Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  That’s why she needs Father Joseph so desperately.

  Yet the past forty-eight hours have been uneventful. At first unnervingly, but now, reassuringly, so. There have been no strange phone calls or cries in the night, no sightings of lurking strangers.

  If it weren’t for the pair of pink baby bootees tucked into Kathleen’s top drawer, she might almost be able to stop looking over her shoulder and relax.

  But the fact remains that somebody gift wrapped that bootee and left it on her daughter’s bed. Somebody got into the house when they weren’t here.

  Unwilling, unable, to tell Matt, Kathleen had the locks changed yesterday while he was at work. She paid the locksmith in cash; Matt will never even have to know.

  She simply opened the door for her husband when he arrived home last night, before he could insert his key in the lock. Then, when he was safely snoring in their bed, she crept downstairs and replaced the old house key on his ring with the new one, which looks exactly like it. She had already done the same thing with the keys they keep inside the deadbolt locks.

  She feels safer now. She’s even managed to catch a few hours of sleep these last two nights: a deep sleep undisturbed by nightmares or the cries of a phantom baby.

  But something tells her this peaceful interlude won’t last forever.

  “Jen?”

  Alone at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria, she looks up from her ham sandwich, startled by the familiar voice—a voice that hasn’t spoken to her in weeks.

  “Hi, Erin.”

  “Is anyone sitting here?” Erin gestures at the empty seats on either side of Jen, who shakes her head incredulously.

  Erin suddenly wants to eat lunch with her? Why? She didn’t say two words to Jen the other night at her birthday party. It was obvious she was only there because her mother dragged her along.

  “Listen, Jen,” Erin sets down her tray, which contains only an apple and a diet Snapple, then slips into a chair, “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of . . . well, I don’t know if you know this, but . . .”

  “Know what?”

  “About Robby?”

  At the mere mention of his name, the already sodden bread and ham in Jen’s mouth threatens to choke her. She grabs her bottle of water, takes a gulp, asks, “What about him?”

  Erin bites her lower lip. “Oh, God, Jen, I thought you might know.”

  “What is it, Erin?” Jen sets down the water bottle, her heart pounding.

  “The cops came to the school this morning. I guess Robby’s father reported him missing yesterday and, um—”

  “What?”

  A long pause. And then . . .

  “They found his body early this morning,” Erin blurts.

  Jen gasps, pressing a hand to her lips. “No . . .”

  “I know. I know.” Erin shakes her head and shudders. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What—what happened to him?” Her eyes are teary, but she can’t cry. Not in front of Erin.

  “Who knows? He was dealing. He probably got himself into some kind of trouble.”

  “You mean . . . he was murdered?” Jen asks in disbelief.

  “I guess. Or maybe he just OD’d.”

  OD’d. Like Quint Matteson. The lump in Jen’s throat tightens.

  “I don’t know the details,” Erin goes on. “I just heard from Cammie Lenhart. Her father’s a cop. When was the last time you saw him?”

  Focus. Stay focused, Jen.

  Feeling as though she’s in a daze, she says, “Robby? I haven’t heard from him in a few days, ever since . . . well, you know.”

  Of course Erin knows. Everybody knows that Jen got caught skipping school with Robby. Everybody knows she has detention and he was suspended. It’s only a matter of time before everybody finds out about his death.

  It isn’t surprising, really. She knew he was wild. But there was something decent about him. Something . . .

  “Are you okay?” Erin asks, touching her arm.

  Jen nods, clenching her jaw to keep it from trembling, unwilling to betray her emotion.

  “He didn’t mention anything to you about being in any kind of trouble, did he, Jen?”

  Is that why she’s sitting here? Hoping to sniff out gossip to share with Rachel and the others?

  With Erin, it’s hard to tell. Her expression of concern seems genuine, but you never know.

  “No,” Jen admits, “he didn’t say a word.”

  To her horror, she feels the tears in her eyes starting to spill over.

