block. “I know the idea of spending your days surrounded by photos of happy couples must be appalling,” she said, raising her arms in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger gesture. “The thing is, though, happy couples are suckers. They pay through the nose for this stuff.”

  The salary was ridiculously high compared to the difficulty of the work. The owner wanted someone to design marketing materials for his expanding business, and to lay out custom albums for his customers. The hours were flexible. And Finn could practically throw a rock from his porch and hit the place—an advantage that could not be discounted, as he still had no car to drive and public transport here was minimally serviceable. He owed it to Caitlin to at least go to the interview. He was going to have to start paying rent eventually. It wasn’t whether or not George could afford to carry him, it was the principle.

  So he had taken the miserable job, airbrushing the happiest days of other people’s lives, putting things in order for them, laying everything out on the pages of their albums to remind them of better days when times got tough. And they would—Finn wasn’t far gone enough to imagine their lives would be perfect—but at least they’d have each other, for the foreseeable future.