Julia's Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  Linda sighs, trying to sound sympathetic, but I know her better than that. Doesn’t she know I know her better than that after all these years?

  “You know, Peter had an affair. Did Ben tell you that?” It’s rhetorical. She goes on. “We were about the same age you and Ben are now. It’s the age couples are when there are affairs.”

  “No one had an affair, Linda.” I stare at her, what she’s saying slowly sinking in. I feel my forehead crease. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me Ben’s been cheating on me?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. My point is that we got through it. We went to counseling, we promised to be better to each other.” She shrugs. “We both agreed that one little sexual indiscretion wasn’t worth ending our marriage, our business partnership, our life together. We put it aside and we went on. Which is what you and Ben have to do. You have to get past Caitlin’s death.”

  I’m still stuck on the part where Linda insinuated that Ben was having an affair. Granted, things haven’t been good with us lately, but I just can’t imagine him cheating on me. But now I’m starting to imagine. Is that what was going on in the months before Caitlin died? Was that why he was working such long hours? I meet Linda’s gaze. “This—conversation—is—over—Linda.” I emphasize each word, imagining myself returning to Montgomery’s funeral home to pick out a coffin for my husband. After I kill him.

  She just stands there, arms crossed over her chest. “You know, when Ben came to me to tell me he’d asked you to marry him, I begged him to reconsider.”

  Tears suddenly well in my eyes. I didn’t know that. Ben never told. And suddenly I feel a tenderness for my husband that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Which seems completely crazy because a second ago I was thinking he’d cheated on me.

  “I told him that while I thought you were a nice enough girl, I didn’t think you two were well suited for each other. I warned him that with the kind of people you come from—”

  “Linda,” I interrupt.

  She keeps talking right over me. “You’d never understand what it meant to be a part of a real family. You’d never—”

  “Linda,” I repeat, holding up my hand. “Linda, this is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion. In fact, I can’t imagine when would be a good time for you to tell me this. Ben and I have been married nineteen years.” I reach around her to grab the doorknob. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re not getting a divorce.”

  As I turn the door handle, she lays her hand on mine. “You have to do something about Haley.”

  “I know.” I yank open the bathroom door.

  “Before it’s too late,” she calls after me as I push past her.

  “Girls?” I call, my tone bordering on shrill. “You ready to go?”

  Chapter 12

  Izzy

  3 years, 8 months

  I’m lying in my bed listening to She Who Shall Not Be Named bounce that stupid ball against the wall in her room while I consider what outfit I would want to wear for my own funeral. It was a big question when Caitlin went for the big sleep. Dad wanted her to wear this blue dress she’d had since eighth grade graduation. It looked like something a girl my age would wear to have tea with the queen of England. It didn’t have ruffles, but it could have. I’m sure it was something Nana bought her that Mom made her wear. I don’t even know why Caitlin still had it. So Dad wanted the little girl dress. Mom wanted to send Caitlin’s favorite jeans and T-shirt to the funeral home.

  I didn’t get a vote. Neither did the one who killed her.

  Mom and Dad didn’t exactly argue about which outfit the people at the funeral home should put on Caitlin. They don’t argue much; at least I don’t see it. But that day, I could hear them talking in her bedroom after they went into her closet. Each one just kept repeating what they wanted and why. Mom cried a lot, of course. I don’t know why they cared. No one got to see what she was wearing. There was no viewing. I didn’t get to see her dead even though I begged Mom to let me. (She said it wasn’t healthy, whatever that meant.) I think Caitlin’s head was pretty messed up from where she hit the road when she went through the windshield. The funeral home incinerated her. That’s what they do when you’re cremated. I looked it up. They cook you at fourteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It takes two to three hours. There’s a YouTube video showing how they do it. I watch it sometimes when I can’t sleep.

