Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Her father growls, “But absolutely no babysitting at night. And no play dates—”

  “Play dates?” Jen echoes, outraged. “Dad, play dates are for preschoolers. I don’t have play dates.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever you call them at your age—doing your nails in your room with your friends, or going shopping, or anything like that. When you’re not at school, or soccer practice, or babysitting, you’re here. Where we can keep an eye on you. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” she says miserably, turning her back.

  “Good.”

  She stares blindly down at the ink doodles in the margins of the spiral-bound notebook lying open on her desk.

  Her father leaves the room.

  Mom lingers, standing behind Jen. After a moment, she puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  Jen flinches.

  The hand remains.

  She shrugs it off, scowling.

  Mom bends and kisses her good night, same as always.

  Jen sits stiffly, ignoring her.

  After a moment, she hears her mother’s footsteps retreating into the hall, followed by the quiet click of the door closing.

  He lowers the binoculars only when the last light has been extinguished on the second floor at 9 Sarah Crescent.

  His breath puffs white in the night air; his legs are numb despite the trousers beneath his robe.

  He doesn’t know which room is hers; the shades are all down. That doesn’t matter. He knows that she’s there, somewhere. Perhaps asleep already; perhaps lying awake in bed.

  What is she thinking about?

  Is she afraid?

  Does she sense that he’s here in the darkness, watching her?

  The other night he was caught off guard when Genevieve—think of her as Jen; they call her Jen—seemed to look right at him through the window.

  Instinct kicked in and he ducked out of sight.

  But if she spots him again, he won’t make that mistake. No, next time, he’ll be ready.

  Ready to do whatever it takes.

  Just as he promised.

  FIVE

  On Wednesday afternoon Kathleen reluctantly joins Maeve for a “power walk” around the neighborhood. It’s not that she doesn’t desperately need the exercise; plus she’s been hoping for a chance to discuss their daughters’ Monday afternoon escapade. Still, Kathleen can’t help feeling guilty as they stride along in the brisk autumn sunshine, and tells her friend as much.

  “Guilty? Why?” Maeve asks, barely short of breath, her fists moving rhythmically alongside her ribs.

  “Because my house is a disaster area and I should be home cleaning it.” Kathleen huffs as she tries to keep up with Maeve’s long legs and fast pace.

  They’ve only been at it for ten minutes, and she’s wiped out already. She can’t even tell how far they’ve gone, or exactly where they are. Orchard Hollow’s circular streets and big new houses are interchangeable, right down to the SUVs in the driveways and the pumpkins and potted mums on the steps. Even the campaign signs on the lawns tend to be for the same candidates—in this neighborhood, the Republican ones.

  “You need a cleaning lady,” Maeve declares, not for the first time. But this time she adds, “I’m sending you Sissy. She just told me she really needs more work to pay off a medical bill.”

  “Sissy?”

  “My cleaning lady.”

  “I thought her name was Marcia.”

  “It was Marta, and she’s out of commission with a broken leg or something. Sissy does a better job anyway, though. And she doesn’t talk my ear off the way Marta did. She’s very professional.”

  Kathleen hedges. “I don’t know. I feel funny hiring household help when I’m not even bringing in an income.”

  “Oh, get over it. Matt won’t care.”

  True. He’s been urging her to get help, but Maeve doesn’t know that . . . or need to. Sometimes, Kathleen gets the sense that Maeve thinks she makes Matt sound too good to be true.

  For a long time, Kathleen believed that he was.

  “Matt will do whatever makes you happy,” Maeve is saying, in a voice laced with envy. “You know that.”

  Not necessarily.

  Kathleen wonders if she’ll ever get over the sense of being beholden to her husband—not for all he does for her now, but for saving her years ago, when she had nowhere else to turn.

  Maeve says briskly, “Listen, Kath, I’m going to send Sissy over to do your house from top to bottom. My treat. Okay,” she amends with a laugh, “Gregory’s treat. Not that he’ll even realize it.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Maeve.”

