Kindred Spirits

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  “You’re cured!” Beth screamed into the phone. “You did it!”

  “Well,” Lynne said with hesitation, “cured isn’t a term that’s used in cancer treatment. More like remission.”

  Who cared about vocabulary at a moment like this, Beth thought. “Whatever. Tonight we’re getting together to celebrate. The martinis are on me.”

  Later, they gathered at Mary Kay’s house on what turned out to be an unusually warm early summer evening. The roses were in full bloom, saturating the misty air with heady, seductive perfume. Frogs croaked in the distance. Fireflies rose from the tall grass near Kindlewah Lake and a full moon drifted in and out of clouds above.

  It would be their last pleasant gathering before the emergency meeting at Mary Kay’s house when Carol left Jeff, before Lynne’s cancer returned with a vengeance.

  Carol, Mary Kay, and Beth bobbed in the pool, holding their glasses aloft in a toast to the health of their girl, Lynne, curled up on a chaise longue like a queen.

  She saluted them in return with a glass of weak iced chamomile tea, the most potent potable left in her limited repertoire. “I have something to say and I need the three of you to make me a promise.”

  “Same time, same place, next year,” Beth declared, refusing to abandon the myth that Lynne was cured permanently.

  “I need you to promise that when I go. . .” Lynne paused to make sure Beth didn’t protest. “You will clean out my things. Not Sean, because it’ll be too painful for him. Not his sisters and, please, God, not his mother, because I can’t stand the idea of them rifling through my personal belongings. But you, because you are my closest friends and I trust you to keep my secrets secret.”

  What secrets?

  Lynne refused to say and, unwilling to upset her, they didn’t press, although that didn’t mean their curiosity was any more quelled. Whenever they got together, the three of them, the topic inevitably came up. What could be so risqué that Lynne needed to keep it out of the hands of her mother-in-law? Sexy lingerie. Sex toys. A sex video. Always, their minds ran to sex, and yet those things were so not Lynne. And if she did have them, who would give a flying fig?

  Now, a little over two years later, here they were in Lynne’s peach-painted closet, the answer hidden in their midst.

  Beth dropped her empty Tupperware tub on the carpet and surveyed the task at hand—a bureau to clean out; racks of shoes to sort; dresses, skirts, blouses, pants, jewelry, and even a wedding gown to pick through; and, on a shelf above, purses and sweaters. “Honestly, I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not sure I have the energy.”

  “You’ve done enough, Beth,” Mary Kay said, resting the thermos of cosmopolitans and set of glasses on Lynne’s bureau. “Why don’t you sit there while Carol and I do the heavy lifting. You can give us directions.”

  Carol unfolded a small stepladder and made a beeline for her pet favorites, the handbags, on a high shelf. “We have to work fast anyway so we get it done today while Sean and the boys are up at the cabin.”

  Sean and his sons had left a half hour before to mourn in private. Downstairs, various relatives from Sean’s side of the family were helping themselves to the house, watching football and shouting at the TV. It was awkward being a floor above in the closet with the Flannerys underneath. The women felt about as welcome as mice in the attic.

  “I’ll do the shoes,” Beth said, kneeling on the floor. “At least I can sit.”

  The women settled into a quiet routine, chatting about the funeral and complimenting Beth on her chicken wings and soup as they sorted. Clothes in decent condition were neatly folded and placed in boxes for Goodwill. Old jumpers, the ratty robe, sneakers, and anything else that had seen better days were thrown in a black garbage bag for recycling. Keepsakes like the wedding dress, veil, and jewelry were conundrums, since Lynne didn’t have a daughter. Beth decided to save them in the Tupperware for Kevin and Kyle, if they should be so blessed as to have girls.

  The conversation eventually turned to Michelle Richardson, who’d taken Carol aside at the end of the reception. “I was certain she was going to chew me up and spit me out, but she didn’t.” Carol removed old receipts and lipsticks from one of Lynne’s bags, mementos from a normal life. “She apologized for overreacting and was almost self-deprecating. I was so surprised.”

