The Daughter She Used To Be

by Rosalind Noonan

  After the tense exchange, Grace and Tasha seemed more than willing to leave the table.

  “I want dessert, too.” Maisey slid down to the floor and carried her plate of uneaten corn to the kitchen like a tribal offering.

  Sully sat back, his fingers splayed on the table. “We got the new window glass in at the shop today.”

  “That’s good,” Sarah said, tiptoeing through the minefield between Bernie and her father. “Are you going to reopen soon?”

  He rubbed his unshaven jaw. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

  “You’ve got to reopen Sully’s,” Sarah said. “It’s a Flushing landmark.”

  “Hmph. Probably for all the wrong reasons.”

  The notion of gawkers coming to the coffee shop to eyeball the scene of the tragedy made Bernie shift uncomfortably in her seat. Someone had suggested installing a small memorial there, a plaque or photo of the three fallen cops, but that seemed like crass commercialism, too.

  “You’re quiet there, Bernadette.” Sully’s gravelly voice held a tender note. It was the closest he would ever come to an apology. “What’s new over in the DA’s office? Get any interesting cases recently?”

  “Always.” Bernie pushed her plate away. “I handled a slew of arraignments yesterday.” She thought of the defendants’ faces, the gray pallor of men who’d sat up all night in a holding cell, the flame of fear in Rose Wu’s eyes. Somehow it seemed wrong to tell a story that exposed the raw edge those people had teetered on.

  “Any good ones?” Sully prodded.

  Hesitating, Bernie stared down at the tablecloth. She didn’t want to spill the truth, but better for them to hear it from her than some friend of Sully’s. “According to the judge, the real drama queen was me. I had trouble staying on track. My mind just kept wandering.”

  “Oh, no.” Sarah reached across the table to squeeze Bernie’s forearm. “You okay, Bernie?”

  “I’ll be fine. But I’m taking a break. I guess I need more time than I realized.”

  “One week is not nearly enough time to get over something like this.” Sarah gathered the bottles of salad dressing between her two hands. “Be patient with yourself, Bernie.”

  When Sarah ducked into the kitchen, Sully pulled his beer glass to the center of his place mat. “She’s right, you know. You can take your time. You got that luxury, darlin’. You don’t have a family to support. No kids.”

  Although she knew he was trying to make her feel better, the reminder that she was nowhere near starting her own family at the age of twenty-seven only made her feel worse.

  “You could come home. Move in here with us,” he said. “We still got your bed in the back. You could move back without missing a beat. Then, maybe down the road you want to get your own place again, we’ll fix you up with something.”

  Bernie’s heart sank low as she worked to keep her face void of emotion. Was this really how her father thought of her ... as a young maiden who could be returned to the castle tower?

  Even without Bernie’s dramatic wash, the whole notion was demeaning. Was her only life role being his daughter? And did her father really think she could move backward in time and be content to live under his roof again?

  “I’ll figure something out, Dad. Even if I have to get a job scooping ice cream,” Bernie said, grateful to have an exit line so that she could leave the legendary family table. “Give me some time and I’ll figure something out.”

  Chapter 37

  Sarah tiptoed through the quiet house, not wanting to wake the kids. She was waiting on the pregnancy test set up in the bathroom, waiting and worried. She knew what the answer would be, but for now, for ten more minutes, she just wanted to pretend it was a negative, that she could focus on the two angels asleep in their beds and start moving on. Focus on making a healthy adjustment. Focus on learning how to go through a whole day without crying.

  She sat on the couch and curled her legs underneath her. On the table was a folder of benefit options from NYPD’s pension section at One Police Plaza. Sarah hadn’t made a final decision yet, but the payout would be generous. She could afford to quit her job and stay home with the girls. That seemed like the only choice at this point, though she dreaded the thought of losing her last vestige of architectural ties and dissolving into a full-time mom. Despite all its benefits, mommyhood did not offer much intellectual stimulation and the hours, in any other forum, would have been condemned as slavery. Never had she considered being a single parent; she had always known that parenting required two.

  This was so unfair.

  She clicked the remote, thinking how she used to yell at Brendan to slow down when he clicked from one station to the next.

  She missed him.

  This morning when she awoke and felt the emptiness on his side of the bed, she fully expected to find Brendan in the kitchen, filling the coffee carafe with water, measuring grounds into the basket. Somewhere between rolling over and touching the bedroom carpet with her feet, the truth had hit her.

  He was gone.

  She missed the reassuring weight of his presence beside her on the couch. She missed his laugh and his talent for packing a school lunch in less than two minutes.

  She even missed tripping over his big clunker shoes by the door.

  He had been the navigator in their relationship, always charting a course, setting goals, and steering toward adventure. Now that he was gone, she was adrift. Lost.

  She pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and huddled under it. This time of year, she was always feeling a chill. Brendan had run hot; he’d had no use for sweaters, and down comforters made him break out in a sweat. She tucked her icy hands between her thighs, wishing for his warmth.

