I pull myself off the floor, go upstairs, take an ice-cold shower, and pull on some clothes. The shock to my system makes me feel semi-human.

I walk down the hall and gently knock on Caitlyn’s door.

“Caitlyn?”

There’s no answer, so I slowly open the door.

“Caitlyn, I want to talk—”

She’s not in her room.

“Caitlyn?”

“I’m down here,” she responds from the kitchen.

I find her sitting in the kitchen alcove with a bowl of Fruit Loops in front of her that she’s not eating; she’s only pushing her spoon around in the now-discolored milk.

“Hey.”

She continues stirring.

“You want me to make you anything? Toast? Waffles?”

She shakes her head.

“Caitlyn, listen, I’m really sorry for what I said.”

“It’s okay,” she says in a flat, unconvincing tone.

“No, sweetheart, it’s not. Not at all. I’m having a really hard time right now, and I know you are, too. I was a jerk last night and I’m sorry. You don’t have to pretend that your imaginary friend talks to Mom. If you want to talk to me about Mom, you can. I want you to.”

Without a word, she gets up and walks out of the kitchen, mumbling something about getting ready for school. She goes through the living room and up the stairs.

“You need to apologize to Ms. Hancourt toda—” I call after her but her door shuts.

I make some coffee and wait for her to come back down, but as the minutes wear on, I realize she’s running out the clock until the bus arrives.

Sure enough, her footsteps hit the stairs just as the bus pulls up at the end of the driveway. I get up and walk through the living room but only catch a glimpse of her back as she opens the front door.

“Have a good day, pumpkin. I love—”

The door closes behind her.

The house is silent.

“Damnit,” I whisper and head for the Writing Room.

*

For two hours, I try to get the words out, but I’m distracted. I’ll scratch out a few lines and then I’ll see Caitlyn’s wounded expression flash through my mind. I’ll wait for it to pass, scratch out a few more lines, and it happens again, and I’ll remember the horrible things I said to her.

Finally, I curse and hurl my pen against the wall. It’s going to be another non-productive day.

I can’t write, but I need to do something active. I don’t want to sit on the couch and wallow in the misery of this hangover or the memory of last night. The only solution I can come up with is to get some housework done.

To make the best use of my time, I’ll get some laundry going while I clean.