  “Are you okay, Jen?” Erin asks again.

  “I’m fine.” But she isn’t. Her throat aches with the painful effort of swallowing her grief. She can’t let Erin see her cry; she can’t let anyone at school see her cry. She’s come this far without giving in to her emotions . . . all she has to do is get through today, and then she’ll have the weekend to regroup.

  “You don’t look fine,” Erin says, watching her closely. “What’s up with you, Jen? Not just the Robby thing. I know we haven’t talked lately, but you’ve seemed . . . I mean, you’re definitely not yourself.”

  There was a time when she would have jumped at the opportunity to confide in Erin. But so much has changed in a few short weeks—and now, again, in a few short days.

  Jen has never felt more alone in her life.

  Her eyelids flutter involuntarily and another gush of tears is released to roll down her cheeks. She sweeps at them with her napkin, horrified that she’s sitting here crying in the middle of the cafeteria. Thank God she’s facing the wall; hopefully nobody will notice.

  But of course Erin has noticed. Jen steals a glance at her and sees that she doesn’t seem to know quite what to do. It’s as though she’s trying really hard to keep Jen at arm’s length, but she looks like she wants to hug her or something.

  “I’m fine,” Jen says again, sniffling.

  “No, you aren’t.’

  “Okay, I’m not.”

  Erin hands her a folded napkin from her tray. “Here. You need to blow your nose.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, Jen, you know Robby was trouble. You said it yourself. It’s not like the two of you were a couple. At least, not for that long.”

  Jen nods, wiping her nose with the napkin, wishing she could tell Erin that it isn’t just about Robby.

  “He could be really mean, Jen,” Erin goes on matter-of-factly, taking a bite of her apple. Jen notices that her fingernails are perfect ovals, polished a pearly pink. She’s suddenly aware of her own unpolished nails, bitten into ragged nubs in the stress of the last few days.

  Jen makes a futile attempt to banish a fresh flood of tears.

  “Come on, Jen.” Erin almost looks alarmed. “You can’t fall apart over this. You have to pull yourself together.”

  “I’m not crying about Robby.” Jen buries her face in the napkin.

  “Then what the heck are you crying about? Jesus, Jen, you’re a mess.”

  She lifts her head miserably, shoulders still heaving with sobs. “I know. It’s . . . my father’s dead.”

  The moment the words have left her mouth and the expression of alarm crosses Erin’s face, she knows she’s made a huge mistake.

  But it’s too late to take them back.

  “Aaah! You scared me!”

  Stella stops short in the doorway of her daughters’ bedroom as her cleaning lady spins around, vacuum cleaner in hand. Sissy’s dark, overly made-up eyes are wide and frightened.

  “I’m sorry, Sissy. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was calling from downstairs to tell you I’m home early but you were running the vacuum.”

  “It’s okay.” Sissy turns off the power and presses a hand against her heart. “I guess I just didn’t hear you, Mrs. Gattinski.”

  “It’s Stella,” she reminds her, for perhaps the tenth time since the girl started cleaning here. It’s getting frustrating to keep correcting her.

  It’s not that she isn’t used to being called Mrs. Gatti
nski on a daily basis, being a teacher. But Sissy’s got to be close to thirty, too old to defer to her elders. She’s probably accustomed to using formal titles out of respect for her employers, but Stella still isn’t entirely comfortable with that, either. In fact, it took her a long time not to feel like she should be pitching in vacuuming and scrubbing alongside the cleaning lady.

  “I’m sorry, Stella,” Sissy echoes, her expression as awkward as the name sounds on her lips.

  “It’s okay. Well, I just wanted to let you know I was here. We had a half day today. I’m going to go get changed before I pick up the girls from day care.”

  “All right. Oh, the phone rang a little while ago. I think it was Mr. Gattinski. I didn’t pick it up, though. He left a message.”

  “Thanks.” Maybe he’s decided to skip the banquet after all, Stella thinks hopefully.

  Sissy is about to switch the vacuum on again.