  “Really?” Beth debated whether to toss a pair of jeans, slightly faded but otherwise wearable. “You know what Marshfield’s like, how decent most people are. Mary Kay and I were joking about the school board meetings being boring since you left, but there’s a nugget of truth there, too. Everyone’s sorry you left, Carol. You were such a big part of the community.”

  “I guess I had to go away and come back to understand that.” Carol added a brand-new Anne Klein hobo bag to the box, the $150 price tag still clinging to the strap. “Lynne’s going to make someone at Goodwill verrry happy.”

  There was a beautiful symmetry in three old friends coming together after years apart to close out Lynne’s life, Mary Kay thought as she worked through the dresser. They were long past the age when they needed to boast about their kids or brag about their husbands. It was pleasant enough to be alive, together, as a soft rain patted on the roof. She felt Lynne’s presence, too, in the paint-splattered smock hanging on the door near her tiny Chinese slippers, in the faint smell of her trademark Happy perfume. To this day, Mary Kay could not walk past a Clinique counter without thinking about Lynne.

  “When this is over, we should take a vacation together,” Beth suggested, saving a soft flannel shirt for her own personal rag pile. “Maybe a long weekend at the Cape like we did that one April. Remember that? It rained the entire time and I got a shell splinter in my foot.”

  “How about a cruise?” Finished with the top shelf, Carol stood on her tiptoes to make sure nothing was caught in the back.

  “A cruise could be fun,” Mary Kay said, gathering a bunch of T-shirts. “You can get great deals right before Christmas.”

  “That reminds me of Lynne.” Beth grabbed a handful of empty hangers. “She used to talk about the day when we could go on cruises together after our husbands died, wearing elastic-waist pants and eating as much as we wanted and not caring one bit.”

  “Paperback novels on the lido deck, right?” Carol said. “Long naps in the afternoon. No pressure to do anything athletic.”

  Beth dumped the hangers and slid more off the rod. “Piña coladas at sunset. Shopping for souvenirs at the ports of call. Does that sound like bliss or what?”

  Mary Kay was about to agree when she opened the lingerie drawer, lifted a nightgown, and uncovered a large orange envelope marked with the date of Lynne’s death and addressed to The Ladies Society for the Conservation of Martinis. Her heart stopped beating. “Guys?”

  “I don’t know if we’ll bring any guys,” Beth said, separating the padded hangers from the wire ones. “More trouble than they’re worth.”

  Carol climbed off the step stool, a sweater draped over her arm. “What’s that, Mary Kay?”

  Mary Kay held up the envelope. “It’s for us.”

  The coat hangers fell out of Beth’s grip.

  “Well, open it,” Carol said excitedly. “This might be the big secret.”

  With shaking fingers, Mary Kay undid the clasp and removed the original Best Recipes from the Ladies Society for the Conservation of Marshfield, 1966, its cover yellowed and stained with drops of martinis long past. “So that’s where this went.”

  She handed it to Beth, who pressed it to her chest. “Is that all?”

  “No, there’s more.” Reaching in, she pulled out three sealed business-size envelopes. The first was addressed simply to The Society . The second to My Mother. And the third. . .

  “ ‘To My Lovely Baby Girl, Julia.’ ” Mary Kay teetered slightly. “My baby girl, Julia? What does that mean?”

  Carol and Beth, equally at a loss, shook their heads. “Does that. . . Did she?. . .”

  Beth covered her mouth as
it slowly dawned on her Lynne’s secret wasn’t something naughty but something earth-shattering. “Oh my God.” She plunked herself on the Tupperware tub. “That must be why she didn’t want Sean or his sister or his mother cleaning out the closet.”

  “Your house,” Carol said firmly. “Let’s get rid of this stuff and then go to your house, Mary Kay, where we can read the letter in private without the threat of Flannerys barging in.”

  “What about the martinis?” Mary Kay eyed the thermos and glasses on the bureau. “We haven’t even touched them.”

  Carol smiled. “We’ll drink them at your place. It’ll be just like old times, all of us in your living room, shoes off, hanging out, trading secrets. In this case, big secrets.”

