Julia's Daughters

Books by Colleen Faulkner

JUST LIKE OTHER DAUGHTERS

 

AS CLOSE AS SISTERS

 

JULIA'S DAUGHTERS

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Julia's Daughters

COLLEEN FAULKNER

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Julia

 

I've always thought the worst thing that could happen to a mother would be the death of a child.

I was wrong.

I lie in the middle of my king-size bed, my eyes closed, listening to the sound of the ceiling fan spin overhead. I feel the firmness of the mattress beneath me and smell the fabric softener I used yesterday when I washed the sheets.

I've been lying here for hours. Since Izzy and Haley left for school at seven thirty this morning. It's my daily MO. Sometimes I'm still here when Izzy gets home at three forty-five. Ben takes them to school now since obviously Haley isn't allowed to drive Izzy anywhere. Which, when you think about it, is kind of ludicrous. Izzy is probably safer with Haley driving than Ben or me. What are the odds that a seventeen-year-old would kill
two
sisters in two
separate accidents?

Tears fill my eyes. I don't wipe at them. They've become as much a part of me as my blond hair or the freckles across my nose that I hated when I was a teenager. I cry day and night. Sometimes for hours. I had no idea a person could cry so much for so long. I was never a crier, before.

Before Caitlin died.

It's been forty-seven days. Forty-seven days since the police called at 11:27 p.m. The girls wouldn't even have been home late. If they'd made it home.

It's interesting how many things you learn when something like this happens to you. For instance, I didn't know that when your child is dead at the scene of an automobile accident the police don't tell you that on the phone. They tell you your child has been in a serious accident and ask that you come to the hospital. Even though your child's heart has already stopped beating. Even though yours will soon feel like it's stopped beating . . . like it will never beat again.

Somehow it seems cruel to me to have parents rush to the hospital, praying the whole time that, worst-case scenario, they'll see their child alive one more time. Only to learn that there was no need at all to hurry. That the child of their body is already dead. Has been dead for almost an hour by the time you reach her.

Looking back, the intimation was there when the officer called. I should have known there was no reason for us to hurry. It was his tone of voice. I heard it in the receptionist's voice when I identified myself at the front desk of the ER, too. Then there was the little room. A nurse led us to a room without windows to wait for the doctor to talk to us. It was just Ben and I in the room. No one else was waiting to hear someone tell them that their sweet, smart, laughing daughter who'd plucked her eyebrows too heavily that morning was dead.

My tears run down my face; eventually they'll wet the clean duvet cover. If my ten-year-old daughter's ten-year-old cat hadn't puked Cat Chow all over it I wouldn't have washed it yesterday. Since Caitlin died, it's been hard for me to wash or put away things she might have touched. Ben had to pick up her dirty clothes off the bathroom floor two days after the funeral. He said it wasn't healthy, her running shorts and lavender T-shirt still there on the floor and her gone a week. He washed and put away her clothes; he put away her school backpack, her pink raincoat that had been hanging in the laundry room. Her new running sneakers. He put them somewhere where I wouldn't see them; I don't know where. But he didn't get everything.

There's still one of her empty juice bottles rolling around on the floor of my car. It's my little secret. A part of her I'm not ready to give up because in some crazy way, that glass bottle, the sound of it rolling around under the seat, comforts me. It has to go eventually of course. I know that . . . along with her other things.

I can't imagine right now, though, how I'll ever be able to go into her bedroom and pack up her clothes, her books, the ribbons she won cheering. I
do
go into her bedroom, but just to cry on
her
bed.

A change of scenery.

The house phone rings. I ignore it.

I wonder if Caitlin's toothbrush is still in the pink Disney princesses cup in the girls' bathroom. Did Ben toss it when he picked up her dirty clothes? Or is Izzy using it, which was something that used to really gross Caitlin out.

