“Winston, where are you?” I attempt to sound non-threatening as I search under the bed and behind the dresser. I open Megan’s sliding closet door when I see it’s slightly cracked on one side. As I rummage around through shoes, books, and other items she hasn’t properly unpacked yet, I spot him. He looks like an escaped convict who has been hunted down by the Feds.
His beady eyes and twitchy nose seem almost apologetic, but what amazes me is that in a matter of hours he has managed to create an entire world in the corner of the closet. He has piles of food, both treats and regular food, and he has crafted a bed out of his crate bedding in the corner. How this fool thinks he will get water down here is beyond me, but I marvel at the speed and ingenuity that allowed him to do all of this while crawling in and out of his cage. I know they store things in their mouths, but how big could the inside of his mouth possibly be?
I need to grab him, but I fear for my fingers. I hunt around the room for something to use, and see a pair of winter gloves at the top of a box. I put those on and reach for the terrified creature. Surprisingly he is quite docile, and accepts his fate as I plop him back in his true home, and secure the escape hatch. We either need duct tape or a different cage set-up.
As I root around in the closet to clean up the mess, I realize there is also a fair amount of poop in there so I decide to grab the vacuum cleaner.
Right next to the makeshift rodent refugee camp I see a huge pile of notebooks that look like journals. I absolutely can’t read Megan’s journals. I sit on my hands in front of the closet to stifle the temptation. I hate snooping mothers, and I am not even her mother. Maybe if I just look at the covers to see if that gives me a clue. They could be school notebooks.
I spy at the one on top, and read the cover. Megan Kendrick. Poems & Lyrics Volume 27. Wow. Doesn’t sound like a journal? It wouldn’t hurt to just read a little bit. It’s probably just schoolwork.
I slowly reach in and grab the top notebook, and place the pink volume on my lap. I listen closely to make sure I don’t hear anyone else moving about in the house, but if I’m caught I have the hamster poop alibi. That is rock solid. The poop and the alibi. I also have my measuring tape, which I was going to use to measure the walls for art placement.
As I begin reading the pages of Megan’s poetry, I am shocked. This girl is getting C’s in school? Even in English? Her words are as beautiful and haunting as her mother’s paintings. Is she talking about a boy? Or her mother?
I just don’t know which way to go
Up, down, left, right
Moonless, dark, can’t see the light
Trying to grasp reality
But something else is after me
I don’t know what to say
I can’t find my voice when you’re away.
Not black not white, my world turned grey.
I can’t think straight when you’re away
Don’t know what to do
Since there’s no you
I want to grasp reality
But I’m cut too deep, I start to bleed
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know what to do
Since there’s no more you
Apparently, Jeff told Steve that Megan has fucked up her chance at college, but it’s just as well because he has no money. Even if that’s true, she can go to community college for two years and raise her GPA, and get into a good four-year school. And the car in the garage can pay for that. She has no guidance. This Jeff character must be a real birdbrain. It sounds like the triplets have no chance with those two dopes. Based on Winston’s performance today, they probably couldn’t even handle hamster triplets. I peer at the offender, happily gnawing on a wooden stick, and shake my finger in warning. He twitches his nose.
I jump up to get the vacuum before I forget about the mess in the closet, placing Megan’s notebook carefully where I found it. I close the door behind me to protect the escapee should he make another attempt to foil the guards.
If Megan has talent and intelligence far beyond what her school performance indicates, I bet there is more evidence of that somewhere on the Internet. Kids these days have multiple social media platforms, some I have never heard of. Apparently Steve and I were featured on Snapchat the other day when Megan took a video of us freaking out while refereeing mealtime with Elsa and the cats. My antics were on display, and I would never have known.
I slip into my makeshift office, which is basically the art studio room with all the crap shoved to one side to make room for my computer, and pull up Facebook. Steve and I haven’t friended Megan on Facebook, but since he is on that site so infrequently, he doesn’t give it a moment’s thought. Gina informed me that kids do not like their parents visiting their social media sites, and we especially have to be careful how much we comment on posts or engage with their friends. It makes sense. I don’t even want my mother on my page, and I’m a grown woman.
