Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Mom is still there, listening. Resentment floods Jen, along with defiance.

  “Sure,” she hears herself saying. “No problem.”

  “Great. One of us will pick you up at seven-thirty, okay?”

  “Sure,” Jen repeats, wondering what she’s getting herself into. Her parents have forbidden her to babysit.

  Well, she’ll deal with it when Friday night arrives.

  She hangs up and faces her mother.

  “Was she okay with it?” Mom has the nerve to look concerned.

  “I guess she has to be, doesn’t she?” Jen thrusts the phone into her mother’s hand and strides out of the room.

  As she climbs the stairs two at a time, she can hear her brothers laughing at some cartoon in the family room. How many afternoons has she been right there with the boys, cracking up at Sponge Bob or Ed, Edd, and Eddy? For one impulsive second, it’s all she can do to keep herself from retreating back down the stairs to join them.

  Then she reminds herself that she doesn’t belong there with them anymore.

  The island.

  Jen trudges down the hall and opens the door to her room, which is just as she left it this morning, unmade bed and all. So the cleaning lady wasn’t here today. Good.

  She doesn’t mind having somebody else do the dusting and vacuuming, which means her mother doesn’t bug her to do it. But she doesn’t like the idea of a stranger being in here, and it bugs her that the woman always leaves the hallway door open when she’s done cleaning. In fact, it’s gotten so that the boys now leave their bedroom doors open on a daily basis, and now Mom and Dad sometimes do, as well.

  Jen isn’t about to leave her door open, whether or not she’s in here.

  In fact, it’s too bad it doesn’t have a lock, she thinks as she pulls it closed behind her.

  She’s halfway to the bed when she spots the package on the pillow.

  A present?

  She stops short, staring at it.

  So Mom remembered that Jen always pestered her for one gift in advance. Did she do this to be nice? Or did she do it to make Jen feel guilty for not speaking to her earlier?

  For a moment, she’s tempted to leave the present right there on the pillow, to pretend she never saw it. That way, she won’t feel obligated to go downstairs and thank her mother for whatever it is.

  It’s hard to tell, in a box that size. It’s larger than a jewelry box, but smaller than a clothing box.

  A cell phone would fit in there, definitely.

  But there’s no way. Absolutely no way.

  Maybe it’s a scarf, or gloves, or a cosmetic bag.

  Nah, Mom wouldn’t get her one of those, even if Jen has been asking. She doesn’t like Jen wearing makeup.

  The gift wrap is a bit young, Jen thinks, walking over to the bed. She picks up the box and makes a face at the clown-printed paper. Well, what does she expect? Look at the frilly bedspread and curtains Mom picked out for her just last year.

  The box doesn’t weigh much, and it doesn’t rattle. It probably is a scarf. Socks, maybe. Well, that’s fine. Boring, but fine. She can always use another scarf or socks.

  Jen slides a finger beneath the seam in the wrapping paper and pulls it apart carefully, then wonders why she’s trying so hard not to rip it.

  She tears the rest away and crumples it into a ball, tossing it across the room toward the overflowing wastebasket. It bounces out again. Oh, well. The cleaning lady can pick it up whenever she comes.

  The box is plain white cardboard; no store name is embossed on the cover as a hint.

  Jen shakes it a little and hears something shifting inside. Something soft.

  A scarf?

  She lifts the lid, and finds . . .

  Not a scarf.

  Not gloves.

  Not socks . . . not the kind she’d expect, anyway.

  What she finds is the oddest gift she’s ever received: a lone pink baby bootee with lacy white trim.

  TEN

  “Happy birthday to you . . . Happy birthday to you . . . Happy birthday, dear Jen . . . Happy birthday to you.”

  “Blow out the candles, Jen,” Kathleen urges her daughter, watching a trickle of pink wax drip into the cream cheese icing.

  “Don’t forget to make a wish!” Curran reminds her.

  Jen scowls at that, but closes her eyes and releases an obedient puff toward the cake.