  “Oh, one more thing. . . .” Stella pauses in the doorway. “Did you find the note I left you this morning?”

  “About not putting your jeans into the dryer? I found it, and I made sure I didn’t. They’re on the drying rack downstairs.”

  “Thanks.” Stella can’t help feeling a embarrassed. But she already has two pairs of jeans she can no longer squeeze into. Even with the few pounds she lost courtesy of the flu this week, she can’t afford to have any more waistbands shrunk in the laundry.

  Envious of Sissy’s slender build beneath the baggy sweats she wears to clean in, Stella says, “I also left a note stuck to the fridge, next to the monthly planner. Did you see that one?”

  “Oh, no . . . I’m sorry.”

  “It just said that there are tons of apples in the crisper so help yourself. Oh, and there was tuna salad in there for you to have for your lunch, if you felt like it. Did you find it?”

  “I brought my own sandwich, but thank you anyway. Oops, I’m so sorry!” Sissy blurts as the vacuum cleaner attachment in her hand clatters loudly to the hardwood floor.

  “It’s all right.” Stella bends to retrieve it and hands it to her, then looks at her more closely. The girl appears agitated, fumbling with the attachment as she tries to replace it on the end of the hose.

  “What’s wrong, Sissy?” Stella asks. “Is everything okay?”

  Sissy hesitates. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—I mean, Stella. I’m just a little jittery today, I guess. I thought I . . .” She trails off, shakes her head. “Never mind.”

  “You thought you what?”

  “I just thought I heard something earlier, that’s all. But I’m sure it was my imagination.”

  “What did you think you heard?”

  “Footsteps.”

  “Footsteps?”

  “Coming from downstairs. It was probably nothing.”

  “Oh, it must have been me. I got home almost five minutes ago and I checked my phone messages before I—”

  “No, no, not just now. This was much earlier this afternoon. When I was washing the floor in the master bathroom, I could have sworn I heard somebody down here. I thought it must be you or your husband, so I called out, but nobody answered. And when I heard it again after a few minutes and I started to come down to look . . .”

  “What?” Stella prods, her pulse racing. She hasn’t forgotten the wet tire treads in the garage the other day. “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gattinski. I didn’t mean to scare you. It was probably—”

  “I’m not scared,” Stella protests, not bothering to correct the Mrs. Gattinski this time.

  “Are you sure? Because you seem a little scared and I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m just concerned, that’s all. What happened when you started to come down to look?” she repeats, unable to temper her impatience.

  “I just thought I heard the footsteps again . . .” Poor Sissy suddenly looks as though she wishes she hadn’t brought it up at all. “And then I, uh, I thought I heard a door slamming. That’s all.”

  That’s all?

  Stella’s mouth has gone dry. Somebody was here again, during the day?

  Kurt, she thinks, her blood beginning to boil. It had to be him. Who else would be sneaking around the house in the middle of the day? He probably forgot the cleaning lady would be here. Or maybe that’s why he called—to make sure she was. And when she didn’t pick up, he thought the coast was clear, so he—

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Stella?” Sissy asks, watching her anxiously.

  “I’m fine,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and stalking toward the master bedroom.

  “Oh my God.” Erin gasps, staring at Jen in disbelief. “Your father’s dead? But how—when . . . ?”

  “Not him. My real father.”

  “What?”

  Reluctantly, Jen spills the whole tragic tale, with Erin hanging on her every word. By the time she reaches the part where she found out Quint Matteson died a few months ago of a drug overdose, Erin has wrapped an arm around her shoulders and is patting her sympathetically.

  “That’s so, so awful, Jen. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks. I just . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, what did your mom say when you told her?”

  Jen flinches, hesitating before confessing, “I didn’t tell her.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, because I promised her I wouldn’t try to find him.”

  For another, because telling her mother would somehow make it true.

