All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Which is why he’s now happily engaged in excavating what should have been a flower garden in full bloom. Last fall, she’d dug up this wide patch of earth at the back of the yard, planning to fill it with snapdragons and cosmos and petunias, like her mother had always done. But by the time spring arrived and the annuals would have been ready to put in, she’d thought better of gardening.

  Her doctor had warned that it was possible to pick up the disease toxoplasmosis from soil that’s frequented by cats. It isn’t usually serious unless someone is pregnant, since it can cause birth defects in infants. Knowing that the Wasners’ cats are always using her yard as a litter box, Michelle had decided not to take chances.

  When she’d mentioned it to Lou, he’d told her she should start chasing Ralphi and Sebastian away from their yard, anyway. “I can’t stand those damn animals always coming around here,” he’d said, and added, as if she didn’t know, “After all, I’m allergic.”

  “Treasure, Mommy!” Ozzie says, jabbing his little orange shovel into the surprisingly deep hole he’s managed to create.

  “That’s right, Ozzie, you’re digging for treasure.” She finishes folding the magazine page and uses it as a makeshift fan, waving it in front of her sweat-­dampened face.

  Later, she’ll take Ozzie over to Carvel for ice cream. The place is air-­conditioned, and she wouldn’t mind a hot fudge sundae.

  Might as well take advantage of this pregnancy while it lasts, she tells herself, knowing she’ll have to diet like crazy to get all this weight off once the baby’s born.

  It seems like all she’s done these past few days is sit around and eat everything in sight—­except, of course, those corn nuts, no matter what Lou thinks.

  As far as Michelle is concerned, they just vanished from the cupboard, a thought that is so troubling it kept her awake most of the night while Lou snored peacefully beside her.

  Could someone possibly have broken into their house, not once, but twice, and stolen food from the kitchen cupboards?

  Bizarre as it seems, Michelle is really starting to believe it—­in part because the only other remotely plausible explanation for the missing corn nuts and crackers is that she’s losing her mind.

  She turns her attention back to her magazine, flipping through to see if there are any other articles she wants to read before she tosses it into the recycling bin. Nope, not really. The only other piece pertaining to the mother of a two-­year-­old is one entitled, “How to Tame Your Toddler’s Temper,” by Dr. Electra Van Dyke, presumably a child psychologist.

  “Treasure, Mommy!” Ozzie says excitedly, pounding his shovel into the dirt. It makes a dull sound, scraping against a rock or something.

  “Mmm hmm.” She closes the magazine again and absently brushes her bangs away from her damp forehead, wondering when this heat wave is ever going to break. She caught this morning’s weather forecast on television, and temperatures are supposed to stay in the high nineties over the weekend, though there’s a chance of a thunderstorm tonight that might cool things down.

  “Help, Mommy,” Ozzie says urgently, tossing his shovel aside and digging in the dirt with his chubby bare hands.

  “No, don’t do that, Ozzie. You’re going to get filthy,” Michelle says wearily, getting out of her lawn chair and bending to pull him back from the dirt. “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up and go to Carvel.”

  “No!” He stomps his little blue sandals and screws up his face in fury, brewing another tantrum. “Treasure, Mommy! Treasure there!”

  “We’ll dig for treasure again tomorrow,” she quickly promises, knowing that of course he’ll hold her to it. For a two-­year-­old, he has an amazing memory.

  Unlike his mom, she thinks as she makes her way toward the house, pulling a protesting Ozzie along.

  Did I eat those damn corn nuts and forget? Did I eat the crackers and forget? Am I going to open the freezer tomorrow and find an entire roasting chicken or a half-­gallon of ice cream missing, too?

  She sighs and drags Ozzie to the kitchen sink to scrub the dirt from his hands, taking Dr. Electra Van Dyke’s advice and pointedly ignoring his ear-­splitting wails about the buried treasure in the backyard.

