Taste of Honey (30 page)

She found an empty seat and fished her cell phone from her purse, punching in Sam’s number.

“ ’Lo,” Sam sounded distracted.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine. We just had supper. Listen, Gerry—”

“The kids behaving themselves?”

“Justin’s good as gold. But—”

“Andie?”

“She’s not here.”

From the agitation in her voice, Gerry knew that Andie wasn’t out with Simon or over at Finch’s. She felt her heart lurch. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

“At her dad’s. I just got off the phone with Mike.”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” Gerry struggled to remain calm.

There was a beat of silence, a solitary beat, no more, but enough for Gerry to feel her world start to crumble. “According to Mike, she wants to stay with him. For good.”

Gerry gripped the edge of her seat. “Are you sure he wasn’t just saying that?”

“I don’t think so. She was at the house when I went to pick up her and Justin. She got pretty upset when I told her where you’d gone.” Sam’s voice was muffled, as if she were holding a hand cupped around the receiver.

“Oh, God, I didn’t think.” Gerry felt sick. She’d been so busy blaming Andie for what had happened at the wedding that she hadn’t seen this coming. Why couldn’t she have given Andie the benefit of the doubt?

“It’s not too late,” Sam said. “If you talked to her …”

Gerry’s head spun. Since when had it become Andie’s decision? Wasn’t
she
supposed to be in charge? She tried to remember the last time they’d had anything close to a heart-to-heart talk. Days? Weeks? Months? She couldn’t recall.

“Would you put Justin on?” She’d die if she couldn’t talk to at least one of her kids.

She spoke briefly with her son, who seemed oblivious to all that was going on with his sister. An equal opportunity hero-worshiper, he was delighted to be able to spend time with Ian. Listening to him babble on excitedly was like warm water rinsing the salt from her wound.

Being a mother was like triage, she thought. You were constantly forced to choose, doling out hugs and kisses and precious private time to whichever child was most in need at any given moment. Which meant that someone was always going to feel left out. And what did you say to
that
child? That life isn’t fair, and the sooner they realized it the better?

An hour passed. She flipped through outdated magazines and glanced up from time to time at the TV, on which captions scrolled across the bottom of the screen in lieu of sound. It was tuned to the news, and she saw just enough to get the drift: police shootings, protests, Middle East terrorist attacks. Just when she was beginning to give up hope of Claire’s return, she caught sight of her emerging from an elevator. Gerry scarcely recognized her. She seemed to have aged a dozen years. Her head was down and her shoulders pulled up around her ears, her gait as deliberate and heavy as if she were lugging a heavy bundle on her back.

Gerry walked over to meet her. “How is she?”

Claire seemed almost surprised to find her still there, then quickly recovered, saying, “It’s not as serious as they first thought.”
You wouldn’t know it from your face,
Gerry thought. “The preliminary diagnosis is angina. Her doctor wants to do some more tests, but if everything checks out, she can go home tomorrow.”

“You must be relieved.”

If she was, it had done nothing to ease whatever was weighing on her. “I told her you were here.”

“And?”

“It took some convincing, but she finally agreed to see you.”

Gerry’s heart went out to Claire. “I won’t stay long. I imagine she’s pretty tired.”

Claire’s only reply was to smile grimly, as if to say that Gerry couldn’t possibly make things worse.

As they rode up in the elevator, Gerry thought of Millie Brewster steeling herself against her unwanted visitor as she must have the results of her EKG. She smiled at the irony of it. Years ago
she’d
been the one consumed with jealousy. Now it was up to her to put Millie’s fears to rest.

The CCU was on the third floor, just around the corner from the nurses’ station. It had four beds, each sectioned off by a curtain, and enough glowing monitors to light the room without benefit of fluorescents. Millie Brewster was in the bed nearest the door: a gray-haired woman so small and frail she left barely a dent in the mattress. She lay very still, her eyes closed, the hand hooked up to the IV resting pale and weightless on her bosom.

The line on the monitor overhead undulated in even waves.

Claire’s father sat in the chair beside the bed, a large balding man running to fat. He’d been staring vacantly ahead, lost in thought, but started at their approach, a momentary alertness animating his sad, defeated-looking face. He looked from Claire to Gerry, his gaze lingering only a second longer than was polite.

