Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “How are you going to go if your parents don’t know about it?”

  “Easy. I’ll just sneak out. I’m in my room every night with the door closed anyway. They’ll never know,” she assures Erin with far more confidence than she feels.

  “What if they find out you’re gone?”

  “Whatever. I’ll deal with it then. I mean, it’s not like things can get much worse between me and them.”

  “Stella, it’s me. I’m going straight from the office to the banquet tonight. I won’t be home till late. Kiss the girls for me. Bye.”

  Bastard.

  The face-off will have to wait until tomorrow, Stella concludes, pressing the erase button on the answering machine. At least that will give her a chance to figure out exactly what she wants to say, and how she wants to say it. It isn’t as though she has absolute proof that he’s having an affair. But considering the way the evidence keeps mounting, there’s just no way that he isn’t, as far as she’s concerned.

  Stella turns her attention away from the phone.

  The master bedroom is neat as a hotel room and smells of lemon furniture polish. She glances at the clock. Does she have time to take a quick shower before she picks up the girls?

  No. She barely has time to pull on a pair of jeans and run a comb through her hair. And there will be no taking a shower once the girls are home, running wild under her feet, clamoring for juice, for snacks, for attention.

  Stella closes her eyes wearily, longing for a few minutes to herself, resenting the hell out of her husband. Why isn’t Kurt ever here to help her?

  Because he’s at work. He isn’t even supposed to be home at this hour of the day, remember?

  Damn him. He’s apparently capable of finding the time to sneak around the house during the day, when he’s not supposed to be available. How ironic that he isn’t ever here when she needs him, say, to tuck the girls into bed so that Stella wouldn’t have to pay for a babysitter tonight?

  Supposedly, he has a so-called banquet.

  A banquet?

  Is there really a banquet?

  How tempting it is to check up on him.

  Jen is coming in a few hours, so it’s not like Stella can’t go out. No, she’s actually supposed to go out.

  To the dance, she reminds herself. You’re supposed to be chaperoning a dance.

  But what if she forgot all about the dance, and instead went over to the restaurant where Kurt’s supposed to be? Just to make sure he’s really there. On business. Alone.

  If he is, he’ll never even have to know she was there. She’ll forget about confronting him tomorrow, and chalk up the footsteps and slamming doors—yes, and tire treads in the garage—to her own overly active imagination, and Sissy’s, too.

  But if Kurt isn’t where he’s supposed to be, with whom he’s supposed to be . . .

  Well, then, all bets are off, she concludes, catching sight of her grim-faced reflection and clenched fists in the mirror across the room. There’s just no telling what she might do.

  “Jen?” Kathleen knocks on her daughter’s closed bedroom door.

  No answer.

  She frowns. Jen has been in here ever since this afternoon when she got home from school. Not that there’s anything unusual about that. Not lately, anyway. When it’s absolutely necessary for her to emerge from her room, Jen sullenly goes about her business, then retreats from view as soon as she can.

  “Jen!” Kathleen knocks again, reaching for the knob.

  It’s already turning, though, and her daughter opens the door, scowling. “What?”

  “Daddy called from work and said he’s taking us all out to dinner at the Como.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s Friday night and he doesn’t want me to have to cook.” Kathleen peers at her daughter. Jen’s eyes are red. “Jen, have you been crying?”

  “No.”

  She’s lying. Pushing aside her worry, Kathleen reminds herself that her daughter is fourteen. When she was fourteen, she spent hours alone in her room, crying. It’s hormones, along with everything else Jen has been through.

  “Daddy will be home in fifteen minutes,” she tells her daughter. “Do you want to get changed before we go?”

  “I thought I was grounded.”

  “Well you have to eat, and since we’re eating out, I’m assuming Dad wants you to go along.”

  “I doubt it. And anyway, that’s all right. I’ll stay here.”

  Kathleen frowns. The Como, which is a half hour away in Niagara Falls, is Jen’s all-time favorite Italian restaurant. In fact, Kathleen suspects Matt chose that particular place for dinner out of guilt for not having made a bigger deal about Jen’s birthday earlier in the week.

  “I think you need to come with us, Jen.”

  “I can’t. Mom, I feel nauseous. I’ve been feeling sick all day, like I’m coming down with something. Maybe I’m getting that flu everyone’s had.”

  Kathleen reaches out to lay a hand against her daughter’s forehead. “You do feel a little warm.”

  “Yeah, my head hurts, too. I just want to go to sleep.”

  “I’ll stay home with you and Daddy can take the boys, then.”

  “No! Mom, please don’t do that. I would feel terrible if you missed dinner out, and so would everyone else. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get into bed anyway.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Take your cell phone. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone if you’re sick.”

  “You’re treating me like a baby again. Please, Mom, you have to stop. You used to let me stay alone all the time when I was thirteen. Now suddenly you think I need you here to hold my hand?”

  “It isn’t that, Jen. It’s just . . .”

  Just what? The locks have been changed. And there probably isn’t a safer neighborhood around.

  “We’ll see,” Kathleen tells her daughter. “I’ll talk to Daddy when he gets home.”

  “Whatever.” Jen shrugs and closes her door.