  Beth sealed the Tupperware with a declarative burp. “Carol’s right. I hereby call for a reconvention of the former Ladies Society for the Conservation of Martinis to discuss very important business. All in favor say, ‘aye.’ ”

  “Aye.”

  And with that, the Ladies Society was back in session.

  Minus one.

  It was great to be in Marshfield. There, she admitted it.

  For most of the day, Carol had been resisting the love emanating from her former neighbors and friends, even her ex. When Jake Fenster moved her to tears with his Pink Floyd arrangement, she told herself it was simply grief. When Michelle Richardson held out the olive branch and confessed that “the school board’s been in disarray since you left,” Carol passed off her gratitude as relief.

  And when Jeff linked his arm in hers and told her everything would be fine, when she drifted off into memories of them lying together in bed at the end of a long day. . . Well, the fact was she didn’t have an excuse for that.

  But now, once more in Mary Kay’s library with Beth, if not Lynne, a fire crackling in the fireplace, a lovely rosewater and pomegranate cosmopolitan before her, Carol was overcome with a serious case of nostalgia.

  She missed them.

  She missed the Society meetings, this room with its red walls and white bookshelves, their private conversations. She missed being in a small town where people used to stop her on the street to congratulate her on Jonathan’s winning goal at last Saturday’s lacrosse game or to ask how Amanda was doing at Parsons.

  How could she ever return to New York where not even her colleagues knew (or cared) that she had children? Having spent the morning dreading her return to Marshfield, now she was dreading her exit even more. Like Jeff used to say, she was a human roller coaster: never flat and one heck of a ride.

  Mary Kay lifted her glass, pink and perfect. “It’s so good to see all of us together and I don’t know about you, but I feel that Lynne’s here with us.”

  Beth patted the seat next to her on the couch, Lynne’s reserved spot, her back against the blue embroidered pillow. “Right here.”

  Carol put a hand over her heart. “And here. Within us. Always.”

  “Always,” Mary Kay agreed, holding her glass a little higher. “To our girl. Who will live in our hearts forever.”

  “Forever,” they chimed in unison, their glasses clinking.

  Each took a sip of her Persephone’s Cosmopolitan—a heavenly mixture of pomegranate juice, Cointreau, vodka, lime, and the secret ingredient—rosewater. Like drinking the season of spring from a glass.

  “OK. We ready?” Mary Kay slipped on her funky half-glasses—black mother of pearl—opened the envelope, and removed the letter. Reading a line or so, she took a deep breath and began.

  To My Beloved Society Sisters—Mary Kay, Carol, and, especially, my best friend Beth: Hi.

  I know that seems inadequate in light of what’s happened. Or what’s going to happen, I suppose. And that’s why I want to begin with, “How’s tricks?”

  Mary Kay stopped reading and looked over her glasses. “Is that classic Lynne or what?”

  “Always with a wisecrack,” Beth said. “Here we are broken up, and she’s cracking up.”

  If you’ve found my letter, then you’ve upheld your promise as I knew you would. Thank you. You guys always did have my back. Someday, I hope to repay the favor.

  Mary Kay took another sip, to calm her nerves, and went on.

  There is so much I need to say to each of you and, yet, sitting here with my pen over the page, words seem inadequate to express my feelings of deep, deep love and gratitude. Let me say that had it not been for our little group, these last few years would have been unbearable. Even separated as we’ve been lately, you have been my sisters, my advocates, my sustenance and support. It’s not just that you, Beth, checked in on me daily or that you, Mary Kay, went with me to every single doctor’s and chemotherapy appointment or that you, Carol, did what you did. (And you know what you did—we’ll keep it between us.)

  Beth said, “What did you do?”

  Carol tasted her martini. “Nothing much.”

  Mary Kay gave her a look, indicating that she knew full well what Carol had done and that it had been significant.

  It’s that you brought fun back into my life. You danced with me in the moonlight and helped me survive mothering twins. Thank you. I love you all more than you know.