  There’s a part—a tiny, ridiculously hopeful part—of Jen that refuses to accept that Quint Matteson is dead. She has no proof, only his downstairs neighbor’s casual news bulletin. For all Jen knows, that girl could have been kidding around, or she could have had him mixed up with somebody else.

  Okay, that might not be very likely, but there’s a chance, isn’t there? Especially since Jen did a search on the Internet for his obituary or a mention in the newspaper of a fatal drug overdose, and found nothing.

  Which isn’t proof that he’s still alive . . .

  But without proof, Jen can almost convince herself that he might be.

  “You’re not going to tell your mom about this, Erin, are you?” she asks belatedly.

  After all, it’s not as though they’re friends, like they used to be. What would stop Erin from telling not just her mother, but the whole world, that Jen’s father isn’t Matt Carmody, but some druggie who OD’d?

  In fact, after what Jen did to Erin, stealing Robby away, she wouldn’t really blame Erin for doing something deliberately mean to get back at her.

  But Erin is shaking her head. “Are you kidding? Why would I tell my mom? She’d just run and tell your mom.”

  “So you won’t tell her?”

  “No way. Oh my God, my mother’s the worst when it comes to gossiping. I never tell her anything anymore.”

  Relieved, Jen chooses to believe her.

  She even dares to think that maybe now that Robby’s gone . . .

  Well, maybe there’s a chance she and Erin can be friends again.

  Will Erin forgive her for choosing Robby over their friendship?

  Only one way to find out. Jen takes a deep breath and looks her in the eye. “Hey, Erin, do you think—”

  Erin speaks simultaneously. “Hey, Jen, if you’re not—”

  They break off, look at each other, and laugh.

  “What were you going to say?” Erin asks.

  “You first.”

  “I was just going to say that if you’re not busy tonight, I’m around. Maybe we can go to the mall for a while or something.”

  “I can’t,” Jen says. “I’m . . .”

  Grounded, for one thing. But Erin doesn’t need to know that.

  “Babysitting,” Jen says instead. “I’m babysitting for the Gattinskis. But can you do me a favor and not mention that to your mother, either?”

  “Yeah. Not that I would, but why not?”

  “My parents don’t want me babysitting anymore. Y
ou know, because . . .”

  “Because Mr. Gattinski is so gross?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know he totally cheats on his wife?”

  Jen’s jaw drops. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Oh, come on, Jen. You haven’t heard it?”

  Actually, she has. She’s heard it a few times. It isn’t hard to believe, either. There’s something creepy about Mr. Gattinski. Lately whenever she catches him looking at her, she feels like she wants to go change into something totally unflattering. Ugh. She dreads having him pick her up and drop her off whenever she babysits there.

  Still. . . . Wow. She didn’t realize that rumor was all over the neighborhood. Poor Mrs. Gattinski is so, so nice. For her sake, not wanting to fuel the rumors, Jen merely shrugs and tells Erin, “No, I never heard that. Maybe it’s not true.”

  Erin snorts. “Yeah, sure. You know, Jen, for all this crazy stuff you’ve been through lately, you’re still pretty naive. But I mean that in a good way,” she adds quickly, touching Jen’s hand. “Hey, want me to come over and keep you company while you’re babysitting?”

  “Would you really?”

  “Sure. Like I said, I’m just hanging out tonight and my mother’s going out. I don’t really feel like being alone after this whole thing with Robby. It’s kind of creeping me out.”

  “Me, too.” Jen shakes her head. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “I know. Do you think he really was murdered?”

  Jen tries, and fails, to imagine that. Who would want to hurt Robby? He was a dealer, yeah . . . but it’s not like he was some shady character like in the movies.

  “I don’t know,” she tells Erin. “But I hope not. I hope it was some kind of accident.”

  “Either way, he’s still dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stare at each other in somber silence for a minute.

  Then Erin asks what time she should come over to the Gattinskis’ tonight.

  “Around eight. Just don’t tell your mother where you’re going,” Jen warns, “because my mother would kill me if she finds out I’m babysitting. I’m still grounded.”