The Long Way Home

by McQuestion, Karen

  And then Kimberly, Troy’s mother, came back and took over everything. Kimberly was still listed as a co-owner on the deed to the house, a shock to Marnie. Brian had named her as the beneficiary on his life insurance too. Kimberly took care of all the paperwork, arranged the funeral, and greeted the mourners at the funeral home. It was her show.

  Kimberly. Even thinking the name made Marnie shudder. To make things worse, Kimberly was gorgeous—slim and blonde. One of those women who looked effortlessly glamorous. Everyone liked Kimberly too. She was even nice to Marnie, which under different circumstances would have made it hard to hate her, but in this case, Marnie made an exception.

  When Kimberly left town, she took Troy with her and there wasn’t a damn thing Marnie could do about it. It was like the last ten years of her life were letters on a dry-erase board and Kimberly had wiped it clean.

  She looked at Jazzy through the lens of tears. “It’s been difficult,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “I really miss my stepson. I feel like someone ripped my heart out.”

  “Where is he now?” Jazzy asked.

  Marnie swallowed. “In Las Vegas with his mother.” She was going to lose her composure if they kept talking about Troy, and she didn’t want to start blubbering in front of company. “Would you like coffee?” she asked brightly. “I’d be glad to brew a pot.”

  Over coffee and dessert, the conversation became more cheerful. Jazzy liked to read, something she had in common with Marnie. They talked about books, which led to a conversation about movies. “The next time I want to see a movie I’ll give you a call,” Jazzy said.

  Marnie nodded, pleased. Jazzy was probably being kind, but who knew? Maybe this was the beginning of a friendship. At eight o’clock, Jazzy announced that she had to get up early to work the next day and had to go.

  “I’ll see you at the grief group, right?” Marnie said.

  “Oh sure,” Jazzy said. “I’ll see you then.”

  They exchanged good-byes, with Jazzy pulling Marnie into an enthusiastic hug, which took her off guard. When Marnie opened the door to see her out, a gray tabby cat leisurely walked in and rubbed up against Jazzy’s ankle. “Well, hello there, you cute little thing.” Jazzy reached down to pet the cat. She looked at Marnie. “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

  Marnie’s mouth hung open for a second. Recovering, she said, “It’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before. It must belong to the lady downstairs. I hear a cat sometimes.”

  Jazzy scooped up the cat and held it like a baby. “What a cutie you are. Yes you are.” She rubbed its head then looked up at Marnie. “I’ll drop him off on my way out.” She stepped out into the hall and headed toward the stairs.

  Marnie got a panicked flush and started speaking rapidly. “Mrs. Benner doesn’t like to be bothered. Why don’t you just leave the cat in the hall? I’m sure it will find its way home.” But Jazzy was already at the bottom of the stairs.

  Jazzy called out, “Really, it’s no trouble. I’m going that way anyhow.” The clattering of her shoes on the wooden stairwell suddenly sounded thunderous. Marnie debated going after her and taking matters in hand, but it was too late. She could already hear Jazzy knocking on Mrs. Benner’s door.

  Chapter Eight

  When Laverne heard a knock, she stiffened with dread. Lately that was her reaction to everything, and she was getting tired of it. Tired of being a hermit, tired of being homebound, but not quite sure how to end her reign of solitude. Interacting with others felt like an ordeal. Recently she’d managed small outings—the post office, the library, the grocery store. Luckily all of them were within walking distance because she’d let her driver’s license lapse.

  She was, she sensed, starting to overcome this nonsense, this feeling that the world was too big and frightening to navigate on her own. But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was. She had times, like now, when she couldn’t even force herself past her threshold. The cat had run out and she couldn’t make herself go up the stairs after it. She knew it was ridiculous. The whole thing irritated her. What she really needed was a kick in the butt.

  Another knock at the door. This person wasn’t going to go away. “Yes,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “Hello!” a female voice called out. “I’m here to return your cat.”