  Beth got up to fetch a box of tissues from the powder room down the hall and returned, dabbing her eyes. “She would have to say that, wouldn’t she? I’m going to be a blubbering mess if Lynne keeps this up.” She sat, and Carol gave her an encouraging pat.

  OK, here’s the big news that I’ve been keeping secret and before I go on, you guys need to know that I came close, really, really close, to telling you a billion times. I only held my tongue because of Sean and the boys. I could not risk them finding out. It would have destroyed my family. It would have destroyed me. So when you read this, please keep an open mind and know that I did what I did for the right reasons, if not the right ends.

  When I was eighteen, I gave birth to a daughter and I named her Julia.

  Whew. That was amazing to write.

  Mary Kay stopped reading.

  “So it’s true,” Beth said, wondering how many more shocks her system could take after Lynne’s suicide and now this. “She really does have a daughter.”

  “And we had no idea.” Carol scooted farther into the couch. She would never have been able to carry around a secret like that without telling someone.

  Mary Kay went back to the letter.

  Julia was the most beautiful baby in the world. Tiny fists. Pink cheeks. The sweetest strawberry birthmark on her forehead. She weighed eight pounds on the dot when I delivered her at St. Jude’s Hospital in Mahoken, a steel town in eastern Pennsylvania. I saw her for exactly five minutes before she was taken from me and I was never allowed to see her again. I begged to hold her, but they said I had to sign papers relinquishing all parentage first. So I did. Then they gave me something to make me sleep and when I woke up, she was gone from the hospital.

  The three of them gasped in unison. Mary Kay snatched a tissue. “That’s a crime, is what that was.”

  “A contract signed under duress is not a valid contract,” Carol said, chewing the inside of her cheek as she often did when she was suppressing her indignation.

  This might come as a shock, but that’s because for many, many years I forced myself to pretend Julia didn’t exist—as my mother insisted.

  My mother was a good person, but she was other things as well, above all, fervently Roman Catholic. I lived in fear of getting pregnant, which was probably why I didn’t go to the doctor until I was four months along. The father of my baby was not in the picture. He was slightly older than I and “passing through” my hometown of Calais, PA. (Sounds way more exotic than it was—a mining town about 40 min. northeast of Pittsburgh.) I was a teenager in the hicks, itching to get out of Dodge and he, I mistakenly believed, was my ticket out. It’s an old story, the stuff of TV movies. When I found out I was pregnant, he had already left and I never felt more alone or scared. There was no one to turn to but Mom.

  That’s why I agreed to her �
��solution.” She arranged for a private adoption through a local lawyer whose name I never knew. Then she sent me to live with my aunt Therese Zahm clear across state in Mahoken so people back home wouldn’t find out I was pregnant. (As if!) Julia was born on December 3, the winter after I graduated from high school. The lawyer, I was told, came to the hospital along with a professional nurse. They brought the legal papers that I signed and I could hear my baby girl crying down the hall as I slipped into a drugged sleep. Despite years of cancer and cancer treatments that left me nauseous, aching, and blistered, that night remains the worst of my life. I dream of it to this day.

  My mother said it would be for the best, that I would thank her years later.

  She was wrong.

  “And I used to think my mother was a piece of work when I was a teenager,” Beth said. “Elsie seems like Carol Brady in comparison. To force a girl to give up her baby on the spot. . .”

  Mom’s plan was for me to return home that Christmas. She told everyone that I’d been at a junior college in the Poconos and, for a while, I played along. But then I started crying for no reason and wandering around at night, restless. On one of those nights, in the spring after Julia was born, I managed to get down to Pittsburgh with a plan to hop a bus to Boston where my best friend from high school went to college. I made it to Scranton, but from there could only afford to go as far as Waterbury, Connecticut. Luckily, I found a job waitressing and a few months later met Sean at the diner where I worked and, well, you know the rest.

  You also know Sean and how conservative he is and what a blow it would be for him to find out that the woman he loved kept a huge secret throughout his marriage, that she lied to him and to his sons, not only about their half sister, but also about their grandmother whom they were raised to believe died when I was a teenager. Which, in a way, she did.