  It was time to go read the test in the bathroom. She could check the results and warm her icy hands under hot water, but she wanted to sit here and savor the peace and fantasize about all the things she had mentioned at the dinner table tonight. She imagined her life moving ahead from here without a baby, and it was a relief to drive to the office with only one booster seat in the car. She would find satisfaction in reviewing the plans for kitchen extensions and added bathrooms. There would be joy in rubber-stamping when it punctuated her freedom.

  Maybe the queasy feeling in her stomach was just the flu? Wouldn’t that be a relief? She could stay in bed for a few days, leaning on Nana Peg for help with the girls. And one day she would wake up and it would be over and she could continue patching up their broken lives and trying to learn how to navigate for the girls.

  Or Plan B, the unplanned plan that would have her up all night with a sick baby ... or maybe three sick children. Or if only one was sick, she would need to lug all three to the doctor, then to the pharmacy. She was going to be lugging three children all over town like the old woman in the shoe.

  How could Brendan die and leave her alone with all this?

  Sarah realized she was curled in a ball, and her nose and cheeks were cold. This wasn’t right.

  She pushed off the couch and checked the thermostat. Fifty-nine, and it was set on sixty-five. Flipping the switch back and forth didn’t elicit the groan of the furnace in the basement.

  “This is your fault,” she muttered, tossing the afghan onto the sofa as she stomped to the basement door. Late on a winter night and she had to go down to the basement to what? Kick the furnace?

  She flicked the light switch by the kitchen door and proceeded down the creaky wood stairs.

  “You were supposed to take care of these things. Take care of us ...”

  The fuse box swung open with a whine, and she ran her hand down all the switches. Nothing had popped. She located the switch marked “furnace” and reset it, hoping it would make the cranky old beast grumble to life.

  Still, dead silence.

  “Oh, no.” She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth and began to cry.

  He’d left them with a broken furnace. She balled up her fists and went over to the monster squatting i
n the corner, its belly rough with the asbestos clay that had been lathered on seventy years ago. “No!” She aimed a kick at it, but her socked foot did no harm to the belly of the beast.

  Ooh, if she had a gun she’d shoot holes into it. They had talked about replacing it, but there would be the added expense of asbestos removal before they even got to the cost of a new furnace, so it was one of those repairs slated for the distant future.

  And now Brendan was gone and she would have to figure it all out herself. Damn him.

  She climbed the wood stairs, feeling the grit of the basement on the bottom of her socks. If Brendan were here, he would be downstairs in the basement tomorrow with a vacuum. He would figure out a way to rig the old furnace to work until he could get estimates from three asbestos removal companies. Then he’d have the new furnace installer lined up right behind them.

  Who installed furnaces anyway? Plumbers or electricians or ... maybe she needed to shop for a heating specialist.

  It was too much.

  She fell back on the couch, balled the afghan into her arms, and sobbed into it.

  It was all too much.

  In the morning she would start making calls to heating companies. She would also call Dr. Newbury’s office and ask about terminating a pregnancy. She couldn’t bear to discuss her options with anyone outside the doctor’s office, but no one would have to know.

  Dr. Newbury could be her salvation.

  Chapter 38

  Bernie knew there would be nothing to see.

  A grand jury hearing was always a closed proceeding, during which only the prosecution presented its case. In New York City, homicide cases were always brought before a grand jury, a group of men and women who decided if the prosecutors had sufficient evidence to substantiate the charges. From what she’d heard and read, Bernie figured the Queens DA’s office would have no problem making their case at this stage. The proceeding would be perfunctory and routine.

  And yet, she couldn’t stay away.

  Although the hearings were closed, no one could stop her from getting a look at the prosecution’s witnesses as they waited to testify, and knowing the witness list might give her a sense of their case.

  Besides, she didn’t have anywhere else she needed to be on a balmy Friday in March.

  The Queens Criminal Courthouse was built in a period that Sarah with her architect degree would call “unfortunate.” The white cement façade was flat and dull; the recessed entrance on the ground floor gave more of a sense of dark alleyway than grand porch. The only feature that lifted the building from totally bald-eagle ugly was the arched windows on the top story, but by the time the eyes went up that far, most people were already sneering.

  Although the location of the hearing wasn’t publicized, she had gotten the information from Indigo, who would be brought over in a wheelchair-accessible van. Padama, the barista from the coffee shop, had also been called to testify, and Sully had mentioned being called in as a backup. Bernie felt that she had a small edge, having heard personal accounts from those three witnesses.

  As if it matters, she thought. She could gather all the evidence in the world and the case wouldn’t be hers. She knew that, in a professional capacity, the DA’s office would not let her anywhere near a case she was personally involved with.

  So what the hell are you doing here? she asked herself as her heels clicked on the old tile floors.

  She just needed to know.

  People moved through the corridors, attorneys and witnesses, and family members. Most of the criminal cases were open to visitors, but not the grand jury, the one Bernie wanted to see.

  The case would be open to the public eventually. For now, she would find out whatever she could about the preliminaries.

  Her trip to the courthouse turned out to be a bust. When she finally reached Indigo by phone, she was told to stay away.

  “I’d love to visit with you, but I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about the case. They’ve got us sequestered here so we don’t even see the other witnesses. The DA would be pissed if he knew how much I told you already.”