“She just dropped off,” he whispered.

Gerry had a sudden urge to flee. What had she hoped to accomplish? “I could come back later if you like.” She kept her voice low, not wanting to wake Millie.

But Millie stirred, her eyes fluttering open—small and anxious. She stared at Gerry, waiting for her to make the first move.

Gerry touched her hand. She saw no need for introductions. “Claire tells me you’re going to be okay.”

“So they say.” Millie’s voice was a dry croak, her face as pale as chalk. If Gerry hadn’t known better, she’d have thought the woman was at death’s door.

Lou patted his wife’s shoulder. “You’ll feel better when you’re in your own bed.”

“My mother always says hospitals are no place for sick people.” Gerry’s feeble attempt at leavening fell flat; Millie stared at her blankly. She tried a different tack. “I’m sorry. This must seem like the world’s worst timing, but Claire was so upset …” She hesitated, panic setting in. But the words came easily. “I’m glad we finally had a chance to meet. I want you to know how grateful I am. You did a fine job raising her.”

It clearly wasn’t what Millie had been expecting to hear. “I don’t need
you
to tell me that.”

“Mom—” Claire took a step forward.

Gerry put a hand out. “No, it’s all right.” She looked back at Millie. “I’m not trying to take your place, Mrs. Brewster. I couldn’t if I tried. All I want is to be a part of her life.”

Millie’s face twisted, a hard, gray knot against the pillow. “Well, you got your way, didn’t you?”

“Mom. It was
my
decision.” Claire looked stricken.

Millie’s gaze fell on her daughter. The angry look faded, replaced by an expression of almost unbearable tenderness. “Oh, honey, I don’t blame you. If anything, I blame myself.” Her voice was a thin little treble. “I know we leaned on you more than we should have. It’s like you … completed us.”

She melted into the pillow as if spent. Claire stood looking down at her mother, arms hanging lifelessly at her sides and her eyes filling with tears. On the monitor over the bed, the LCD readout showed a slight but noticeable spike.

“I didn’t ask for this.” Claire’s voice was small and choked. Gerry didn’t know if she meant her parents’ excessive love … or Gerry’s refusal to take no for an answer.

“I know, honey. I know.” Lou slipped an arm about his daughter’s shoulders.

Claire gave him a stern look. “I want you and Mom to visit.”

“We will,” he said wearily. “Soon as Mother’s back on her feet.”

Gerry cleared her throat, which felt tight all of a sudden. “I hope you can make it for the opening. I’d love for you to meet my family.”

Lou turned to her. “Claire tells us you have children of your own.” He flushed as if realizing how it had sounded—as if Claire weren’t her child, too.

“Two, a boy and a girl,” Gerry told him. She felt a pang at the thought of Andie. “My son thinks Claire hung the moon.”

Lou managed a weak chuckle. “We feel the same way.” He cast an adoring look at his daughter. “Among other things, we miss her cooking.”

“I’m not much of a cook myself.” Gerry seized the opportunity to change the subject—anything to divert herself from the eyes staring up at her like the unblinking red lights on the monitor. “Potato salad is about all I can manage without a mix.”

“I make mine with sour cream. Gives it a nice tang,” Millie said.

Gerry suppressed a smile. “My secret is Miracle Whip.”

Millie’s face relaxed a bit, and Gerry saw how she must have looked when she was younger, how people might have seen a resemblance between her and Claire. Both were delicate-boned and fair, with the same air of thoughtful seriousness. Millie exhaled with a long, sighing breath. “I’m a little tired,” she announced to no one in particular.

Gerry took the hint. “I should let you get some rest,” she said, stepping away from the bed.

Lou tenderly pulled the blanket up around his wife’s shoulders before turning to Claire. “Why don’t you get something to eat, honey? I’ll still be here when you get back.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Brewster.” Gerry put her hand out.

“Lou. Call me Lou.” He gave her hand a little squeeze, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before sliding away. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

“Can I bring you anything?” Claire asked.

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

Claire kissed him on the cheek. “Be back in a bit.”