  I wonder if Caitlin ever thought about what she wanted to be cooked in, if she died. I doubt it. She wasn’t weird like me. She didn’t think about things like that. She was what people call happy-go-lucky. Who wouldn’t be if they were tall and blond and pretty and smart? We never talked about dying, although I once had a goldfish that went belly-up in its fishbowl and she helped me bury it near the blue rhododendron in the backyard. She read a poem by Robert Frost. I remember it because one of the sentences was “Nothing gold can stay.” The same poem is quoted in this book I like called The Outsiders. But as far as the possibility of people dying, we never talked about it in the Maxton house. Not Caitlin and me. Not Mom and Dad and me. I never even knew a dead person until Caitlin bought it in that intersection.

  Mr. Cat, who’s been sitting on the end of the bed, climbs up on me and lies down on my chest. I pet him and he purrs. “You missed birthday dinner at Nana’s,” I tell him. “Uncle Bruce got drunk. Uncle Jeremy’s new girlfriend gave Nana a really ugly wreath for her front door and everyone ignored Mom like she wasn’t there. I guess because she hasn’t been coming for family dinners and they’re mad at her. We had chocolate cheesecake for dessert.”

  Mr. Cat doesn’t say anything. He just keeps purring. I’m not saying I’m expecting him to say anything. I know cats don’t talk. But there’s still a little tiny bit of a question in the back of my head because dead sisters aren’t supposed to talk either.

  I close my eyes for a minute, wondering if maybe Caitlin is there in the dark with me. I can’t feel her. I think about calling her name, just in case, but I don’t really need her right now, so I don’t. I’m a little worried that maybe she can only come talk to me a certain number of times before she can’t come anymore. Like a genie in a lamp granting wishes. Before her soul goes away, or whatever. I don’t want to take the chance of wasting time with her. So I don’t call her.

  “Oh,” I tell Mr. Cat. “And I think Mom and Nana got into an argument in the powder room.” I kiss his head and his ear tickles my lips. “I have no idea why they were both in the bathroom with the door closed. I was just—”

  There’s a soft tap at my door and me and Mr. Cat look that way. We both stare at the door. My first thought is that it’s Caitlin, but that doesn’t make any sense because I think she just comes through doors and walls and stuff.

  I hear it again. It’s definitely a live person, not a dead one.

  The door opens a little bit. “Izzy? You still awake?”

  It’s my mom and I’m so happy. She never comes in my room anymore. “I’m awake,” I whisper loudly, sitting up and pushing Mr. Cat off me.

  She comes in and closes the door. It’s dark in my room, but I can still see her because there’s a big security light outside my window and even with the blinds closed, a little bit of light leaks around. She’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Her pajamas. She just stands there over my bed for a second looking down at me. I can’t see her face. Then she surprises me by sitting down and then sliding into bed with me, putting her head on my pillow.

  “I was wondering how you were doing,” she says softly. She rolls onto her side to face me and puts one arm around me.

  Mom’s arm feels so good around me that I feel like I might cry.

  Mr. Cat tries to climb on top of me again, but I push him down. He meows, but he doesn’t get off the bed. “I’m okay.” I whisper too, but not because Mom’s whispering. I whisper because I’m afraid if I talk out loud, she’ll disappear the same way Caitlin disappears.

  Mom brushes some hair out of my face and then keeps touching my hair.
Kind of like petting me. But I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. I close my eyes and breathe deep. She must have taken a shower this morning because I smell her shampoo. She hasn’t been showering much, so I notice it right away. But past that fruity smell is something I can’t describe. It’s just . . . my mom’s smell. A smell that makes me feel warm and not so afraid.

  “Really, Izzy?” she asks me, kissing my temple. “You’re okay? You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

  I don’t know exactly what she’s asking. How I’m coping with Caitlin pushing up daisies, I guess. But maybe she’s asking about school. Or my friends. I don’t really care; it only matters that she cares. I nod because I don’t want to break the magic spell and for Mom to poof away, into thin air.

  “How was dinner tonight? Was it okay?” She’s still petting me and I close my eyes.

  I nod again. “Was it okay for you?” I whisper.