  “I’m not asking your permission, Kathleen. Sissy really needs the work, and you really need the help. It’s a win-win situation. And if you like her, you can hire her to do a few days a week for you. Okay?”

  “A few days?” Kathleen shakes her head. She’d feel extravagant enough having a housekeeper here for one.

  But Maeve is insisting, and anyway, Kathleen does need help. Her energy is utterly depleted this week, thanks in large part to her worry about Jen and to the old memories that have been intruding more frequently. She knew that moving back here would stir painful, long-buried emotions, but she truly believed she could handle the hurt after all these years.

  “What do you say, Kathleen?” Maeve is asking. “Can I hire Sissy to do a day at your place?”

  “Okay,” she relents. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  Maeve laughs. “I’ll find out. The house is that bad, huh?”

  “Worse. Every time I turn around there are dishes in the sink and crumbs on the floor and the bathroom smells like pee. I swear, the boys can’t aim to save their lives.”

  Maeve wrinkles her nose delicately. “Yuck. I’m glad I don’t have sons. Girls are easier.”

  For some reason, that rankles.

  “Not lately,” Kathleen mutters.

  A slight breeze stirs the tree branches overhead, sending dry leaves fluttering toward the ground.

  “What did you say?” Maeve pushes a windblown strand of silky dyed-blond hair out of her eyes.

  “I said, not lately.”

  “Not lately, what?”

  Honestly, Kathleen wonders whether Maeve hears anything Kathleen’s saying when she seems oblivious even to the words that spill out of her own mouth.

  “You just said girls are easier. I said not lately.”

  Maeve’s eyes widen. “Is Jen peeing on the floor?”

  “Maeve! Of course she isn’t peeing on the—”

  “Relax, Katie, I was kidding.”

  She winces at the sound of her old nickname. “Oh.”

  “I know Jen doesn’t pee on the floor. I guess you’re talking about the lying and sneaking around thing, huh?”

  With a sigh, Kathleen admits, “I can’t get past it. How am I supposed to trust her again?”

  “She’s a teenager. You should never have trusted her in the first place.”

  “You’re kidding again, right?”

  “Wrong. This time I’m serious.” Maeve shrugs. “She’s going to lie and sneak around, Katie. That’s what teenagers do. We did. And we’re fine.”

  “It’s Kathleen,” she says churlishly. “Not Katie anymore. And what I did back then—which wasn’t much of anything—has nothing to do with what Jen does now.”

  “It has everything to do with it. You’re not being realistic.”

  “I won’t have her lying to me, or riding around town with boys who smoke, or—”

  “You don’t have much say in it, Kathleen. What are you going to do? Lock her away until she’s eighteen?”

  “That would probably suit Matt just fine. He’s already grounded her for a month. She’s not allowed to go anywhere but school. And church.”

  “I thought she was babysitting for Stella Gattinski’s kids after school today.”

  “She is. Just until Stella can find somebody else.” Kathleen hesitates, then decides not to bring up Saturday night and the prowl
er Jen thought she saw. Maeve might mention it to Erin, and Erin will tell Jen, and Jen will feel betrayed.

  Funny that Kathleen is worrying about betraying her daughter when Jen had no problem lying to her just two days ago. But she hasn’t forgotten what high school is like and she can’t help feeling protective of her daughter. The last thing Jen needs is for the other kids to find out she was spooked enough to call her parents while she was babysitting.

  Kathleen wipes a trickle of sweat from her temple and looks at her watch, then remembers that it doesn’t matter what time it is. She doesn’t have to be at the bus stop this afternoon. Curran has a boy scout meeting after school and Riley has a play date at a friend’s house.

  “Want to go grab a quick Starbucks before you have to get the boys off the bus?” Maeve asks.

  Rather than correct her, Kathleen shakes her head. “Sorry. Maybe tomorrow.”

  She’s had enough of Maeve for today. Her friend means well, but Kathleen doesn’t agree with her parenting style.

  What Maeve considers mere adolescent mischief, Kathleen considers playing with fire—and she’s hell bent to keep Jen off the self-destructive path she herself knows all too well.