The day before she died, Caitlin came to me complaining about her little sister's use of her personal hygiene products in her bathroom: her comb, her toothbrush, her favorite organic lip balm. Caitlin was into organic products and foods. I told Izzy to stop using her sister's belongings without asking permission. I told Caitlin to stop whining. Had I known my middle daughter was going to die, I wouldn't have dismissed her complaint so easily. I'd have put down the basket of laundry I was carrying to the couch to fold. I'd have ignored the incoming text on my cell and I'd have asked Caitlin how it made her feel when her little sister used the last of her green apple shampoo. I'd have taken a moment from my busy day to be in the moment, one of my last one-on-one moments with my daughter, as it turned out.

The house phone stops ringing. I wipe my runny nose with the sleeve of Ben's sweatshirt I'm wearing. I'm not crying hard like I do sometimes. Sometimes I cry so hard that I make myself retch. It's fascinating how long you can cry and still have tears. You'd think that eventually you'd dehydrate, shrivel up, and die.

I wish.

My cell phone, plugged in on my side of the bed, starts to vibrate. Someone's calling. When a child dies, the phone rings constantly. Something else I learned. At first people call to tell you how sorry they are and to ask if they can do anything for you, then they call to see if you're okay.

I rarely answer the phone. What do I say? How the hell can I be
okay?
I can't even fathom how I can still be alive. In the first days after, my pain was so great that I thought it really
would
kill me. When it didn't, I thought about speeding it along. I thought about it so far as to consider stealing a bottle of my mother-in-law's sleeping pills when I spotted them in her handbag. I think the only thing that stopped me was the idea that I would have to
steal
the pills. How screwed up is that? I think it's okay to kill myself, leaving two girls without a mother, but I don't think it's okay to steal from my overmedicated mother-in-law?

The cell phone stops vibrating, leaving me with the sounds of the ceiling fan and my choked tears again.

Then it starts vibrating again. Again, I ignore it. I roll onto my side, my back to the phone and rest my hand on Ben's pillow. There was a time in my life when I might have taken a deep breath, hoping to catch a whiff of the smell of him. I used to think that he smelled so good, but I can't remember when the last time that thought crossed my mind. The truth is, a crack opened between us a long time ago; Caitlin's death just widened it to a chasm.

My cell phone starts to ring again and I roll over quickly, grabbing it. Three calls in a row is the family signal, the “pick up the damned phone” signal, Ben calls it.

I yank the phone hard enough to disconnect the power cord and stare at the screen; my eyes are blurry from all the crying. It's my best friend since college, Laney. “You okay?” I say into the phone. “Boys okay?”

“You're supposed to pick up the phone when I call,” she says into my ear.

I roll onto my back. My heart's pounding. I'm so relieved Laney's okay. I never used to worry about people I love dying. Now I worry about it all the time. Last week I got the crazy idea that Izzy hadn't made it to class after Ben dropped her off. I actually got in my car, drove to her school, and insisted she be called to the office so I could see with my own eyes that she hadn't been kidnapped between her father's car and the school lobby. Kidnapped and murdered and thrown in a ditch.

“I didn't know it was you,” I say to Laney.

“I don't want any excuses.”

Laney never cuts me a break. It's one of the reasons I love her so much.

“You could have looked at your phone, Jules. Did you get out of bed yet?”

I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve again. “Yeah, I made Pop-Tarts for Izzy before school.”

“But you got back in bed as soon as they left the house.” It sounds a lot like an accusation.

I close my eyes. “I fed the cat, first.
Then
I got back in bed.”

She doesn't laugh. “Julia, we talked about this. You can't lie in bed all day, every day. Did you call your boss to talk about going back to work?”

“I'm going to call him.”

“He's going to fire you.”

“He won't fire me. My daughter died in a car accident. You'd be amazed by all the perks.”

Neither of us laughs this time, either. At least I've stopped crying.

“I'm going to book a flight,” Laney says. “I can be there tomorrow.”

“No, you're not,” I say. “I'm fine.”

“You're
not
fine,” she argues, impatient with me now. “How can you possibly be
fine?
”

I exhale. “No, of course I'm not
fine,
but you know what I mean. I'm fine.”