  Rory hears Ozzie Randall’s angry screams coming through the screens for the second time this morning. She smiles faintly. He must be a handful, that kid. You’ve got to hand it to Michelle, dealing with him when she’s so hugely pregnant and the weather is sticky enough to make anyone cranky. And her husband never seems to be around. Rory glimpsed him leaving earlier, apparently headed for his office, since he had a briefcase in one hand and a commuter mug of coffee in the other.

  Michelle’s husband is handsome in a cute businessman kind of way—­a look that has never particularly appealed to Rory. She doesn’t remember Lou Randall from her childhood, since he’s got to be about ten years older than she is, and was an only child. She knows that his family, like Michelle’s, is from Lake Charlotte. She vaguely remembers that Lou’s mother was married to the Connollys’ dentist, Dr. Murray Overman, who died not long after recommending that an adolescent Rory get braces.

  She never did. Her parents couldn’t afford it, a fact that really bothered her father, who kept promising her that someday they’d have enough money to get her to an orthodontist.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy, I’m fine,” she used to tell him. Sometimes it did bother her when Carleen teased her about her teeth, but she told herself she really didn’t want a mouthful of metal, anyway.

  To this day, every time she looks in the mirror, her gaze zeroes in on the slight gap between her front teeth. She kind of likes the way it looks now. It gives her face character.

  See, Daddy? It turned out okay.

  Setting her empty coffee cup in the sink, Rory walks into the hallway and stands at the foot of the stairs, listening.

  No sound from above.

  Molly is, if not sound asleep, still shut in her room.

  And Mom left for morning mass a little while ago, right on time and betraying not a hint of the tumultuous drama that had taken place in the wee hours.

  Rory wonders if Maura even remembers what happened. Maybe she’s managed to shut it out, somehow.

  She needs help, Rory thinks, returning to the kitchen and picking up the telephone. She needs help, and I’ve got to get it for her.

  She reaches into the pockets of her cut-­off jean shorts and pulls out the scrap of paper with the phone number of St. Lucretia’s Rectory in Buffalo. Swiftly, she dials the number, keeping one eye on the hallway in case Molly or her mother should suddenly appear.

  “Good morning. St. Lucretia’s.”

  “Good morning. I’d like to speak to Sister Theodosia, please.”

  “Whom may I ask is calling?”

  That’s a good sign. The other day when Rory asked for the nun, the receptionist had immediately said she wasn’t there.

  “This is Rory Connolly. I’m . . . an old friend.”

  “Just a moment.”

  A click, and Rory is on hold.

  She rinses out her coffee cup while she waits, then wanders nervously around the kitchen, anxiously picking things up, examining them absently, and putting them down.

  A chipped crock full of wooden spoons.

  A vaguely familiar, clumsily woven potholder she or Carleen must have made in elementary school.

  A dusty bud vase that’s most likely never held a cut flower.

  Another click, and then a clipped voice is saying, “Hello?”

  “Sister Theodosia?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me—­Rory. I tried to reach you the other day—­”

  “I was away. How are you, Rory?” There’s no warmth in her tone, not the slightest hint of genuine curiosity behind the perfunctory inquiry.

  “I’m fine,” Rory replies, trying to think of the best way to b
ring up the subject of her mother. Whatever she had planned to say has left her, and she finds herself fumbling for the right words.

  “You’re home in Lake Charlotte, then?”

  Startled, Rory asks, “How did you know that?”

  “Your mother and I do keep in touch. She must have mentioned that you were coming.”

  For some reason, Rory can’t imagine her mother and Sister Theodosia having a normal, old-­fashioned chat. She has no idea what they’ve ever spoken about when they’re alone together, but she realizes now that she must have assumed theirs isn’t an ordinary friendship. What had she been thinking? That they merely recited prayers together? Of course they would catch up on each other’s lives. That’s what old friends do.

  “Speaking of my mother,” Rory turns her attention back to the matter at hand, “I’m worried about her, Sister.”

  “Why?”

  Again, the question is cursory. Not a hint of concern or emotion.