  She’s right, Kathleen tells herself, retreating down the hall to change into something suitable for dinner out. I am treating her like a baby.

  Jen’s been staying alone for a few years now; she’s been watching her brothers and babysitting other people’s kids, for heaven’s sake. How can Kathleen justify the sudden need to supervise a fourteen year old to Jen or Matt or anybody else?

  They don’t understand.

  The pink bootee.

  Okay, the pink bootee. What about it?

  For all she knows, Jen wasn’t even telling the truth about where it came from. Maybe she found it somewhere herself, and made up the whole story about it being a birthday present.

  But where could she have found it?

  And how could she have known its significance?

  Round and round and round Kathleen’s thoughts spin, the whole time she’s changing into black jeans and a sweater, combing her hair, putting on lipstick and blusher so that she won’t look quite so pale. By the time Matt pulls into the driveway, she’s ready to insist on calling off the whole dinner.

  She meets him down in the kitchen just as he’s walking through the door, clutching a large bouquet of red, orange, and yellow dahlias.

  “Hey,” he says, and pulls her close. “These are for you.”

  “They are?” Matt never brings her flowers, unless it’s their anniversary, or Valentine’s Day . . . and sometimes, not even then. “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion.”

  A thought flits into her mind—something Maeve said about how she knew Gregory was cheating when he started bringing her flowers for no reason.

  Kathleen eyes her husband, unable to muster the slightest shred of suspicion. Matt isn’t the type to have an affair.

  “They’re beautiful,” she murmurs, lifting the bouquet to her nose, absently noting that they’re unscented, but she sniffs the distinct aroma of the outdoors, and her
husband’s musky aftershave clinging to the petals.

  “I’ve just been thinking that you look like you need something bright and cheerful.” Matt kisses her head gently.

  Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed by emotion. She leans against his shoulder and closes her eyes, wishing she could tell him everything.

  Maybe she can.

  Maybe she should.

  Maybe—

  “Daddy!” Riley bursts into the kitchen, Curran on his heels.

  “You’re home! Can we go now?” Curran asks, grabbing his navy fleece pullover from the hook by the door. “I want spaghetti and meatballs.”

  Matt grins. “Just give me five minutes to change out of this suit, and we’ll go. You two need to go find warmer jackets, though. It’s cold out there tonight.”

  “I’m never cold,” Riley protests, reaching for his fleece that hangs beside Curran’s.

  “Come on, let’s do what Dad says.” Curran hangs both jackets on the hooks again and leads his little brother out of the room.

  “Did you hear that?” Matt asks incredulously. “Kath, the boys just did exactly what I told them to do. What’s up with that?”

  Too distracted to bother responding to the question, she informs him in a low voice, “Jen doesn’t want to come to dinner.”

  Her husband’s cheerful expression vanishes. “Big surprise. So let her stay home.”

  “But . . . do you think we should?”

  “Why not? You want to force her to come with us so that she can sit and stare off into space all night, and make everyone else miserable?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just hate to leave her home alone.”

  “She’s a big girl, remember?”

  “She said she doesn’t feel good. Maybe I should stay here with—”

  “No,” Matt cuts in firmly. “You are not going to stay here with her. I made a reservation for eight o’clock. I want to take you out for a nice dinner.”

  “You wanted to take the whole family out. She’s part of the family, whether she believes she is or not.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? Of course she’s part of the family. But until we can get her into therapy, it’s doing more harm than good for all of us to be together, as far as I’m concerned. Did you call that family therapist you were going to try?”

  “I left a message,” she lies. “The, um, office is closed on Fridays.”

  “Okay.” He heaves a sigh. Kathleen notices that he looks almost as weary as she feels.

  All thoughts of telling him the truth have vanished from her mind. She can’t tell him. Not now. Not yet.

  If only there were someone who could advise her when to tell her husband, and how to tell him, and what to tell him.

  Father Joseph.

  Where are you? Why haven’t you called me back?

  The aging priest isn’t the only person who can provide comfort, advice, forgiveness. But he’s the only one she trusts, despite all the years that have passed, despite losing touch with him after . . .

  Well, after it happened.

  Matt is gripping her upper arms. “Listen, Kathleen, I really think it’ll be good for us to get some time away from Jen. There’s been nothing but tension in this house lately. It’s not healthy, and it’s not fair to anyone, especially the boys.”

  “But I thought you picked the Como because Jen loves it.”

  “We all love it.” His shrug belies the disappointment in his eyes. “And she doesn’t want to come, so . . .”

  “Maybe if you ask her—”

  “No. You told her we were going, right? And she said no.”

  “Maybe you can just tell her she has to go and that’s that. Tell her you made a reservation for five and you’re not changing it.”

  “I’m not going to force her.” He thrusts the flowers into her hand. “Do you want to put these in water? I’m going up to take off this suit.”

  “Oh . . . sure.” She takes the bouquet, listening to his footsteps climbing up the stairs, heading down the hall.

  As she reaches into a high cupboard for a vase, she hears the footsteps pause abruptly and realizes Matt’s standing in front of Jen’s door.

