Waiting to Believe (37 page)

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” Lisa murmured. But it seemed hollow to her, like what the TV detectives always say to the family of victims. They nodded but did not speak, smiling politely, instead. They understood Lisa's role. She was Kacey's “chaperone.”

Kacey stepped into the kitchen and looked around. Everything was the same, except that her mother wasn't there. A copy of
Good Housekeeping
lay on the counter, open to a crossword puzzle, her mother's printing on the nearly completed puzzle, her pencil still there. Then the tears came, and Kacey wept for her mother.

Bridget and Maureen stood by the refrigerator. Neither could remember the last time they had seen her cry.

It was Lisa who went to Kacey then, placing an arm around her shoulder. “Okay,” Kacey said as she wiped away tears. “I've got that out of my system now.” She had to move on.

They all sat at the table, unsure what to do next. Maureen still sniffled. “I just can't believe it,” she murmured. “She's only forty-four. How can she have a heart attack at forty-four?”

“She had some pretty hard years,” Kacey said in a near whisper.

“But there was no warning,” Bridget said. “We didn't know she had heart trouble. I don't think she even knew.”

“She didn't take care of herself. I wonder when she saw a doctor last,” Maureen added.

Kacey smiled. “Probably when Joey was born.” They all chuckled.

The girls had grown into beautiful young women. It was obvious that Maureen, at twenty, took after their mother in the stylish way she dressed. Her auburn curls were long and meticulously tousled, her makeup more subtle now than when she was a teenager.

Bridget, one year older, was more casual. Almost careless. No makeup on her freckled cheeks. Her hair was strawberry, like Kacey's. Shaggy. Her frame was still too thin, Kacey thought. But her smile was the smile of the child Kacey had loved so dearly.

“Where are the boys?” she asked.

“They're working. Dad said they should go. Joe's got a summer job at McDonald's on Riverton Road, and Gerald's working at Smithson's Hardware till he figures out what to do with his life,” Maureen said with a hint of sarcasm.

“I think it's hardest on Joey,” Bridget said. “The two of them had supper together last night before he went out with the guys. I don't know where Dad was, but that was it. Mom and Joe ate, and within hours, she was dead.”

Kacey tried envisioning a supper table with only her mother and Joey. Her mind traveled back to the raucous evening meals with the family around the big round table: Gerald with his relentless teasing. Joseph, his incessant questions. Annie, sitting like a princess, above the fray. The little girls, so dear. Swept away in memories, Kacey's tears came again.

Still they sat. There seemed little more to say. They were awkward in their togetherness.

61

Kacey heard her father's car in the driveway. She went to the kitchen window, watching Kenneth and Annie make their way up the sidewalk. For all his height, her father suddenly looked small, almost shrunken. Annie walked beside him, their shoulders brushing. It was Annie who saw Kacey first. She broke into a sad smile at her younger sister, standing in the doorway. Kacey raised her hand in greeting.

Annie was still in her travel clothes, an ankle-length black skirt and beige linen blouse. She was thinner than when Kacey had last seen her. Her brown hair was long, straight, falling in her eyes. No makeup. She looked older than her twenty-five years.

Kacey went out to them as they climbed the porch steps. Kenneth's face was seared with pain. Kacey swept them in an embrace. Kenneth grimaced and shook his head slowly, side to side. His fingers dug deeply into Kacey's shoulders.

Finally, Annie kissed Kacey's cheek. “Good to see you, Sis.” They broke apart and entered the kitchen. Lisa stood by the sink, trying to be inconspicuous, but Kacey pulled her forward. “Dad, Annie, I think you've met Sister Mary John.” The words sounded so formal. “Well, she's Lisa to me.”

Again Lisa murmured, “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

Kenneth's face was blank as he reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you for making the trip with Kacey.”

“Yes, thanks,” Annie responded as she shook Lisa's hand.

Lisa saw herself as an intruder. After a moment, she turned to Kacey. “I'll put our stuff away.”

Kacey walked her to the stairs door. “It's the third door on the left.” She knew Lisa was glad to escape.

Kenneth went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of Jameson. He held it up to his daughters, and they all nodded. Placing four glasses on the table, he poured liberally. “To your mother,” he whispered, lifting his glass.