  “Mom is acting very strangely, Sister. I think she’s lost touch with reality.”

  “In what way?”

  Taken aback, Rory fumbles. “She’s just . . . odd. It’s like she’s not all there, most of the time. She’s lost in her thoughts—­”

  “Introspection is hardly a sin, Rory. And perhaps she’s lost in prayer.”

  “But—­I think she’s seeing things. Hearing things. She keeps talking to my father—­it’s like she thinks he’s actually here with her.”

  “Some would say that our faith is built on mysticism, Rory. Our Bible is filled with scripture about men and women who were considered crazed by those who didn’t believe.”

  Rory blinks. “But—­this has nothing to do with religion, Sister.”

  “For a woman as pure of conviction as your mother is, everything has to do with religion.”

  Frustrated, Rory bursts out, “Mom just isn’t right, Sister. She’s lost her mind. I know you’ve seen her recently. You must have noticed.”

  There’s silence, and then Sister Theodosia asks, with that same irritating composure, “What is it that you’d like me to do, Rory?”

  “I don’t know,” Rory says, realizing it was a mistake to have called.

  She’s about to tell the nun to forget about it when she says, “I can come to see her, if that’s what you’d like.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I know you’re busy—­”

  “I’m in the middle of a two-­week vacation. I’m free to travel if I wish.”

  It figures that she’s spending the time right there in the rectory, Rory thinks grumpily. She can’t quite imagine the nun embarking on a vacation.

  An image pops into her head.

  Sister Theodosia on water skis, wearing her habit and that perpetual prune-­faced expression.

  Rory finds herself grinning.

  “Lake Charlotte is less than five hours from here. I can be there late tonight.”

  “You don’t have to come, Sister,” Rory says again, wondering what she’s gone and started.

  “No, you wouldn’t have called unless you needed me. I’ve always been there for your family, Rory. Always.”

  “Thank you, Sister. I knew I could count on you,” Rory says without a trace of sincerity.

  “Good-­bye.”

  There’s a click in her ear, and she realizes the nun has abruptly hung up.

  What a character, she thinks, replacing the phone and sighing.

  But at least I won’t have to deal with Mom alone. At least someone else can see how crazy she is.

  And as for Molly . . .

  With a sigh, Rory heads for the stairs to deal with Problem Number Two.

  The mail has arrived earlier than usual today, he realizes, stopping at the box in front of the town house on his way out for his ritual Saturday-­morning stroll through the quiet, upscale Back Bay neighborhood. Usually the mail doesn’t get here until early afternoon on Saturdays.

  He pauses to flip with patient disinterest through the stack of bills, catalogues, and grocery store circulars. On the bottom of the pile is a plain manilla envelope, addressed to him.

  There’s no return address, but his gut twists when he glances at the postmark.

  Lake Charlotte, New York.

  With suddenly trembling hands, he tears open the envelope, barely registering the scrawled note on the letterhead of an Albany detective agency.

  Here are the latest, taken just this week—­an interesting development is all it says.

  He moves the letter aside, along with the agency’s enclosed monthly bill, and focuses his gaze on the photos.

  They’re slightly blurry and taken from a distance, and it’s clear the subjects were utterly unaware of the cameraman’s presence.

  The first shows a familiar, dark-­haired adolescent sitting on a bench with another girl, chatting with a grinning boy on a bike.

  Molly.

  She has a crush on the boy. That’s obvious from the nervous smile on her face, from the please-­like-­me plea in her eyes, which is plainly evident even from the photographer’s distance. The other girl, he recognizes as Rebecca, her best friend from a few doors down Hayes Street.

  The next picture shows a pretty redhead standing in the side yard of a house he knows too well. She’s covered in paint, engaged in what appears to be an animated conversation with a pregnant woman and toddler on the other side of the honeysuckle hedge.

  Rory.

  She’s come home.

  He lets out a shaky sigh and tucks the pictures back into the envelope before returning to the town house, his morning walk forgotten.