Gerry walked with her into the corridor. Lit by the eternal noon of fluorescents, it made her think of a spaceship, the nurses, doctors, and orderlies bustling past like aliens in search of the true meaning of life on earth. She realized how hungry she was—starving, in fact. Even hospital food would taste good right now.

They rode the elevator down to the mezzanine level, where the cafeteria occupied the balcony opposite the gift shop and florist. They carried their trays to a table by the railing, where they had a bird’s-eye view of the lobby. Nearby, a man with thinning gray hair sat hunched over a bowl of soup, and several tables away a group of nurses were engaged in an animated discussion.

“I’m sorry about my mother,” Claire said.

“Don’t be.” Millie hadn’t acted out of meanness, Gerry knew; she was frightened, that’s all. And old—Gerry had been unprepared for how old they’d both seemed, more like grandparents. “They seem like nice people.”

“They mean well.” Claire was looking down at her tray, making no move to pick up her utensils. A pale tendril of steam from a Styrofoam cup of tea caressed the delicate curve of her cheek.

“It’s obvious they love you.”

Claire lifted her head, her mouth twisting in a pained smile. “Sometimes it feels like too much of a good thing.”

Gerry wanted to say,
I love you, too,
but this wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she asked, “Will you be staying long?”

“Hopefully not more than a few days. I’ll be at Kitty’s. She said to tell you you’re welcome, too, if you’d like to stay the night.”

Gerry shook her head. “I should be getting back.”

Claire poked listlessly with her fork at the mashed potatoes on her plate. “Would you keep an eye on things while I’m gone? Tell Matt …” She glanced up, her cheeks reddening. “Tell him I’ll be back.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Gerry ate half her sandwich, wrapping up the other half to take with her. Claire, she saw, had barely touched her food.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a flight,” she said. “Not at this hour.”

Gerry only nodded. Claire didn’t have to know she had other plans. The idea had come to her during the interminable wait downstairs. God had brought her here for a reason, she’d concluded. Not just to give comfort to Claire, or force the Brewsters to acknowledge her, but to take care of some unfinished business of her own. It was time, she thought, to pay a little visit to someone who’d be even less happy to see her than Millie Brewster, someone from the past who held the key to her future.

It was midnight by the time she reached San Francisco. On the drive north she’d booked a room at the Hilton, and by the time she checked in she was long past exhaustion. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Gerry awoke to find sunlight streaming in through the nylon sheers. She bolted upright, squinting at the digital clock on the nightstand. Nine-thirty. How had she managed to sleep so late? She scrambled out of bed and hit the shower running. She was dressed, checked out, and in her car by half past ten.

A short while later she was pulling up in front of Father Gallagher’s neat frame house on Turk Street. Her knock was answered by a heavyset gray-haired woman who informed her, “You just missed him.”

“Oh dear.” Gerry smiled ingratiatingly, holding her sweater closed so her wrinkled blouse from the day before wouldn’t show. “I should have called first. I just thought … well, I was passing through. I’m an old friend, you see.”

The woman looked her up and down, but was apparently satisfied that she was telling the truth. “He hears confessions Thursdays and Fridays.” She gave Gerry directions to the church.

As she drove off in search of it, Gerry’s heart was knocking in her chest and she felt sick to her stomach. What would she say to him? More important, what would he say to
her
? It was one thing for him to lie to Claire, but Gerry knew better. She wouldn’t let him worm out of it this time.

St. Thomas Aquinas was a square, featureless concrete building in the middle of a graffiti-scrawled block, situated between a Laundromat and an all-night bodega. Its shabbiness struck her as odd until she recalled that Jim had always chosen humility as a means to an end. And clearly it had paid off. Rumor had it that he was one of the archbishop’s most trusted aides.

She pushed open the wooden door, pausing just inside the vestibule to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. In the sanctuary, which smelled close and cedary like a trunk in which winter clothes are stored, feeble rays shone from high recessed windows that might once have been made of stained glass but were now reinforced safety glass. Scattered about the pews were half a dozen worshipers, old women mostly, their heads bent low in prayer. She drifted to the bank of votive candles. Only a few flickered wanly in their ruby glass holders. She dropped a coin in the donation box before lighting one.