  “Okay, I’ll call you later and let you know about Sissy.”

  Oh, right. Sissy. The cleaning lady.

  If she can come tomorrow, Kathleen doesn’t have to clean today. That leaves her with a few hours to kill . . . and, she thinks, as a chill slips down her spine, she knows exactly where she’ll go.

  “How’s school going, Jen?” Stella asks, counting out several bills as the twins dive into the Happy Meals she picked up for them on the way home from work.

  “School’s fine.”

  Stella glances up from her wallet, noticing that Jen seems subdued today. “Is everything okay, hon?”

  “Everything’s fine. It’s just . . . I, um, can’t babysit here anymore.”

  Stella’s heart sinks, her initial reaction purely selfish. She knew Jen was too good to be true.

  Then, catching the distress in the girl’s brown eyes, she asks gently, “Why can’t you babysit, Jen?”

  Jen’s chin quivers. Her gaze tilts down to her white Nikes. “My parents won’t let me. They grounded me.”

  “Uh-oh. What did you do?” She probably brought home a rare C on her interim report card, Stella thinks, pressing several tens and a five into Jen’s hand. Jen is such a model teenager she can’t imagine that it was anything more extreme than that.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “They grounded you for no reason? Come on, Jen. What happened?”

  “It was no big deal.”

  Aha.

  “It was obviously a big deal to your parents. What was it?”

  Jen shrugs, her gaze still averted. “Nothing. I just got a ride home from school with this kid who has a car.”

  “That was it?”

  “Well, we stopped at the mall on the way, but that was it. My parents freaked.”

  “Because they don’t want you riding around in cars with other kids? I don’t blame them, Jen. They’re just making sure you’re safe.”

  “No, they’re just making sure I’m totally miserable. My mother won’t let me do anything. She’s ridiculous. She’s always worried about where I’m going and who I’m with and what time I’ll be back. I swear, she’s smothering me!”

  Surprised at the fervent outburst from mild-mannered Jen, Stella loops an arm around her shoulder, patting her reassuringly. “She’s just being a mom, Jen. She loves you.”

  “Can you talk to her, Mrs. Gattinski? Maybe you can tell her that you really need me to babysit. And while you’re at it, you can sort of tell her to lighten up.”

  “Oh, Jen, I don’t want to poke my nose into—”

  “But it’s true, right? You need me to watch the girls, right? They’ll be upset if I can’t come anymore, won’t they?”

  Stella glances at her daughters, happily munching french fries at their little table in the corner. That they’d be bitterly disappointed if Jen doesn’t come back goes without saying, but. . .

  “Please, Mrs. Gattinski . . .” Jen lifts her blond head at last, her expression beseeching, “Can’t you just tell my mom you really need me? It’s really important to me to keep this job.”

  It isn’t about the money, Stella realizes, looking into Jen’s troubled brown eyes, and it isn’t about the girls. Both undoubtedly matter to Jen—but this goes deeper. This is a power struggle between mother and daughter; one Jen is desperate to win.

  Remembering her own sheltered adolescence, Stella is half-tempted to agree to talk to Kathleen on Jen’s behalf. But another part of her—the protective, maternal part—feels compelled to tell Jen that her mother is right to keep a watchful eye. That the world can be a dangerous place; that every mother fears the worst that can happen and must do everything in her power to see that it doesn’t.

  “Never mind.” Jen bows her head again, scuffing the toe of her sneaker along a line of grout in the ceramic kitchen floor. “You don’t have to talk to my mom. That would probably be weird for you, huh?”

  “A little,” Stella admits. “But, Jen, if you feel that strongly, why don’t you talk to her yourself? Explain how much the babysitting job means to you. Maybe if you have a rational conversation when you’re both calm, she’ll understand.”

  “Yeah,” Jen says in a whatever tone typical of a teenaged girl convinced that all adults are clueless.

  Stella isn’t clueless. She remembers what it was like to be a kid. But things are different now. Thirteen-year-old girls want to grow up too fast. They dabble in things Stella didn’t even discover existed until college. And even if they don’t get into trouble on their own, they’re prey for predators. They vanish from neighborhoods like this.