“To Mom.”

Seated, Kenneth began to tell the story. Within minutes of arriving at the hospital, she was gone, her face a pale mask of the captivating girl he had loved as a nineteen-year-old.

His eyes were watery. The lines, the hollows in his cheeks had deepened overnight. Kacey covered his hands with her own. He glanced up at her but then pulled them away and reached for his glass. It was too much to bear. He took a deep swallow.

Once again, silence settled over the table, and Kacey struggled with an urge to bolt. She stood on shaky legs. “I'd better go up and help Lisa put our things away,” she said lamely.

It was a relief to leave her father and her sisters. She wanted to be in her own room again, surrounded by her own things. As she walked the upper hallway, her foot fell on the one floorboard that always creaked.

The door was ajar, and Kacey pushed it open. Lisa sat in a bentwood rocker, the newest
Time
magazine in her lap. Kacey let out a faint gasp. It was no longer her room. Gone was her bed, her dressing table, and mirror with pictures of Greg taped around the edges. Gone her desk and her Junior Titlist golf trophy. Gone, too, was the RCA hi-fi and the rack holding Bobby Darin, Neil Sedaka, Chubby Checker LPs. All the leftovers of her youth gone.

In their place sat a Singer sewing machine and a dresser, drawers pulled open and overflowing with bric-a-brac, ribbon, and pieces of fabric. A cardtable held scissors, a tape measure, chalk, and several
Vogue
dress patterns. A stenographer's notebook, a couple of pens, and the cloudy remains of a drink sat on a small desk.

Her mother had turned Kacey's bedroom into a sewing room. And Kacey had never known it.

“I thought you said this was your room, so I just waited,” Lisa said.

The door swung open abruptly, and Kenneth poked his head in. “Kacey, I should have mentioned. Your mother—”

“It's okay, Dad. We'll sleep in the guest room.” She smiled at him and added, “If it's still there!”

“It's still there.” He tried to return her smile, but the effort made him look even more tired. He headed back downstairs.

“How foolish of me,” Kacey said to Lisa, “to think my room would remain untouched in a house that still held four kids.”

“Oh, Kacey,” Lisa began but then stopped.

“Ya know, I just always pictured it the way I left it. Gerald and Joey together, and Bridget and Maureen.” Her voice drifted off, caught up in memories.
Where did they put my things?
The knot in her stomach tightened.

She picked up the stenographer's notebook and absently flipped it open. There was her mother's handwriting:

Dear Kacey,

I'd like to make you something for final vows, but what could it be? I wonder if the robe I made you is still in good shape. I don't imagine you're very hard on it. I could make you a new one, though. Would you like that? Or something else? Let me know right away so I have enough time.

Enough time.
The letter was dated May 13. Kacey lay the notebook down. “C'mon,” she said to Lisa, “let's leave this room to Mom.”

The two unpacked their overnight bags in silence. Moving from the closet, Kacey passed the window and saw a beat-up Chevy Impala chug to a stop by the kitchen door. She pulled the curtain back. Gerald and Joseph. Joseph had graduated from high school only weeks earlier. She had missed another big day. Her heart ached at all she had missed. “The boys are home,” she said to Lisa. “I've gotta go downstairs.”

Gerald was opening a Grain Belt. “Hey, sis. They turned you loose, huh?” He reached out his arm and threw it around her shoulder.

“Of course they did.” She had to reach to touch his cheek with her lips. He stood a foot above her, his face thin, with a rusty stubble that tickled her. His voice was raspy, and he looked weary. At nineteen, he had grown into a man.

“Where's your bodyguard? I s'pose you've got one.” He held out his beer to her.

“Gerald! She's not a bodyguard!” She took a sip and handed it back. “She's a friend. Her name's Lisa.”

“Well, this is the shits, isn't it?” He folded his slender frame onto a kitchen chair.

“Yep, this is the shits.” She looked around the room. “Where's Joseph?”

“He stayed out on the porch. Take him a beer.”

But Kacey shook her head. “Not yet.” She opened the screen door. Joseph was sitting on the porch swing, elbows on his knees, his hands folded. Had she not known better, she could think he was praying.