  Kathleen holds her breath, listening for a knock, for Matt’s voice, for a door creaking open.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but her husband’s footsteps as he retreats down the hall into the master bedroom, where the door slams loudly behind him.

  With a sigh, Kathleen turns on the tap and fills the vase with water. She unwraps the bouquet and begins to place the stems in the vase, one by one, glad they aren’t roses.

  Roses would only remind her of that strange day at her mother’s grave, when she found the thirteenth rose.

  Again, she wonders who put it there.

  Again, she finds her thoughts wandering back to Father Joseph.

  He used to visit the cemetery with Kathleen when she was a little girl. Dad couldn’t bring himself to take her; he left that up to the kindly priest.

  Perhaps Father Joseph was the one who left the rose there on Tuesday.

  The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why he—or anybody else—would do it on that particular day.

  November second.

  A chill steals down Kathleen’s spine.

  THIRTEEN

  “One more game of Uno?” MacKenzie Gattinski begs charmingly. “Please, Jen?”

  Jen looks at Erin, who throws up her hands and shakes her head. “I’m so over this card game thing,” she says, pushing her chair back from the kitchen table. “Anyway, aren’t they supposed to be in bed by now?”

  “Half an hour ago,” Jen tells her, looking at the clock on the stove. “Okay, guys, let’s clean up the cards and get ready for bed.”

  “But you promised we could play another game of Uno!” Michaela protests.

  “That was the other game,” Jen points out. “We played four times. You guys aren’t even supposed to be up. It’s getting really late. Let’s go.”

  The twins hold their ground, sitting side by side in their pink pajamas, arms folded in identical stubborn refusal.

  “What about our story?” Michaela asks.

  Mackenzie pounces on that, chiming in, “We want a story!”

  Jen sighs. “I’ll read to you in bed if you both get upstairs now and brush your teeth. Okay?”

  “Two stories?” Mackenzie negotiates.

  “Two short ones. But only if you move it! Go!”

  The girls run up the stairs, leaving Jen to stack the Uno cards while Erin wanders over to the television set in the living room.

  “You think there’s anything good on Pay Per View?”

  “We can’t order Pay Per View,” Jen informs her, slipping the cards into the game box.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have Erin over here while she’s babysitting. She was so spooked by the idea of being alone tonight after finding out about what happened to Robby, but she probably should have checked with Mrs. Gattinski, first.

  She actually meant to do just that, but Mrs. Gattinski seemed like she was in such a hurry to leave. And anyway, Jen wasn’t sure Erin would really show up.

  “Oh, look, Jen, that Colin Farrell movie is starting. Why can’t we order it?”

  “Erin, come on. We can’t.”

  “I bet they won’t even notice it’s on the bill. He probably does it all the time.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Gattinski. You know, he probably orders all those disgusting porn movies.”

  “Erin! Shhh!” Jen turns toward the front hall, half-expecting to see the girls.

  “What? They can’t hear me. They went up.”

  “Are you sure? I thought I just heard something.” Jen tosses the cards into a drawer and walks into the hall.

  The stairway is deserted. She can hear the twins in the hall bathroom above, running water and giggling.

  Whatever she heard—and she isn’t even sure what it was, just a faint sound that made her think somebody was ther
e—must have been the house settling, or whatever it is that houses do.

  Or is that just old houses?

  Well, then, maybe it was just her imagination. No wonder she’s paranoid, between Robby’s death and now Erin talking about Mr. Gattinski in his own house. It’s not as if the walls have ears, but Jen can’t help feeling uncomfortable with that particular topic of conversation.

  Back in the kitchen, she finds Erin looking inside the refrigerator.

  “Erin! What are you doing?”

  “Looking for something to eat. My mother polished off all the good stuff at home. I swear, it’s like she’s suddenly a bulimic or something. All she’s been doing is cramming junk food down her throat.”

  “You’re kidding.” Jen has never seen Mrs. Hudson eat anything other than lettuce.

  “Nope. And she’s smoking again, too. Plus, I think she has a new boyfriend but when I asked her she wouldn’t admit it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s some married guy. Hey, maybe it’s Mr. Gattinski.”

  “Ew.”

  “Oh, come on, he’s cute. He’s just kind of—what was that?”

  “What was what?” Jen frowns at Erin, who’s poised with her hand on the door of the fridge, looking toward the front of the house.

  “That sound. You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Nope,” Erin says calmly, but her expression is uncertain.

  “Did you find out yet what happened to Robby?” Jen asks, now that the kids are out of earshot. It’s the first chance she’s had since Erin got here.

  “No, nobody knows anything. And I checked to see if it was on the news at six but it wasn’t.”

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  “Are you kidding? She’d just say I told you so.”

  “She told you he was going to die?”

  “God, no! She told me he was trouble. And so did you. But then you went and started seeing him.”

  “Yeah.” Jen shifts her weight uncomfortably. “I know.”

  “Why, Jen? Was it just because I liked him and you were pissed off at me, or what?”

  “No, it wasn’t that,” Jen tells her, feeling defensive. “It was just . . . I mean, he was the one who initiated it. And I don’t know . . . I guess there was just something about him . . .”