  “Molly?”

  Rory’s voice drifts through the bedroom door, accompanied by a staccato knock.

  “Are you all right in there?”

  Molly, lying on her bed staring at the ceiling, fully clothed in the shorts and T-­shirt she’d worn to the party last night, doesn’t reply.

  “Molly? Are you asleep?”

  “Yes.” She turns her head toward the wall and closes her eyes. “Go away,” she orders, thinking that if her sister dares to open her door, she’ll . . .

  She doesn’t know what she’ll do, but she sure as hell won’t allow Rory to just barge in on her like that.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I said, I’m sleeping!” she calls through clenched teeth.

  “Okay.”

  Rory’s footsteps retreat back down the hall, and a moment later, she hears her sister going downstairs.

  No.

  Not her sister.

  Her aunt.

  This whole thing is so sick, Molly thinks, rolling onto her stomach and holding tightly to her damp pillow. She sees that the pink-­checkered pillowcase is smeared with black, and for a moment she’s bewildered. Then she remembers the eye makeup, and how she spent the entire night sobbing uncontrollably, holding the pillow against her face so that no one would hear.

  She has never been so miserable in her entire life.

  Never been so alone.

  And just last night, she had thought she had never been happier. After they’d both pretended to drink their beers—­she had never tasted anything so bitter and disgusting in her life, and was pretty certain Ryan found it equally loathsome—­Ryan had asked her to go for a walk on the beach. He’d held her hand, and he probably would have kissed her if Andy Chase didn’t pop up to ask if he was ready to leave yet.

  “Not yet,” Ryan had said, then asked Molly, “Can you stay out awhile longer?”

  “Sure,” she’d naturally replied, not caring that it was well past midnight.

  “Good. My parents are out of town and my brother’s supposed to be watching me but he’s got his girlfriend over and he doesn’t care when I get home. As far as he’s concerned, the later I stay out, the better.”

 
Molly thought she would die from pure bliss when he asked her if she had a boyfriend, and he said, “That’s great” when she told him she didn’t. He gave her a ride home on the handlebars of his bike, pedaling with expert balance and ease through the deserted streets of Lake Charlotte. And when he waved to her from the glow of the streetlight, she heard him call softly, “I’ll see you real soon, okay, Molly?”

  The sound of her name on his lips had been dreamily echoing in her mind when she slipped into the house and started to steal upstairs.

  Then Rory had crashed into her reverie, effectively shattering her joyous mood even before she’d dropped that bombshell.

  Molly was still reeling from Rory’s revelation, knowing that as long as she lives, she’ll never fully recover from the shock.

  Her whole life has been a lie.

  She flips onto her back again, her eyes settling on the intricate network of cracks and water stains on the ceiling, patterns she now knows by heart. She had, after all, watched each line become visible as the dawn light crept slowly in earlier, as the sound of a car moving slowly along Hayes Street drifted up through the screen. She had realized it was the newspaper delivery van, tossing editions of the Foothill Gazette onto every porch on the block, except the Connollys’. They’ve never bothered to subscribe to the local daily paper.

  Why does my family have to be so weird? Molly wonders miserably now. It isn’t fair.

  There’s no one I can even confide in, she thinks miserably, realizing the burden of the news might be a little less devastating if she could at least share it.

  But Kevin is gone, and Rebecca isn’t speaking to her, and that about covers the ­people she trusts in this world.

  Everyone leaves, she thinks morosely, swallowing hard around a lump in her throat.

  Carleen.

  Daddy.

  Kevin.

  Even Mom—­she might be here physically, but she’s totally escaped into another world, and that might be worse than actually taking off, the way Kevin did.

  Of course, Daddy couldn’t help leaving. He’s dead.

  And Carleen—­well, who knows what happened to her?

  Not that it matters, Molly thinks bitterly. Carleen was never there for me, even when she was around. Rory came right out and said she didn’t want me—­that she wanted to have an abortion.