Her picture is cute. It’s of her and Dylan smiling and goofing around. Her big profile picture is of her little half-brothers. I have never seen these children, and they are cute little guys. It’s nice to see that she loves her little brothers, even though their parents leave much to be desired.
Scrolling down, I see pictures of her new room and comments about the move. Nothing too negative. That’s good. Hmm, what’s this? Duolingo? Oh, that’s the foreign language app on the smartphones. Violet was showing it to me. They offer Dutch now, and she wanted me to learn it. Like I have time for that? And she speaks English, so I don’t see the return on investment.
Wow, Megan seems to be learning quite a few languages, but I don’t think she even took one in her junior year at school. French. Portuguese. Reminders of Luke abound. Irish? Wow. The posters in The Wild Banshee are completely incomprehensible. I guess Megan is dabbling due to her mom’s Irish heritage? Hungarian. What the hell? Dylan commented on that post, and apparently his grandmother speaks Hungarian, and Megan is trying to learn some words to be able to speak to her.
I close my laptop and tap the top with my fingertips. I hate to admit to snooping, although Winston led me to the notebook. What if he had knocked one open? I’m reaching, but I need to concoct a story to make sharing all of this with Steve seem like a good thing, and not like I’m being intrusive. And Facebook is a public site, and she hasn’t made her postings private.
Or maybe I shouldn’t tell Steve anything, and just talk to Megan. Most of the time talking to Steve is like trying to punch a hole in a brick wall with a ball of socks.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
“Rebecca, don’t kill me, but I have to tell you…there is nothing wrong with this house.” Violet draws her body back, and winces.
My mouth falls open and I choke back a gasp. “What? Are you kidding me?”
Violet wrings her hands and starts pacing, showing me all the things that are wonderful about the house. “It’s not your style, and I’m not sure it would be mine, either. It does look a bit like the Brady Bunch house, but remember Mike Brady was an architect.” She moves over to the couch and says, “And I probably wouldn’t have picked the orange couch, either, but all of this furniture is high end. For the most part, his taste is better than yours.”
“It’s not his taste, and there were multi-colored beads hanging between the kitchen and the dining room, like in a hippie massage parlor!” Violet’s quizzical stare causes me to add, “I don’t even know what that means, but you know what I mean. I hate everything in this house!”
Violet sits on the leather sofa and grimaces at the scratch marks. Wisely, she avoids mentioning my cats’ destruction of the “high-end furniture.”
She pats the sofa and I choose to sit on the black side chair instead. Equally uncomfortable, and adds to the Halloween look.
“You could start replacing these pieces with your furniture, but now that Luke has rented your place furnished…never mind. We need to get this party planned. Here’s a list I made of all the food and the costs. You’re still making the
cake?”
I bite the inside of my cheeks and respond, “Yes, I am going to make the cake. I have to do something. This party seemed like a much better idea a few months ago.” I pull my knees up to my chest, like a little girl. At least I’m not sucking my thumb yet.
Violet’s understanding nod accompanies her softer tone. “I do agree that the pictures are ridiculous. I’ve never lost anyone, either, but there has to be a way to be respectful of her memory and create a new home together. Maybe you should go to couples’ counseling.”
Oh my God, I’m going to end up in the fetal position if this conversation continues. I jump up and sit next to Violet, grabbing the list. “Let’s knock this out. I have the decorations, and I can order the keg of beer tomorrow.”
We finish up the party planning, and I walk Violet to the front door.
“Don’t worry, it will be a fun party, and when Steve sees how much effort you put into this, he’ll wise up and—”
We both freeze as the doorbell rings. I put a hand to my heart. “Shit, that scared me.”
Violet whispers, “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No, but it could be one of Megan’s friends. There was a girl here the other day looking for her.”
