“Thank you for your time,” I say. “If you do think of anything, even if it feels unimportant, please call.”
I write down my cell number.
“Of course.”
She nods, putting the number in her pocket as I start walking to the door.
“Who does this to his family?” she asks.
I turn around, and meet her eyes. “Sorry?” I say.
“Who does this to his family?” she says again.
The best father I’ve ever known, I want to say.
“Someone without a choice,” I say. “That’s who. That’s who does this to his family.”
“We always have a choice,” Elenor says.
We always have a choice. That’s what Grady said too. What does that even mean? That there is a right thing to do and there is a wrong thing to do. Simple. Judgmental. And if you are the person someone is asking that question about, you have chosen wrong—as if the world is divided between the people who have never made a big mistake. And the people who have.
I think of Carl on the phone, telling me that Owen was struggling. I think of how he must be struggling wherever he is now.
I feel my own anger rising.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, my tone matching Bailey’s.
And I head out the door to join her.
Not Everyone Is a Good Helper
When we get back to the hotel, we order grilled cheese and sweet potato fries from room service. I turn on the television. There’s an old romantic comedy playing on basic cable—Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan finding their way to each other, against all odds—its familiarity a sedative. It lulls us. Bailey falls asleep on her bed.
I stay up, watching the rest of the movie, waiting for the moment I know is coming, Tom Hanks promising Meg Ryan that he has her, that he will love her. For as long as they both shall live. Then the credits roll. And it’s back to the dark hotel room in this strange city and it returns with a terrifying jolt: Owen is gone. Without explanation. Gone.
This is the terrible thing about a tragedy. It isn’t with you every minute. You forget it, and then you remember it again. And you see it with a stark quality: This is what is required of you now, just to get along.
I’m too riled up to sleep, so I start going back through my notes from the day, trying to construct another way to utilize the wedding weekend to spark Bailey’s memory. What were she and Owen doing in Austin besides going to the wedding? Was it possible they were here longer than that? Maybe Bailey isn’t wrong. Maybe that’s the reason the campus looked familiar to her. Did she spend more time there than that one weekend? And why?
I’m relieved when my phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. No good answers to my questions.
I pick up the phone, JAKE coming up on the caller ID.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” he says.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “It’s been a long day.”
“Where are you?”
“Austin.”
“Texas?” he says.
I head into the hallway, gently closing the hotel room door, careful not to wake Bailey.
“There’s a longer explanation, but essentially Bailey had memories of being in Austin when she was young. I don’t know, maybe I pushed her to think she had memories of being here. But between that and Grady Bradford showing up at my door… I thought we should come.”
“So… you’re chasing leads?”