When she speaks again, her tone is kind and gentle, the same tone I imagine she uses with her third graders. “Jules, sweetie, it's been six weeks,” she says. “I know we're not supposed to put time lines on grieving, but you can't keep lying in bed in the dark. You've got to get up and do something: Clean the house, go to the grocery store, take a walk. I think work would be good for you. It would give you—”

“Forty-seven days,” I interrupt.

“What?”

“Forty-seven days,” I repeat. “You said it had been six weeks since Caitlin died. It's been forty-seven days, so technically—”

“I'm getting on a plane.”

“No, you're not. You're not.” I try to sound firm. “You've got work and Garret's Scouts and Liam's surgery is coming up.”

“It was two weeks ago, sweetie.”

I open my eyes. “It was? Oh, Laney, I'm sorry. How is he? Oh, God, I'm so sorry.”

“It's fine. He's fine. Still a little swollen, but he only missed two days of school. The oral surgeon said he was a champ.”

“When Caitlin had her wisdom teeth out, she refused to stay home the next day. She said she didn't want to waste a sick day at home, feeling like crap. She made me promise to let her play hooky another day when she was feeling better.” Tears fill my eyes as I remember and I make a little gasping sound. I close my eyes, feeling overwhelmed. Like I'm floating on top of water, but just barely. “Oh, Laney.”

“I know, sweetie.”

We sigh in unison.

“Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to go,” she says then. “I need to go collect my little darlings from computer lab, but Jules, I'm serious. I'll take off and I'll come. We'll do something. Go for a drive. Clean out Caitlin's room. Whatever you want. If you can't get out of bed, I'll lie there with you.”

“I don't want you to have to take off from work. Or leave your boys.”

“Then come here. We're having a beautiful spring. Maybe you need a change of scenery. You always said you thought heaven would look like Maine.”

Laney lives just outside of Portland. She's a schoolteacher with two boys. A widow. Laney understands loss. The love of her life since the sixth grade, the father of her boys, Sean, was killed in Afghanistan three years ago.

“I can't be around people. Not yet,” I tell her.

“Then come and stay in the cottage. You always loved the cabin.” Her family's cottage is on Sebago Lake, west of Portland. When we were in college, where we met our freshman year, I stayed there two summers with Laney and her wacky, loving family. Theirs was the kind of family I dreamed of being born into, rather than mine. There was just me and my mom and my stepdad growing up and we were a quiet family, unlike Laney's, which is loud and boisterous. The thing that struck me the most when I met her parents and brothers and sister that first Thanksgiving that I went east with her was that they all
liked
each other so much. Her mother and father kissed in front of me. Her siblings hugged each other and talked about how much they missed each other. I never felt as if my parents liked each other . . . or me. Anyway, so for the last fifteen years I've been taking Ben and the girls to Maine every summer on vacation, although Ben skipped the last two summers. Work.

“Go get your students,” I tell her. “Put them on their buses and go home to your boys.”

She's quiet for a second. I can hear the sound of an authoritative female voice on the intercom: end-of-day announcements. They're serving pizza tomorrow for lunch. “I'm worried about you, Jules,” Laney says softly.

I'm worried about me, too,
I want to say. I think about the sleeping pills. Had they been my own instead of Linda's, would I have taken them? Would I really have tried to kill myself? Good girl Julia Renee Maxton who never liked to put anyone out? I think about telling Laney about the sleeping pills.

“Jules?”

“I'll call you this weekend,” I tell her, knowing I won't tell her about the pills. You're supposed to be able to tell those you love anything. Anything at all. But I know I won't tell her because I
do
love her. She's already worried enough about me.

“Please call me.”

“I will,” I insist.

“You won't. You say you will, but you won't call, Julia. I'll call all weekend, but I'll either get the answering machine or Izzy, who will say you're asleep. The only way I'll get you is if I call three times in a damned row on your cell.”