Violet steps back, and I peek out the corner of the living room window. It’s an older lady. Wearing a cream colored suit. She looks sleek, but grandmotherly. She must be from one of the local churches. There’s no harm in answering the door, plus Violet is trying to go home.
As I open the door, it hits me. It’s Grandma…
“Kathleen Callahan. Hello.” She shakes my hand before my brain can catch up with my pounding heart. Grandma Kathleen.
“Hello. I’m Rebecca.” I drop my sweaty hand and wipe it on my shorts.
“Yes, I gathered that. I’m Noreen’s mother. Is Steven in?” She peers behind the front door and Violet gives her a shy wave.
“Oh, I see you have company.” She looks Violet up and down.
“I was just leaving. I’m Violet.” She reaches out to shake Kathleen’s hand. She quickly grazes it and then dismisses Violet, who says goodbye and sprints to her car, the party list flapping in the wind.
I invite Kathleen in after I explain that Steve is in class.
She brusquely walks past me, carrying what appears to be a heavy shopping bag.
“Is my granddaughter here?”
“No, she’s out with her boyfriend. Would you like to sit down?” I gesture towards the couch, and see that the afghan was moved and the scratches are showing.
“That won’t be necessary. I am just dropping off some things for Noreen’s birthday.” She regards my confused expression, and says, “Steven celebrates his wife’s birthday every year. We don’t stop honoring occasions just because someone has passed.” She blesses herself. Oh my God, I am trapped with a grieving Irish Catholic mother. Suddenly, I am grateful we haven’t taken down the pictures. She might body slam me into the piano. I could probably take her, but she looks fierce.
I blink back my anger, and attempt to conceal my bewilderment.
“I didn’t know that was a family tradition. I can take the bag and give it to Steve when he gets home.”
She reluctantly hands it to me and begins walking all over the room, disappearing into the hallway.
Not sure whether I should follow her, or take the opportunity to see what’s in the bag, I choose the latter, while Kathleen’s voice booms all over the house. My hands are shaking as I rummage around in the bag. Photos of Noreen as a child. Birthday candles. A “4” and a “0.” I can’t say I understand a mother’s grief, but this lady needs to be carted away to the nuthouse.
I follow the voice and find Kathleen in the family room. She is looking out the window, and the animals are all laying in the yard. “Hmm, I see you have cats. Very destructive animals.” She turns to face me. “I am glad to see things are very much the same here. I’m sure you must want to make this place your own.”
I try to respond and she puts up her hand. “I am glad Steven has found some comfort, but take my advice. Don’t try to squash my daughter’s memory. It will backfire on you.”
“Mrs. Callahan, would like something to drink?” No matter how much I want to strangle this old lady, I can see that reasoning with her would be fruitless.
“I suppose some tea would be nice.”
I conceal my amazement that she plans on extending this visit, and I retreat to the kitchen. I hear her thundering voice. “I don’t suppose you’re Catholic. Steven isn’t, but at least he was a good husband. That first husband of hers was a piece of work. Scottish. Can you believe it?” She says this as if it’s the equivalent of being an axe murderer.
The tea kettle is on the stove, and I am back in the room now, watching Kathleen rant while perched on the edge of the sectional couch.
“Jeffrey was the one who got her hooked on the marijuana. Well, she wasn’t an addict, but I hated knowing that she was indulging in such a filthy habit.” She makes a disgusted face and I unexpectedly develop a new level of sympathy for Noreen. Considering it is impossible to become physically addicted to marijuana, it would be quite a feat. Maybe Kathleen missed the memo that it’s legal in three states now.
I excuse myself to prepare the tea, and bring it out on the Old Country Roses tea tray. At first I thought she would like to see me using Noreen’s things, but now I hope that doesn’t trigger a whole new rant.
I place the tea tray on the glass coffee table, and sit in the chair opposite the couch. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. Do you have other children?”
She stirs some sugar into her tea and replies, “Eight boys.”