  When she doesn’t answer right away, I say, “You didn’t look like it was okay.” I’m quiet for a second and then I say, “What did Nana say to you in the bathroom? I heard you arguing.”

  “We weren’t exactly arguing.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Did anyone else hear us?” Mom asks.

  I shake my head. “Just me, I think. I wasn’t sneaking around being nosy or anything. I went into the kitchen to get more pom juice and I heard you.” The powder room is in the hall between the kitchen and the family room.

  It takes her a long time to say anything. Mr. Cat stretches out beside me on the edge of the bed. It seems like he’s purring really loud.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Mom finally says.

  “I didn’t hear what you guys were saying,” I tell her quickly. “I just . . . I could hear your voices. Like Nana was telling you something you should be doing. Nana does that a lot,” I add. “She thinks I should cut my hair short. I told her I’d look like a dork, but every time I see her, she pulls my hair back kind of tight and says it looks good on my round face. She thinks I’m fat and I have a fat face.”

  “You don’t have a fat face,” Mom whispers. “You have a beautiful face, Isobel of mine.” She kisses me again.

  I feel the tears coming back and I swallow. I think about telling her how glad I am she came into my bedroom. I think about telling her how much I’ve missed her since Caitlin flatlined. It’s almost like Mom’s been dead too. But I don’t want her to feel bad. She already feels bad; you can just look at her face and see it. Sometimes I think she looks so bad that she might die too. I don’t know if that’s a real thing, but I’ve heard of it. Dying of a broken heart. And I know Mom’s heart is broken. Caitlin was her favorite. She was the prettiest. She was the smartest. She wasn’t weird.

  Haley and I used to tease Caitlin about how she was Mom and Dad’s favorite. The princess in pink, Haley called her. It was kind of fun because Caitlin and Haley were best friends, but when we started ragging on Caitlin, it was like Haley and me were a team. I never minded that Caitlin was Mom and Dad’s favorite and I don’t think Haley did either, because in a way, it took the pressure off us. I never worried about not being pretty because Caitlin was pretty for all of us. And it was okay for me to be weird because I wasn’t the princess in pink. In a way, it was freeing. I don’t think Haley would have felt like she could wear all that black eye pencil or be in the drama club if it had been her responsibility to be the family princess.

  “And as for what your grandmother and I were talking about,” Mom goes on. “We were discussing . . .”

  “Her,” I say, exhaling the word with contempt. Contempt. Another vocab word at school.

  “Haley,” she says.

  “Because she got kicked out of school?” I ask. “And because she’s crazy?”

  “Your sister’s not crazy.”

  “She’s batshit crazy,” I say before I can stop myself. I look at her, afraid I’m going to get in trouble for saying shit. I’m not supposed to say shit. Usually I just say “S.”

  But Mom doesn’t say anything about my bad word. She doesn’t say anything for a minute and when she does speak, she sounds like she’s talking to herself more than to me. “Haley’s not crazy. She’s just . . . really hurting.”

  I think for a minute. “Well, we could send her to school in Switzerland,” I suggest hopefully. I saw a documentary about the Alps. This guy called Hannibal tried to cross the mountains with a bunch of elephants. It didn’t work out too well. “She might like it there and we could go visit and go skiing in the Alps.”

  Mom sort of laughs, which makes me smile and wish I could think of something else funny to say to make her laugh again. I love how she laughs. She sounds like Caitlin. Or I guess, technically, Caitlin sounded like her.

  “I’m not sending her to Switzerland. I’m not sending your sister anywhere, Izzy. She belongs with us. Now, more than ever,” she adds, so softly that I have to listen hard to hear her.

  Luckily, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Mom doesn’t say anything, either, and after a while, I start to feel sleepy. Mom’s so warm and she smells so good and Mr. Cat keeps purring.

  A part of me doesn’t want to fall asleep and have the time with her over, but finally I let myself go, thinking that if I happen to croak in my sleep tonight, this is the perfect memory I’ll die with.