“Joey,” Kacey whispered. He stood and held out his arms to her. Now seventeen, like Gerald, he had grown a foot since she had last seen him.

“Kacey,” was all he could say. She turned her face up to him and tucked it into his shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

“Sit with me,” he said, and they moved to the swing.

“Can you talk about it with me, Joey?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't even know what to say, ya know? We had a couple burgers and some fries together around seven. I brought them home from work 'cuz I knew she wouldn't have cooked anything. She had a drink with hers. Maybe two. But she seemed fine. I don't know where Dad was.”

“What'd you talk about? Do you remember?”

“Oh, I don't know . . . We talked about me wanting to join the Peace Corps, I guess.” Kacey's surprise registered on her face. Joseph caught it. “Oh, I don't s'pose you know about that. It wasn't—it isn't—definite, but it's what I want. Anyway, she was okay. Same as always, so I just ate and left. I didn't see her again.” His anguish was overwhelming.

“Joey, there's no knowing why or when these things will happen. You couldn't have done anything to prevent it. You ate with her. You talked with her. You did what you should.”

“You think?”

“I'm sure of it. You were her last baby. She knew you loved her.”

Tears pooled in his eyes. “Thanks, Kace.”

Kenneth stepped up onto the porch. “Had to tend the horses. They've been neglected today.”

“I wish you'd told me,” Kacey said. “I want to see Two Spot.”

“There'll be time for that later.” He shrugged, opening the screen door. “I've got to go up and pick out your mother's clothes. They need them at the funeral home.”

Kacey cringed. “Oh, Dad, the girls and I will do that.”

“No, I'll do it,” he said in a resolute voice. “I know what she'd want.”

Kacey followed him in and up to their bedroom. “Can I at least help?” she asked as he began thumbing through Rose's closet.

“Don't need any help.” He stopped at a brilliant red sheath, pulling it off the hanger. It had a stand-up collar that swooped down in front to a revealing V. A wide, red patent-leather belt hung from its loops.

Kacey's eyes widened. “Oh, shouldn't we find something a little tamer?”

“No, this is the one. She says she feels like Ava Gardner in this dress. It's her party.”

Kacey knew the tone, knew the look, and knew better than to try to interfere. Ava Gardner it would be.

When they came back downstairs, they saw Father O'Hearn seated on the front porch swing, a tumbler of Jameson in his right hand, his black hat in the other. Kenneth stepped out onto the porch, but Kacey remained in the doorway. “Tim!” Kenneth called. “We didn't hear you come!”

The old priest stood, set his glass down, and reached out to shake the hand of his good friend. “I was out of town last night when you called, Ken. I'm so sorry. So sorry!” Then glancing down at his drink, he added, “I made myself at home.”

Kenneth smiled. “Thanks, Tim. It's good to see you. Oh! and of course you should make yourself at home! You know where we keep the good stuff!” Before sitting down, Kenneth called to Kacey, who had tried to ease away without being seen. “Kacey, Father O'Hearn's here. Fetch me a drink, would you, and bring one for yourself.”

Timothy O'Hearn was a bit too old school for Kacey. She did not look forward to conversation with him but understood it was part of the process. In a moment, she returned with two glasses of Jameson over ice, handing one to Kenneth. “Good of you to come, Father O'Hearn.”

“Ah, Kacey! It's a great sadness to have to see you on such an occasion! My deepest sympathy!”

“Thank you, Father.”

“You're looking well, my dear. Convent life must suit you.”

“Oh, it does. It does.” She leaned back against the porch railing and took a deep sip.
Might just as well relax and get this over with. . . .

At last, the priest drained the last of his drink and looked at his watch. “I'm afraid I've stayed too long. You probably haven't had supper!”

“That's all right, Tim. I'm glad you came,” Kenneth replied, but he stood up.

“Call me if I can do anything for you tomorrow,” O'Hearn said as he placed his empty glass on the table and shook Kenneth's and Kacey's hands. “God bless you, God bless you,” he murmured before shuffling down the steps and into his shiny black Crown Victoria.

62

The Doyle family settled into the rituals of death. Marian Stewart, the neighbor to the east, brought over a steaming lasagna and a tossed green salad. So did Phyl Runnels, from the farm on the other side, although her salad included pine nuts and avocado.