  Laverne fumbled with the deadbolt and unhooked the chain. “Just a minute,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. It was the young woman who’d arrived earlier. She was even prettier up close, with friendly blue eyes and a ready smile. Laverne meant to just take the cat and slam the door shut, but when the girl waved Oscar’s paw and said, “Hi, Mom, I got lost, but this nice lady helped me,” in the silliest voice, something inside of her melted a little. Laverne smiled, something she hadn’t done in a while, and she let the door swing open a little wider.

  They stared at each other for a minute, until the girl said, “Hi, I’m Jazzy. I was visiting Marnie upstairs and your cat wandered up.” She held the cat out and Laverne took Oscar into her arms.

  “Thank you,” she said, the words a struggle. “It’s very kind of you.”

  “Your cat is sweet,” Jazzy said. “She purrs like an engine.”

  “It’s a boy cat,” Laverne said. “Oscar.”

  “Oh, cute,” Jazzy said. She leaned against the doorframe and ran a hand through her hair. It was the kind of hair, Laverne thought, that would fall into place no matter what. Let the wind come—this girl’s hair would always look good.

  Jazzy waved, fingers fluttering. “Well, it was nice meeting you—Oscar’s mom. Have a good evening.”

  Laverne watched her go and, after closing the door, set Oscar down. The cat yawned and slinked away. She locked and chained the door, then went to the window to see Jazzy getting into the car.

  Funny how even this short conversation felt unusual. She’d been avoiding strangers for at least three years. Since her husband died, she found everyday interactions to be an effort. Even normal pleasantries exhausted her. If she accidentally made eye contact with someone at the grocery store, she’d be pulled into a conversation about the possibility of rain later. The UPS man couldn’t hand her a package without cheerful commentary. Going to the bank was the worst. The tellers felt compelled to ask after her health and offer her candy or free pens. Couldn’t anyone perform a basic task without the extra chitchat? Was that too much to ask? Her son thought she suffered from depression and begged her to go for therapy. But she knew she wasn’t depressed, just tired, tired of everyone and everything. She wasn’t suicidal exactly, but she didn’t leap out of bed every morning waiting to greet the day. Well, maybe she was a little depressed. Everything took so much effort.

  Her son interpreted her reticence as fear, which wasn’t really the case, but she didn’t correct the notion. He was going to believe whatever he wanted, no matter what she said. The truth was that she wasn’t afraid to be alone. Her neighborhood was safe enough. Even when Laverne went on early morning walks (the best time to avoid people), she was never fearful. It helped that she carried a handgun that had belonged to her husband and had been used by both of them for target practice. When he’d first bought it, he’d claimed it was the same gun James Bond used, but somehow she doubted it. It looked too small. When she’d found the handgun in his sock drawer a few weeks after the funeral, she put the safety on and tucked it into the secret compartment in her purse. She didn’t think she’d ever use it, but she believed in being prepared. Life was uncertain.

  Chapter Nine

  When Jazzy arrived early for the grief group she found the door locked and a note attached that read: Tuesday night’s grief group cancelled due to emergency in instructor’s family. She tapped her chin, wondering at the irony of Debbie encountering some kind of grief of her own. Jazzy took down the note and tucked it into her purse. She pulled out a credit card and slid it up and down between the door and the frame until she heard a click. Aha! Sweet victory. She’d seen the credit card maneuver on a show about crimi
nal tricks on a cable channel and had tried it a few times in other places without success. You had to have just the right kind of locking mechanism, apparently. As luck would have it, the rec center did.

  She got the room ready for the group, turning on the lights, opening the blinds, and arranging the folding chairs in a circle. She found some colored markers in the tray of the dry-erase board and drew a forest complete with a unicorn and assorted squirrels. Since grade school she’d been told she was good at squirrels, and so she drew them with enthusiasm, shading their tails with a flourish. Above the drawing she wrote, “Do the thing you long to do and become the person you’re destined to be.” When she was finished she surveyed the room but wasn’t quite satisfied. Something was missing.

