Kiss Her Goodbye (9 page)

They came once a month, Father Joseph to visit his mother's stone, and Kathleen to visit hers. They would stop at the florist shop just outside the gates, and Kathleen would hand over her carefully saved allowance. Back then, she could only afford one rose. Now she brings dozens.

At the time, she was surprised that Father Joseph took her under his wing the way he did. Most of the kids at Saint Brigid's were afraid of the no-nonsense priest, who rarely smiled and was known for his fierce, thundering sermons.

But looking back, remembering the short span of dates on his mother's tombstone, Kathleen has gained insight. Like her, Father Joseph lost his mother when he was a child. Her predicament must have touched his heart.

With a sob, Kathleen tosses the bouquet aside and sinks to her knees amidst the musty scattering of fallen leaves, tracing with her fingertips the letters etched into the gray slab, mentally adding her own.

The cemetery is deserted on this glorious autumn afternoon. In the distance, she can hear the hum of the groundskeeper's lawn mower, and tires crunching along a far-off stretch of gravel. But here, there is only the occasional chirp of a bird overhead, and Kathleen's sniffles as she fumbles in her pocket for a tissue.

Finding one, she wipes tears that are quickly replaced with a fresh flood, wipes again and again until her tissue is soggy and her eyes are hot; her heart heavy with the grim weight of guilt-tainted memory.

If only she could turn back time . . .

No. It wouldn't matter. Nothing would change; she'd only have to relive every awful moment that led her here.

Father Joseph used to tell her that all things happened for a reason—both blessings and tragedies. He didn't just tell her—he preached it from the pulpit, in a booming voice of conviction that terrified Kathleen when she was a little girl reeling from the loss of her mother, and mesmerized her when she was older. Pounding the lectern for emphasis, fiery passion igniting his words, Father Joseph promised that even the most crippling tragedies could open the door to blessings, if you had faith. If you believed in miracles.

Kathleen chose to believe in miracles.

Now, she is blessed.

Blessed. Cursed.

Cursed to forever live with the almost unbearable burden of a secret so dark it threatens to smother her at times like this.

Gradually, Kathleen becomes aware of the scent of damp earth and dying leaves wrapping around her like a shroud, just as it did on that long ago day. It was autumn then, too. Autumn, but the sky hung low and misty, the ground marshy from a recent rain.

Today, the sky is blue; the sun shines brightly.

Today, Kathleen is blessed.

A shrill ringing suddenly pierces the air.

Her cell phone.

Standing on shaky legs, she pulls the phone from her pocket and flips it open. As she does she checks the tiny digital clock in one corner of the screen, wondering if time has escaped her as it tends to do whenever she comes here. Is she late picking up the boys? Is a disgruntled scout leader or harried mom calling with an impatient reminder?

Noting the time, Kathleen feels momentarily reassured, until she remembers Jen. Jen, babysitting. Jen, lying. Jen . . . in trouble?

She answers with a wary, “Hello?”

“You're going to love me,” Maeve's voice announces gleefully above the din of background voices and jazzy music.

Kathleen exhales. “Why am I going to love you?”

“Because I talked to Sissy and she'll be at your place first thing in the morning.”

“That's great!” She feigns enthusiasm, but the fleeting thought of her daughter has filled her with an inexplicable uneasiness. “What time is first thing?”

“She said around nine.”

“That sounds—wait, I have to be at the nursing home to meet with my father's doctor then. Can you let her in with your key?”

“Oh. I've been meaning to tell you . . . I lost it,” Maeve admits. “It was in my purse and it must have fallen out. I've been looking all over the place, but . . .”

“Terrific. That was our only spare, other than the ones we keep in the doors.”

The new house has the kind of deadbolts that need a key to lock from the inside. Kathleen insists that they keep the keys in the locks, rather than hiding them nearby, as Matt suggested. She isn't taking any chances of the kids being trapped in the house in a fire.

“I'm really sorry, Kath,” Maeve tells her.

Kathleen shakes her head, thinking some things never change. Maeve always was queen of lost library books and misplaced homework assignments.

“Okay, tell Sissy I'll just leave the back door unlocked for her. It's no big deal. I usually do anyway.”

“Maeve? Can you hear me?” she asks as static crackles on the other end of the line.

“Yes, I hear you. You're leaving the door unlocked.”

“The back door.”

“The back door. Got it. Is your address 11 Sarah Crescent, or nine?”

“Nine.”

“Okay, great. I have to go. My order's ready.”

“Where
are
you?”

“One guess.”

“Starbucks,” Kathleen remembers with a smile. “Where else?”

“You should have come with me. They have chocolate doughnuts today.”

“You're not eating one, are you?” she asks in mock horror.

“Of course not, but you love them,” Maeve points out as, somewhere behind Kathleen, the groundskeeper's lawn mower buzzes nearer.

“Where are you, anyway, Kathleen?”

“Running errands with the boys,” she lies. “Listen, I'll see you later. And thanks for the cleaning lady.”

Kathleen hangs up. More guilt. But she couldn't tell Maeve the truth about where she is. She doesn't want to get into the whole cemetery thing with her . . . or anyone. Nobody but Matt even suspects she comes here as often as she does . . . and he doesn't know why. Not really.

Brushing leaf fragments from her jeans, Kathleen spots the flowers she cast aside on the ground, still in their florists' wrapping. She bends to retrieve the bouquet and carefully removes the green tissue paper that hugs the stems. She takes a single red bloom from the bunch, then sets the rest carefully on top of the stone.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers.

She presses her lips to the silken petals of the remaining rose and gently lays it on the leaf-strewn grass at her feet.

Then, once again, she looks at her mother's gravestone.

