“The Thompsons. Wonderful people. They were getting older and the house was getting to be too much for them. They moved to some God-awful place in Florida. But if you ask me, all of Florida is God-awful.”

We watch as Caitlyn tries to sidearm another rock. She gets two skips before the rock disappears below the surface.

“How is she handling it? Her mom and all?” Mildred asks.

“It’s rough. We were all in the car together. T-boned by a drunk driver. My wife died instantly. Caitlyn was out for a few days.”

“… That really sucks,” she says, eyes still on Caitlyn.

“Yes, it does.”

“And the drunk driver?”

“He died at the scene.”

“That’s too bad.” Mildred looks down into her scotch and then adds, “They should have kept him alive so you could finish him off.”

“… I’d be lying if I said that thought never crossed my mind.”

Mildred nods, as if I passed some kind of test. “Well, let me know whenever you need someone to look after her. I’ll spoil her rotten.”

“Mildred Johnson, you are my kind of woman.”

We clink glasses.

*

Our inaugural dinner for our first night in the Nightingale House is pizza.

While I pay the delivery guy, Caitlyn sets the table. I know it’s pizza but I feel that we should observe some sort of ceremony and actually eat at the table. As I carry the pizza towards the kitchen, I see that Caitlyn is setting out three plates on the dining-room table.

“Who’s the extra plate for?” I ask, suddenly worried that she’s setting a place for Nicole, like she’s forgotten that she’s not here.

“The pirate,” Caitlyn responds.

“I’m sorry—the pirate?”

“Yeah. I met him outside when I was throwing rocks. You didn’t see him. You and Mrs. Johnson were talking.”

Honestly, I’m a little relieved.

“Is he joining us for dinner?”

“He said he might stop by,” she replies, completely unfazed.

“Do pirates even like pizza?”

“Everyone likes pizza, Dad.”

I suppose she’s right. I’m weary of the story, though.

Since Nicole’s death, Caitlyn’s lying has become much worse. She would tell me things about her friends at school that alarmed me, but a little investigation would show that she had made it up. I tried to get her to stop. Each time, she said that she understood that it was wrong and promised to stop, but she kept doing it. Finally, I took her to a child psychologist. He said her fantasies were a normal coping mechanism for Nicole’s death. Caitlyn’s reality had been shattered and her active imagination had been providing an escape. He added that I should only worry if she started believing the stories she was making up. As it stood, she never insisted they were true if I questioned her about them.