  Suddenly remembering, she rifled through her bag until she found her iPod and the portable speaker system Dylan gave her for Christmas. Once it was plugged in, she picked some upbeat music, keeping in mind the group’s collective age, which was mostly ancient with some middle-aged thrown in. She started with Frank Sinatra’s “The Sunny Side of the Street” and “The Best Is Yet to Come,” George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun,” and the Bangles’ “Walking on Sunshine.” There was nothing like music to lift a person’s mood.

  The group filtered in one at a time, each person noticeably brightening as they saw the changes in the room. “Nice drawing!” one of the women said, and Jazzy smiled in response.

  When Rita arrived, she made a beeline to Jazzy and sat right next to her. “I brought photos of my daughter,” she said, pulling out a small photo album. Jazzy shifted in her seat to look. In every picture, Rita’s daughter had a wide smile with straight white teeth. In a few of the shots she had her arms draped around her mother’s shoulders. They looked comfortable together, Jazzy thought. Such a beautiful girl. Her death was such a loss for the world.

  “She was a sparkler,” Rita said, smiling wistfully.

  “I can tell. I’m sorry.”

  “I think about her every day.”

  Jazzy said, “How could you not?”

  Rita gave Jazzy’s forearm a squeeze. “And it’s not just me. Everyone loved her. Her friends filled the church at the funeral, and all of them had a story of how she touched their lives. Her death was such a loss.” She shook her head. “And the one who did it still walks free. I worry about him out in the world doing this to someone else’s daughter.”

  “You think it was her boyfriend?” Jazzy asked.

  Rita nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. He was very charming and good at covering his dark side. Melinda alluded to some problems they were having, but I thought they were the usual problems all couples go through.” She sighed. “I didn’t know the half of it. Things felt off, but I just didn’t see the signs. After she died, one of her friends told us some things that convinced us he had murdered her. He had a bad temper, they’d been fighting, his alibi was questionable.” She sighed. “But it’s one thing to know something, another to prove it.”

  “The police couldn’t pin anything on him?”

  Rita sighed. “No.”

  Jazzy nodded and waited, sensing there was more.

  “We were supposed to go out to lunch that day,” Rita said. “When she didn’t show up, I got worried. And when she didn’t answer her phone, I knew something was terribly wrong.” She looked down at her hands, and her voice dropped. “The police found her in her parked car, strangled with her own scarf, one I had crocheted and given to her as a Christmas gift. Glenn and I had to go and identify her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jazzy could feel Rita’s emotion as if it were her own. Even ten years after her daughter’s death, Rita suffered agonizing pain and loss, and now it poured out of her in an unstoppable surge, straight to Jazzy’s heart. This was the part of being intuitive she could have skipped.

  “Davis, that was his name, didn’t come to the funeral, and about a month after she died, he up and moved to God only knows where.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jazzy said, again. Sometimes words were so inadequate.

  “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

  The room was filling up. When the last of the group trickled in, Marnie was among them, talking to another woman as she came through the door. She waved to Jazzy and took a seat, easing her purse off her shoulder and onto the floor. The chatter in the room became questioning: Where was Debbie? What’s the story with the music?

  Jazzy stood up. “Hey, everyone. My name is Jazzy. I was told that Debbie won’t be coming because of a family emergency. It was suggested that as long as we all made the effort to be here, we could use the time to talk amongst ourselves.” Jazzy herself was the one who was suggesting it, so it wasn’t technically a lie. “If it’s okay with everyone, I’d be glad to moderate a discussion.”

  “Debbie’s not coming?” one of the women said, irate. “You’d think the rec center would have called to let us know.”

  “They should give us a partial refund,” another one said, frowning.

  Marnie spoke up. “I, for one, am happy to get a break from Debbie. I vote we let Jazzy lead the discussion.”

  “I second the motion,” Rita said, thrusting her arm up in the air.

  “Debbie was sort of bossy,” said the woman who only a moment before wanted a partial refund. The women looked around at each other, and one by one announced that they were fine with having Jazzy take charge. This didn’t surprise Jazzy, who’d been told by an unseen voice it would go this way.