  Chapter 13

  Julia

  49 days

  I close Izzy’s door quietly behind me and lean against it. I stayed until she fell asleep. She felt so good in my arms, warm and soft. It reminded me of when she was a baby, snuggled, asleep in my arms. Izzy is the baby I remember the most, not because she was the most important to me, but because I had known she would be my last. I had my tubes tied after she was born, so I was more aware of her milestones, more aware of my last times: the last time I would hold my own newborn, the last time I would breast-feed, the last time I would watch my baby walk for the first time.

  Izzy had been so happy to see me tonight, happy to have me climb into bed with her. Standing here in the dark hallway, I realize how much I’ve missed my Isobel. Obviously she’s missed me.

  Guilt washes over me. I’ve been so lost in my own pain, I realize, that I haven’t been giving much attention to my youngest. It’s funny how the thought comes to me so suddenly. I don’t think I’ve gotten into bed with Izzy or invited her to get in bed with me since Caitlin died almost two months ago. How have I not seen her needing me?

  The obvious answer is that I’ve been in too much pain to see Izzy. That makes me feel terrible. I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I’m a good mother. What kind of mother emotionally abandons her little girl in the middle of such a tragedy? Caitlin was my daughter, but she was also Izzy’s sister.

  I walk down the hall and stop at Haley’s door and listen. Sometimes I hear her on her cell talking to friends this late, but not tonight. It’s quiet. Too quiet? I feel a sudden sense of panic. Is she in there or has she taken off again? Should I have had bars installed on her window? I open her door without knocking. It’s dark. No light filtering in around the blinds like in Izzy’s room. Haley’s added heavy drapes to her windows. I walk over to her bed and as my eyes adjust, I begin to make out the shape of her form. She’s asleep on her side, her arms wrapped around a throw pillow. I listen to her soft, steady breathing and I remember her as a baby in my arms. She was my screamer. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She was my problem child from the minute she was born. I had the episiotomy to prove it.

  But she was such a beautiful baby when she wasn’t screaming. So inquisitive and full of life. I smile sadly and back out of Haley’s room, closing the door behind me. I need to sit down with her and have that talk. I need to figure out where we need to go from here. But not tonight. I won’t do that to her. I won’t steal her away from the peace only sleep brings.

  In the hall, I hear the sound of the TV. I see the flash of light in the dark, coming from the living room. Ben arrived home from his mom’s house about an hour after w
e did and went straight to his recliner, taking two beers with him.

  I stand in the hallway in indecision. Do I go to bed? Or confront my husband and ask him if he’s been having sex with someone else? It’s quite a dilemma. My bed is calling me. I haven’t cried in hours. And do I really want to know if he’s screwing someone else? Because honestly, there really is a certain bliss in ignorance. And if I find out he is, then what? I’m pretty certain I can handle only one catastrophe in my life at a time.

  The hardwood floor is cool beneath my bare feet. I gaze in the direction of the living room. I really do just want to climb into bed and hide. Possibly pull the blanket over my head and deny everything that’s going on in the other rooms of this house right now. I’ve lost a child. I shouldn’t have to deal with anything else ever again, should I? No family problems. No boss that keeps e-mailing me and leaving me voice messages. In all fairness, I should never have to stand in a line again. Or pay for my sushi.

  I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and walk toward the dancing light of the television.

  In the living room, I stand behind the couch. Ben’s watching something on how dams are built. The narrator is talking about the San Roque Dam in the Philippines. Images of its gated spillway flash across the screen.

  I glance at Ben. He’s awake. I take a deep breath and walk around the couch. I’m not sure if I have the emotional fortitude to do this right now, but I can’t let it go. I can’t go to bed without asking him about what his mom said. Or didn’t say. “Hey,” I say softly.

  He looks over at me, almost seeming surprised to see me there. Like it’s not my living room. Which I guess, in a way, it hasn’t been in a while.

  “Hey,” he answers, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay . . .” Right away he has a guilty look on his face. I know that look; it’s his “what have I done now?” look. But all men have that in their repertoire, don’t they?