  “Jen . . .” Stella begins, but trails off when Jen looks up expectantly—too expectantly. Stella doesn’t know what she was going to say, but she’s certain that Jen wouldn’t want to hear it. She settles for, “I’ll call your mom if you want me to.”

  “You will? Thank you!” Jen takes a pen and a spiral-bound notebook from her backpack. “Can I give you her cell phone number? If you call our house my dad might answer, and you don’t have to talk to him.”

  Stella sighs. “Sure.” She takes the number Jen scribbles on the sheet of paper, and tucks it into the drawer by the phone. “I’ll call her as soon as I have time, okay?”

  “No rush. I really appreciate it.”

  “Come on, Jen. I’ll drive you home.”

  “I can walk.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Stella repeats firmly. Now that the line has been drawn, she’ll stay on the maternal side of it, if only for consistency’s sake.

  She doesn’t blame Kathleen Carmody for wanting to keep Jen close.

  She’s willing to bet April Lukoviak’s mother wishes she had done the same.

  Mollie Gallagher’s grave sits in a remote corner of the sprawling Saint Brigid’s cemetery, sheltered beneath the spreading branches of an enormous red maple tree whose trunk is several yards away.

  As Kathleen shuffles through the fallen red leaves toward the familiar gray stone, she finds herself noting that the tree’s roots have likely snaked as far underground as the boughs have above. She wonders whether they’ve twined their way around her mother’s coffin, around—

  Stop it!

  Kathleen swallows hard, shoving the macabre thought from her mind as she stares at the grave, toying with the green tissue paper wrapped around the stems of the crimson roses in her hand.

  She always brings red roses. She has ever since she was a little girl. Back then, the parish priest Father Joseph was the one who brought her to the cemetery. Drew never did; not once. Aunt Maggie said he couldn’t face it.

  They came once a month, Father Joseph to visit his mother’s stone, and Kathleen to visit hers. They would stop at the florist shop just outside the gates, and Kathleen would hand over her carefully saved allowance. Back then, she
could only afford one rose. Now she brings dozens.

  At the time, she was surprised that Father Joseph took her under his wing the way he did. Most of the kids at Saint Brigid’s were afraid of the no-nonsense priest, who rarely smiled and was known for his fierce, thundering sermons.

  But looking back, remembering the short span of dates on his mother’s tombstone, Kathleen has gained insight. Like her, Father Joseph lost his mother when he was a child. Her predicament must have touched his heart.

  Mollie Gallagher.

  Loving Wife, Devoted Mother.

  With a sob, Kathleen tosses the bouquet aside and sinks to her knees amidst the musty scattering of fallen leaves, tracing with her fingertips the letters etched into the gray slab, mentally adding her own.

  Protective Grandmother.

  The cemetery is deserted on this glorious autumn afternoon. In the distance, she can hear the hum of the groundskeeper’s lawn mower, and tires crunching along a far-off stretch of gravel. But here, there is only the occasional chirp of a bird overhead, and Kathleen’s sniffles as she fumbles in her pocket for a tissue.

  Finding one, she wipes tears that are quickly replaced with a fresh flood, wipes again and again until her tissue is soggy and her eyes are hot; her heart heavy with the grim weight of guilt-tainted memory.

  If only she could turn back time . . .

  No. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing would change; she’d only have to relive every awful moment that led her here.

  Father Joseph used to tell her that all things happened for a reason—both blessings and tragedies. He didn’t just tell her—he preached it from the pulpit, in a booming voice of conviction that terrified Kathleen when she was a little girl reeling from the loss of her mother, and mesmerized her when she was older. Pounding the lectern for emphasis, fiery passion igniting his words, Father Joseph promised that even the most crippling tragedies could open the door to blessings, if you had faith. If you believed in miracles.

  Kathleen chose to believe in miracles.

  Now, she is blessed.

  Blessed. Cursed.

  Cursed to forever live with the almost unbearable burden of a secret so dark it threatens to smother her at times like this.