  Kathleen’s yay sounds forced and hollow to her own ears. She realizes belatedly that most of the candles are still ignited.

  “Did you make a wish?” Riley wants to know. “Because if you don’t get them all out in the first blow, it won’t come true.”

  Jen doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Riley’s question. She merely sits staring at the cake, not sullen, exactly, but more . . . contemplative.

  Kathleen glances at Matt. He’s sitting with his arms folded, watching the proceedings with a level of interest he usually reserves for Father Edward’s annual parish finance sermon.

  At least the boys, standing on either side of their sister’s chair, are enthusiastic.

  “Can I take out the candles, Mommy?” Riley asks eagerly, stretching a hand toward the white-frosted layer cake. It’s leaning precariously to one side, and there’s a finger-sized bare spot at the base on one side where Kathleen neglected to spread the icing.

  “Mommy?” Riley nudges her as she reaches toward the cake plate.

  “What?”

  “Can I take out the candles? I like to help.”

  “Mom!” Curran speaks up. “He only wants to take out the candles so he can lick off the frosting.”

  “Nobody’s licking any candles,” Matt says sternly from his place at the head of the dining room table, opposite Jen and the cake. To his right is Kathleen’s father, who doesn’t even appear to be paying attention. He’s busy hunting through the pockets of his cardigan, frowning.

  “But I want to help. Mrs. Egan says we should always help our olders.” Riley frequently quotes—and often misquotes—his kindergarten teacher, much to the rest of the family’s amusement.

  Tonight, nobody is amused.

  “I’ll take out the candles, Riley.” Ignoring his whine of protest, Kathleen plucks them, one by one, from the frosting. Normally she would have to resist the urge to lick the tips herself, but tonight she isn’t even tempted.

  She certainly hopes the cake tastes better than it looks. She’s had no appetite all day, and her heart certainly wasn’t in baking this afternoon. Cooking, either. The roast was dry, the gravy lumpy, the mashed potatoes the consistency of Elmer’s Glue. Nobody complained except Dad, who grumbled that even the instant potatoes the nursing home serves were better than these.

  “Does anyone want ice cream with the cake?” she asks, hoping nobody does. She had to muster every bit of energy to prepare the meal and set the table in the dining room with their best china and crystal. And after single-handedly carrying the dinner conversation—all right, with some help from the boys—she’s feeling utterly depleted.

  Unfortunately, everybody but Jen wants ice cream, and nobody else offers to go to the kitchen to get it.

  Sighing inwardly, Kathleen shuffles into the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light. She opens the freezer, finds a half-gallon of Breyer’s Vanilla Bean, and what’s left of a pint of chocolate Haagen Daz, Jen’s favorite. She turns to nudge the freezer door closed with her shoulder.

  In the instant the appliance light is obliterated, plunging the kitchen once again into darkness, Kathleen spots a face pressed against the kitchen window.

  Her shriek brings Matt running, followed by the boys and Jen. Somebody flips the wall switch on their way into the kitchen and the face vanishes into a reflective glare.

  In the dining room, Dad, confined to his wheelchair, bellows, “What the hell is going on in there?”

  “Nothing, I . . .” Kathleen shakes her head, gazing at the window, seeing nothing but the room behind her and her own anxious face.

  “Wha
t happened?” Dad shouts again, and Matt echoes the question, touching her shoulder gently.

  Kathleen turns to see her worried family hovering. Even Jen looks concerned, and Riley is downright frightened. She settles on the first lame explanation that enters her mind. “I just . . . I thought I saw a mouse.”

  “Cool! Where?” Curran asks, scanning the tile.

  “Over there.” She points vaguely in the direction of the sink.

  “I’ll set a trap,” Matt says tightly, for the children’s benefit, she knows. She can tell by his expression that he’s aware there’s no mouse.

  “Thanks.” She meets his gaze head-on, then shifts her attention to Jen. Her daughter is watching them with narrowed eyes.

  Jen, the girl who literally won’t hurt a fly. She steps around ants on the sidewalk; she sets spiders free outside. If she really thought there was a mouse, she wouldn’t let Matt set a trap.