My eyes pop and I blink rapidly. “You have eight other children.” Why didn’t Steve ever tell me this?
“Yes, Noreen was my youngest. My sons are all married, and they live all over the country. None of them here.” She waves her hands around to indicate their geographical dispersion. “None of them compare to Noreen. All a bunch of ungrateful boys, they are.”
I avoid asking about Mr. Callahan, partly because I want to get her out of the house, and partly because I am afraid to hear about the memorial rituals she practices for him. She might sleep with his ashes.
“Megan should be home soon.” With such a limited list of appropriate topics to draw from, I have inadvertently invited her to stay even longer. Sure, wait for Megan. Maybe you’d like to move in, too. I can on sleep on the porch with the cats.
“I can’t stay.” My shoulders drop in relief and I quickly mask my delight with a weak smile.
As I walk Kathleen to the door, promising to give Steve the bag, she says, “Did you happen to find a cross in the kitchen? It says ‘Noreen’s Kitchen’ on it?”
“Why, yes I did. Would you like to see it?”
“No, we can bring it out for the birthday celebration.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, which makes me think she senses Noreen is listening. “Truthfully, she didn’t like it. Hid it in a drawer. You girls. Your mothers try to give you pretty things and you break our hearts. Do you do that to your mother?”
I assure her that I don’t, and I will make sure Steve gets in touch with her.
“Thank you.” She stands in the doorway and surveys the house as she leaves. Breathing in deeply, she says, “The house is in good order. I still feel her presence here.”
With that, I usher her outside and slam the door.
I run to the backyard and fling myself on the hammock, kicking my feet. Elsa comes over to lick me and the cats jump up on their distraught mommy.
How can it be that the child is the only sane person in this family? No wonder Megan asked about Grandma Kathleen being invited to the art show. She probably feared the embarrassment of her attending, as well the wrath that would be incurred when she discovered she was excluded.
In an effort to regain my sanity, I come back in the house and put on my sneakers. “Come on, Elsa. We’re going for a walk to
work the crazy out of my head.” She romps along with her tongue hanging out, not a care in the world.
As we walk out the door, I stiffen. Are you here, Noreen? I spot the shopping bag on the couch and let the door slam.
A couple of hours later, while relaxing in the bath tub, I hear Steve. “Hello? Is anybody home?”
I rise from the tub, dry myself off and put on a bathrobe. My hair is soaking wet, so I wrap it up in a towel and head to the foyer.
“Hello, Love. Were you enjoying a nice soak in the tub?” Steve pulls me into a hug, and stiffens. I follow his eyes to the items on the coffee table. The fortieth birthday candles, framed photos of Noreen, a large crucifix, a prayer book, and holy water. I have never attended a birthday party for a dead person, so this ritual should be interesting.
I fold my arms across my chest and wait for Steve to address the odd collection of objects.
He stoops his shoulders, and mutters, “Fuck.” He sits on the orange couch and picks up each object, shaking his head. “I take it you met Noreen’s mother?”
“I certainly did. We had tea and a nice conversation about Noreen’s upcoming fortieth birthday, and about how you both like to celebrate such occasions.”
“Rebecca, stop. Do you see why I didn’t invite her to the art show? She might have knelt before Noreen’s paintings in prayer. She’s not right in the head.”
“Well, I gathered that much. So, you’re not going to celebrate Noreen’s birthday? What about Megan?”
“I don’t think Megan and her grandmother are on the same page. I can’t believe you thought I had anything to do with this.”
“What am I supposed to think?”
“Noreen was a bit of a nut, okay? Her mother is a nut, too. Lots of people fall in love with nuts. And now I have a chance to be happy with someone who isn’t a nut, and you’re acting like a nut!” He jumps up and motions wildly. “I don’t care if you throw out every last thing in this house. I’ll go live in the woods in a tent. Every woman in my life is driving me fucking crazy!” The veins in his temples are throbbing and he’s breathless.
Afraid of Her Shadow Page 31