  Within the first half hour, every woman in the room had cried or laughed, and some had done both. Jazzy went with the theme she’d written on the board: do the thing you long to do and become the person you’re destined to be. One by one, each woman confessed her most secret desire, her long-buried goal, her childhood dream. No matter how outlandish the idea, the women were encouraging and brainstormed ways the dream could become a reality.

  Leticia, the lady who last week had mentioned brightening her days with the occasional Vanilla Skinny Latte, admitted that as a child she’d envisioned herself as a Broadway actress. Another woman in the group said she belonged to a local theater group, and mentioned upcoming auditions. Leticia took paper and pen out of her purse to jot down the information. She chuckled. “It’s not exactly Broadway, but it’s a start.”

  One of the other group members had just started talking about her dream of being a professional chef, when the woman next to her (who, as it turned out, hated to cook) said, “You’re hired!” The one who despised cooking was scheduled to host a dinner party for twenty guests in three weeks and dreaded preparing the meal. The first woman offered to cater it, and they exchanged contact information on the spot. Jazzy loved it when the universe aligned like this.

  Finally, Marnie’s turn arrived. Uneasy, she shrugged and said she had nothing to say.

  “No unrealized dreams?” Jazzy asked.

  “No, not really. I mean I always wanted to be a teacher and I am. I love to cook and garden and read and I do those things all the time,” Marnie said. “I’ve got it pretty good compared to a lot of people.”

  Jazzy looked around the circle and saw that the other women weren’t convinced either. Leticia leaned forward in her chair. “So, is the life you’re living the one you pictured when you were a kid?”

  Marnie squirmed in her seat. “Not exactly, but I was a pretty unrealistic child.” She smiled, recalling. “I wanted to be a princess and wear diamonds every day. I wanted to own a thoroughbred horse that came when I called his name. His name was going to be Lancelot. When I was grown up I was sure I’d have five children: three girls and two boys.”

  “And did you?” Leticia asked. “Have five kids, I mean.”

  “I didn’t have any,” Marnie said sadly. “But I raised one, and he was mine in every way. I taught him how to tie his shoes, and I took care of him when he was sick. I went to his parent-teacher conferences.” She had the job, but not the title. Every day after school she’d spent time working on homework with Troy, something Brian had no pat
ience for. She’d packed hundreds of school lunches, provided snacks for Troy’s visiting friends, called other parents to coordinate driving to school events. And she always referred to herself as Troy’s stepmom, and he did too, but she realized too late that it had all been a façade, a beautiful dream taken away by Brian’s death and Kimberly’s reappearance.

  When she started to cry, one of the women handed her a yellow Kleenex. Marnie suppressed a sob and forced herself to speak through tears. She told them about the funeral and how Kimberly waltzed into town, smelling like expensive perfume and toting patterned luggage, the kind with designer tags. Upon arriving at the house, Kimberly immediately gave Troy and Marnie hugs and listened while they talked about how Brian had collapsed and died right in front of them. “Oh, you poor, poor things,” she said, tapping her long, glittery nails on the kitchen counter.

  She didn’t hate Kimberly then: in fact, she felt a kinship with her. The hatred came later, when she realized the woman was stealing Troy. Kimberly was matter-of-fact about it too, asking Troy what he wanted to take with them on the plane. “Anything that doesn’t fit in two suitcases will have to be shipped,” she said. “Or else I can get it when I come back to sell the house.” Troy looked shocked, the blood draining from his face. Marnie felt like she’d been struck from behind. She should have seen it coming, but she didn’t. “Can’t he just stay here with me?” she asked Kimberly. “He’s fourteen. He starts high school next year. His friends—”

  Kimberly laughed, the kind of low, throaty laugh men found sexy. Marnie wanted to choke it out of her. “They have high schools in Las Vegas,” she said. “And Troy already knows a few kids in my neighborhood, right, Troy?” Troy had nodded mutely, which astounded Marnie. What happened to the mouthy, opinionated, moody boy she loved so much? Like all males, he was mush in Kimberly’s presence.