  She, too, knows Kathleen is fibbing.

  She knows more than that, Kathleen realizes, glimpsing something else in Jen’s expression. Something far more telling.

  “Good news! I don’t see any mouse poop, Mom,” Curran announces from the floor.

  Riley drops to his knees beside his brother. “I want to look for mouse poop, too.”

  “Nobody’s looking for mouse poop.” Matt pulls them both to their feet and escorts them back to the dining room.

  Jen starts to follow, but Kathleen calls her back.

  “Is everything okay, Jen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem on edge.”

  “So what else is new? Finding out you’re adopted does that to a person. And guess what? You seem on edge, yourself.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about.” Kathleen hesitates. “I mean you seem a little . . . anxious. About . . . the mouse?”

  “What mouse?” Jen asks flatly.

  “What do you mean, what mouse? The mouse that I saw.”

  “What mouse?” Jen repeats pointedly.

  “What makes you think there wasn’t a mouse?”

  “Because once you’ve told one big lie, how am I supposed to believe anything else you ever say?”

  She’s paraphrasing Kathleen’s own words, and her eyes dare Kathleen to call her on it. Still, she sees something more than blatant contempt there. The trepidation hasn’t left; the fear has intensified.

  Kathleen longs to pull Jen into her arms and comfort her, to tell her to stop worrying, that she’s fine. That they’re all fine, that everything will be okay.

  How many times did she make that very promise when Jen was a little girl?

  Too many times to count—too many times to guarantee that the promise would be kept.

  And now, Kathleen’s lies—all of them—are catching up with her.

  “Never mind,” she tells Jen, and presses the cartons of ice cream into her hands. “Take these into the other room. I’m just going to get the scoop.”

  Jen obeys without argument, disappearing into the next room.

  Kathleen takes the ice cream scoop from the drawer, then walks over and presses the wall switch.

  Darkness swoops over the kitchen.

  She returns to the window and looks out into the night, fighting the urge to turn on the floodlights. Even without them, she can see by the light of the moon that the yard is empty.

  She must have imagined the face at the window, just as she imagined everything else. It isn’t the only logical explanation she can come up with, but it’s the only one she’s willing to consider tonight.

  Still, she tries the back door again, just to make sure it’s locked. Whatever the reason, she hasn’t felt safe all day, not even at home. Especially not at home.

  “Where have you been?” Stella asks, looking up from yet another opponent-slamming preelection commercial on television.

  From where she’s lying on the family room couch, she can see Kurt stepping into the house through the garage door. She can also see the mantle clock. “It’s almost seven-thirty. How long does it take to run to the supermarket?”

  “Too damned long,” he snaps, plunking a paper grocery bag on the counter.

  “Did you remember the crackers this time?”

  Wearing a sardonic expression, he lifts a box of saltines from the bag and holds them up to show her.

  Surprised, she asks, “How about the ginger ale? Did you get more of that?”

  “They were out of regular Canada Dry so I got diet.”

  “Diet!” she echoes in dismay. Just what her weak stomach needs: chemical sweeteners and bitter aftertaste. She’s finally stopped running into the bathroom every few minutes, but she’s still not certain she can keep anything down.

  Kurt says succinctly, “I just said they didn’t have regular, Stella.”

  “They didn’t have regular ginger ale anywhere in Wegmans? I find that hard to believe.” She hates her brittle tone and the shrew she’s become. But he’s doing this to her. He was an hour late coming home from the bank, and his idea of feeding the twins dinner was to divide a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup into two bowls and nuke it for a minute. The poor girls kept complaining about the saltiness and were dying of thirst by the time they were done eating. Only then did Stella realize Kurt hadn’t even bothered to dilute the soup with water.

  “They didn’t have regular Canada Dry,” he repeats now.

  “What about Schweps?”

  “What about Schweps? I didn’t look for that. You wrote Canada Dry on the list.”

  “But you knew I meant ginger ale. The brand doesn’t matter. Generic would be fine.”