  “But we’re friends,” Bernie insisted.

  “Yeah, and I’m a sworn police officer. I’ve got a job to do here.”

  “I know. I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. I’ve never had a case that went before the grand jury before.”

  “And even if you had, you’d be bending the rules anyway,” Indigo said. “That’s how you Sullivans operate. Ask forgiveness, not permission.”

  “That would be the Sullivan men. We women just clean up their messes.”

  “I need to hang up,” Indigo said. “But one of the court officers told me the DA usually holds a press conference on the courthouse steps after high-profile cases like these. Elijah is going to wheel me out there when we’re done here. I’ll see you there if you want to stick around.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you there.” After all, Bernie had nowhere else she needed to be.

  It wasn’t a terrible day to wait outside. The air was damp but warm for spring, and Bernie bought a fat pretzel from a rolling cart across the street and sat on a bench, watching for any sign of a gathering.

  A half hour later, two TV news vans with satellite dishes on their roofs pulled up and dispatched their crews. Bernie recognized Juanita Perez outside one van, fixing her hair and pulling a scarlet blazer on.

  So Bernie was in the right place.

  As the crowd began to assemble, Bernie moved to the courthouse steps and wove toward the center of the group. Two reporters behind her were joking about the weather when Bernie’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. It was from her parents’ house, probably her mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Bernie, I’m so glad I reached you. I’ve been worried all morning.” Peg’s voice was more shrill than usual. “Your father left in a huff and I’m wondering if you’ve seen him there?”

  Bernie scanned the faces lined up in tiers on the stairs. “Not yet, but I heard that the witnesses are in private waiting rooms.”

  “Dear Lord, I hope he went there. He’s in a bad way, Bernie. In fifty years of marriage I’ve never seen him in such a way.” Peg’s voice sounded thick.

  “Ma, are you okay?”

  “I’m worried, is all. It’s not like your father to walk out on me on such a foul note. Stormed out and left his cell phone so I can’t call him to talk it out. And he’s been distracted lately. Not himself.”

  “That’s understandable, with Brendan and everything.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Mom?” Bernie bit her lower lip. “What were you arguing about?”

  “This terrible case, of course. He ... oh, you know what he’s going through. I thought it would help to have a suspect in custody, someone to pin the blame on, but it’s all he talks about now. This eye-for-an-eye business.”

  From the security personnel circling the staircase, Bernie could tell that the press conference was about to start. She needed to get off the phone. “Is there something you want me to do?”

  “Just ask him to get home safe, would you, dear?”

  “Sure, Ma. I gotta go.”

  “Bye then.”

  The courthouse doors opened and the Queens District Attorney Marvin Green emerged. He stood to the side of the doors, waiting as Elijah wheeled Indigo to the edge of the landing. Then Green joined her.

  Of course, Bernie thought. Indigo is the hero of this case. How foolish for Bernie to think that she could have breezed in and hung out with her.

  In his designer suit, Marvin Green cut a smooth, smart appearance as the Queens DA. New Yorkers had been a little taken aback when the Harvard-educated black man had been hired from outside the city to champion the role of lead prosecutor, but Green’s crisp, no-nonsense demeanor had soon won approval.

  Other people spilled out the doors behind them. There was Padama, looking sophisticated in heels and a black and white print dress with a black jacket. She suspected some of the people were c
ustomers who had witnessed the shooting in Sully’s Cup, but she couldn’t be sure.

  And there were at least a dozen cops. Security, or witnesses of some kind? She didn’t know.

  “The action of the grand jury to file an indictment against Peyton Curtis shows that our system works,” Green said, trying to project his voice. There was no PA system, and it was hard to hear unless you were close. As Green began to speak about the wheels of justice moving forward, Bernie thought she saw her father, but she had to do a double take to be sure that hard, menacing face was his. Sully was almost unrecognizable, his eyes glittering, his demeanor cold. He was with a group of cops. First responders to Sully’s Cup that day?

  Had the cops testified?

  She wondered if Sully had been called on to testify. If so she would hear the tale, over and again, until it became part of the family archive.

  At the top of the stairs, Marvin Green talked about the excellent work of the officers and detectives of the police department and the diligence of his own attorneys in coming this far with the case of the “so-called Coffee Shop Killer.”

  As Green introduced Indigo Hilson to the gathered reporters, Bernie glanced up at Padama, then back down to where her father stood with the cops. Ma had wanted her to intervene, talk to him, but she felt confident that he’d be okay hanging with his cop buddies. Sully was a social creature, comfortable until he was alone. There was safety in numbers, she thought.

  People applauded Indigo, who rose from her chair with Elijah’s help and smiled at the crowd. The DA thanked the media for coming, and turned away.

  Immediately, the crowd began to break up.

  Bernie dropped down a few steps, closer to her father and the cops. The other men were tall like Sully, and they stood in half a circle with their shoulders back, talking but also observing the human traffic around them, like sideline coaches who might be called upon to catch a ball in midair or dodge a player running out of bounds.

  Someone tossed off a comment and they all chuckled, a low rumble, a shared moment, but not enough to distract from the scene before them.