Protective grandmother.

“Watch over her, Mom,” she says softly before turning and slowly walking away, tears rolling once more down her cheeks.

 

 

Sitting at her desk Wednesday evening, Jen stares absently at the open English textbook before her, thinking not about Renaissance poetry but about Robby.

He said hi to her when she passed him in the hallway today, flashing her a lazy smile from the radiator where he and his stoner friends like to lean as they linger between classes.

In that instant, feeling his eyes burning into her, Jen felt something utterly unexpected. Something she usually experiences only around Garth Monroe.

Okay, but she definitely has no business being attracted to Robby. For one thing, he's trouble. For another, Erin would be pissed.

Maybe Jen was imagining that Robby was looking at her longer—and with more interest—than he ever has before.

And even if she wasn't imagining it—even if Robby makes a move on her, which he won't—she's not about to go out with him. Robby is cute—really cute, in a dark, dangerous kind of way. But he isn't her type. He's older, and . . . and he smokes.

You're so lame
, declares a voice in Jen's head. This time, it isn't Erin's voice, or even Amber's, but her own.
When are you going to stop being such a baby? You'll never have any fun, and you'll never grow up if you go around worrying about stuff all the time the way Mom does.

As though summoned by Jen's subconscious, there's a sudden knock on her door, and a familiar voice calls, “Jen? I need to come in.”

Immediately irked at the invasion, she says, “Go ahead.”

The door opens and her mother carries a stack of clean laundry into the room. Looking around as she opens a drawer on Jen's dresser, she says, “Good. At least your room isn't a mess like your brothers'. It's going to take me at least an hour to get their toys picked up.”

Jen shrugs. “So make them do it.”

“They're helping, but you know how long it takes them to do anything. They keep arguing.” Mom plops the clean laundry into the drawer and closes it with her hip. “And anyway, it's past their bedtime.”

“So? Make them do it tomorrow after school.”

“I can't. I've got a cleaning lady coming first thing tomorrow.”

“Isn't it
her
job to clean?” Jen asks in the
duh
tone she knows her mother despises. But she can't seem to help herself. Mom is getting on her nerves lately, big time.

“Cut the attitude, Jen. Did you finish your homework?”

“Almost,” she lies, turning back to the book.

She can feel her mother's eyes on her.

After a moment, Mom says, “We need to talk.”

Jen doesn't turn around. “About what?”

“About you. I'm worried about you, Jen. That's all. I know it's not easy to be your age, and I just want to make sure you don't . . .”

“Get arrested?” Jen asks when her mother trails off.

“Or hurt. Or . . . pregnant.”

Jen's jaw drops and her cheeks flame. “What do you think I'm doing, Mom? I'm not going to get pregnant. I mean . . .”

She falls silent, unwilling to confess that she's such a loser she's never even kissed anyone.

Now her mother is standing behind her chair, laying a hand on her shoulder. To Jen's horror, she feels tears springing to her eyes.

“I don't know, Jen. All sorts of things went through my head the other day when you lied. I have no idea whether I can trust you.”

“You can.” Jen spins around in her chair to face her mother. “You can trust me. I didn't mean to lie. It's just . . . you won't let me do anything. I feel like a prisoner half the time. I mean, I can't even babysit?”

“You know why. You're being punished.”

“But . . . That's so unfair. What's Mrs. Gattinski supposed to do? Why does she have to be punished? She's really upset. I had a commitment to her and now I have to break it. What kind of lesson is that supposed to teach me?”

Mom is silent.

Then, to Jen's surprise, she nods. “You're right. About that, anyway. You do have a commitment. And if there's anything Dad and I want you to learn, it's that you need to be responsible.”

“Well, it seems like you're trying to do the opposite.”

Anger flashes in her mother's eyes. “How responsible is lying and sneaking around behind our backs, Jen?”

Too late. She's crying.

“I'm sorry.” She sniffles. “I didn't mean to do it. I'll never do it again. Just . . . can't you tell Dad he's being ridiculous with this grounding thing? I mean . . . a whole month?”

“I'll talk to him.”

“You will?”

“Only about the babysitting. And only because you're right. It's your commitment, and you should keep it.”

“Really?”

“I'll see what Dad says.”

“Thanks.”

Mom bends to kiss the top of Jen's head.

Jen is tempted to throw her arms around her mother's neck and hug her. But something holds her back.

Instead, she merely says “thanks,” again, and turns back to her book.

“Don't stay up too late.”

“I won't.”

Her mother's footsteps retreat across the rug and the door closes behind her with a quiet click.

Jen lets out a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding.

She'll call Mrs. Gattinski first thing after school tomorrow and tell her she doesn't have to call Mom after all. What a relief.

Jen tries to focus on the John Donne poem she's supposed to have read and analyzed by tomorrow. Then something buzzes by her ear and she looks up to see a fly flitting almost drunkenly through the air, the way they do when they find their way inside this late in the season.

She pushes back her chair and walks over to the window to open it, hoping to shoo the fly out.

Glimpsing her reflection in the glass as she reaches for the sill, she pauses to study herself, trying to see herself as Robby might have today in the hallway. She's decent looking, she supposes, aside from the freakish white stripe in her eyebrow. Back in Indiana, the kids sometimes called her Skunky when she was younger. Here, nobody does that. But they do stare, sometimes.

Jen used to try to camouflage it with eyebrow pencil, but that never worked. Once, she combed the pale brow hairs with a dark mascara brush, which worked for a while. But she's so used to hiding her brow behind her hand that she accidentally smudged it during the day, and she wound up looking even more ridiculous.

Staring at herself in the window, she notes that you can't even see the white line in her eyebrow. Not from here, anyway.