  “You didn’t say that, and I know how you are.”

  Exasperated, Stella throws the afghan off and rises shakily from the couch to face him. “Really? How am I?”

  “Picky.” He removes a large, deli-made sub sandwich from the bag, along with a package of Fritos and a large plastic produce bag filled with apples.

  “What are those for?” she asks.

  “What do you think they’re for? They’re for eating.”

  “The fridge is full of apples. We’ve got apples coming out of our ears. I can’t believe you got those and you didn’t get my ginger ale.”

  “I got it.”

  “Diet.”

  “Stella, trust me, diet ginger ale isn’t going to kill you.”

  His disdainful expression speaks volumes.

  She wants to tell him she’s probably lost ten pounds overnight, thanks to the stomach bug. She wants to tell him that she knows what he thinks of her, anyway, and that it doesn’t matter to her anymore. That as soon as she has the strength, she’s going to kick him out of here.

  But she can’t bring herself to say any of that—in part because it does matter, and because she isn’t certain she’ll ever find the strength to kick him out.

  She’s had plenty of time for contemplation today.

  The truth is, without Kurt, she would have two little girls to raise single-handedly while working full time. He would have to support the girls financially, but Stella certainly can’t afford to quit teaching. And anyway, where would he go if he moved out? To an apartment?

  She thinks of his brother Stefan, newly divorced and living in a dump that costs more than Kathleen and Kurt can spare on top of their mortgage payment.

  Which means that if they were to separate, they’d probably have to sell the house. She and the girls would wind up back in their old neighborhood in Cheektowaga, or someplace like it.

  The truth is, Stella loves living in Orchard Hollow; she loves her big, beautiful new house and her Volvo station wagon. She loves having a weekly housekeeper and an expensive private day care center for the girls. And, as much as she hates to admit it, there are times when she even thinks she might still love Kurt.

  She has no illusions about it being mutual.

  Sure, he agreed to go back out to the store for her tonight. So readily that she was surprised. But he must have had an ulterior motive. Most likely his
own hunger, she thinks, watching him unwrap the sub sandwich.

  Either that, or his mistress is a checkout girl at Wegmans.

  “What are you laughing at?” he asks, looking up from the bag of chips he’s opening.

  “Me? I’m not laughing. That was a sneeze,” she lies.

  “You sneezed on my sandwich?” He looks down at the sub in disgust. “You’re all germy. What are you trying to do, get me sick, too?”

  Yup.

  Aloud, she says only, “Sorry.”

  “That was my dinner, Stella. Thanks a lot. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Sorry,” she repeats sweetly, shuffling back to the couch, resisting the urge to tell him exactly what he can do with his sandwich.

  “I so-o-o-o don’t want to do this,” Erin informs her mother as Maeve pulls up in front of the Carmodys’ house.

  “I know you so-o-o-o don’t.”

  “Mom!”

  “What?” Maeve takes one last satisfying drag of her cigarette, then stubs it out in the ashtray.

  “Erin, you don’t have a choice.”

  “But I can’t stand Jen.”

  “I know you can’t.” Though she doesn’t know why and Erin refuses to tell her. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing it for me.”

  “Yeah, and I thought you quit smoking for me.”

  “That has nothing to do with this.” Maeve snaps the ashtray closed, beyond caring what her daughter thinks of her lighting up again.

  “I just don’t get why you care about Jen’s stupid birthday.”

  “Because her mother is one of my oldest and dearest friends,” Maeve retorts, shifting into park and flipping down the lighted mirror on the visor to check her lipstick.

  “So why can’t you do this by yourself?”

  Maeve ignores her. Sometimes Erin reminds her too much of Gregory, what with the nasal litany of whys and why nots.

  It would be so goddamned nice, she thinks, snapping the mirror closed, if just once she could make a request that wasn’t met with a whining tirade by her daughter or ex-husband.

  She pulls the keys from the ignition. “Let’s go. Get the present.”

  “Can’t you get it?”

  “I asked you to get it, Erin.”