by Liz Moore
—What’s wrong, Mama, says Thomas as I tear around the kitchen.
—I can’t find the beaters, I say.
I’ve been having moments lately where I feel that Thomas’s childhood is speeding past too quickly, that it should be better in all ways than mine was. Baking, I will think, frantically; Thomas has never baked anything. And I’ll run to the store.
Today, we’re making brownies, but the thing is that I’ve never made brownies before, and the first batch is already ruined, burned to a crisp. (Dutifully, loyally, Thomas crunches one in his jaws and pronounces it good.)
* * *
—
The second batch is better.
But the brownie fiasco makes us late, and I hustle us to the car and then drive to Olney more quickly than I should.
* * *
—
Growing up, Kacey and I were very close to our cousin Ashley. Her mother, Lynn, is Gee’s youngest sibling, born almost two decades after Gee, closer in age to our mother than to our grandmother. Lynn and Ashley lived right down the block from us, and Ashley went to the same parish school we did, Holy Redeemer, until Kacey got the two of us kicked out. Ashley had a baby young, at nineteen, which didn’t surprise anyone except her mother, Lynn, who had blinders on when it came to the nonsense her daughter was getting into. But I give Ashley credit: She got her life together after that. She went to night school while her mother watched the baby, then got her nursing degree. In her mid-twenties, she met and married a man named Ron, who works construction, and they had three more babies three years in a row, and then moved to Olney, to a larger house with a very tiny backyard.
I don’t mind Ashley. In some ways I even see in her a version of how Kacey’s life could have gone: They’re the same age, and have the same taste in music and fashion, and the same wicked sense of humor. They were part of the same group growing up. Of all the O’Briens, I probably miss Ashley the most, and have even tried to reach out to her on several occasions. But like me, Ashley is very busy with children and work, and mainly my calls have gone unreturned.
* * *
—
It’s hard to find parking. When, at last, we reach the house, I can hear from the stoop a high din of voices. I picture, on the other side of the door, a living room full of people I haven’t seen in years.
There is a particular insult that the O’Briens often use to describe people they don’t like: She thinks she’s better than us. Over the years, I fear that it has been used about me.
Standing there on the threshold of Ashley’s house, my childhood shyness returns to me. Thomas, sensing this, clutches my leg. He is holding, behind his back, the rolled picture he made for Ashley. The tray of brownies in my hands wobbles.
I open the door.
Inside are the O’Briens, talking, shouting, eating off red plastic plates. The drinkers have beers in their hands. The sober ones have Cokes and Sprites. The house smells like cinnamon and turkey.
Everyone pauses and stares at us. Some of them nod, sort of formally; two brave souls, older cousins, come over and give us hugs. Gee’s younger brother, my uncle Rich, is there. He notices me and waves. He’s with a wife or girlfriend I’ve never met. There’s my cousin Lennie, and Lennie’s daughter, about ten years younger than I am. I can’t remember her name. A little bunch of children runs past the doorway, and Thomas looks at them longingly but stays close to my leg.
Ashley, coming up from the basement, spots me and stops in her tracks.
—Mickey? she says from across the room. She’s holding two beers in her hands.
—Hi, I say. I hope it’s all right that we came. I found out at the last minute that I didn’t have to work today.
I extend the brownies out to her. An offering.
Ashley recovers her manners.
—Of course, she says. Come on in.
My hands are full. With a knee, I gently nudge Thomas forward, into the house. He steps over the threshold, and I follow.
Ashley crosses the room, then stands still in front of me. She looks down at Thomas. You got so big, she says.
Thomas is silent. I see him begin to produce the poster board he is holding, and then, changing his mind, he tucks it away again.
—How can I help? I ask, at the same time that Ashley says, Is your grandmother coming?
—I don’t think so, I say.
Ashley nods toward the kitchen. We’re good, she says. Get some food. I’ll be back in one second.
A little boy, five or six years old, comes up to Thomas and asks him if he likes army guys, and Thomas says yes, though I’m not sure he knows what they are.
Then they’re gone, to the basement, where from the sounds of it a war is taking place.
Everyone else has gone back to talking.
As always, at O’Brien family functions, I am alone.
For a while, I wander through Ashley’s house, trying to look casual. I see why they moved to Olney: the houses up here are older and bigger, about twice as wide as the rowhome I grew up in. It’s nothing fancy, and the street it’s on isn’t pretty, but I can see why a family of six would want a house like this. The furniture is run-down, and the walls are mainly bare, except, surprisingly, for crucifixes above the thresholds of each room, in the manner of a Catholic grade school. It seems like Ashley’s found religion in recent years.
I nod at some people and say hello to others. Awkwardly, I return hugs when they’re offered. I don’t particularly enjoy being hugged. When we were children, it was Kacey who kept me sane at these events. I would stick by her side as she skillfully navigated any party, fending off teasing and insults or returning them smoothly, but always with a laugh. As young teenagers, we typically found a corner and sat in it together, eating our food, making eye contact with one another whenever any one of our family members said or did something absurd, and then exploding into secret laughter. We saved up stories to trade with one another for days afterward, categorized our relatives with the cruelty and creativity unique to teenage girls.
I cannot shake a particular image as I round each corner: it’s of what my sister would be like, today, if her life had gone differently. I imagine her as she has been on the rare occasions in her adult life that she has been well: drinking a soda, holding somebody’s baby, crouching on the floor beside some little cousin. Petting a dog. Playing with a child.
* * *
—
I walk through a back door onto a chilly lawn, bordered by a wooden fence that separates it from adjacent lots.
And there he is: my cousin Bobby, smoking a cigarette, standing between his brother and another one of our cousins.
When he sees me, he blinks.
—Hey, there she is, says Bobby as I approach.
He’s gotten heavier since the last time I saw him. He was about six-three to begin with. He’s four years older than I am, and has always intimidated me. When we were small, he used to chase Kacey and me around the basements of O’Brien households with various weapon-like objects, to Kacey’s delight and my terror.
Today he has a beard and wears a Phillies cap, cocked up to one side. His brother John, to his right, and our cousin Louie, to his left, regard me without much emotion. I wonder, in fact, if they even recognize me.
This morning, I carefully considered what to wear, wondering whether it would behoove me to dress up a little in order to show my respect for the occasion, or whether this would further convince the O’Briens that I’m in some way snobbish or strange. In the end, I decided on my standard off-duty uniform: gray pants that are fitted but not tight, and a white button-down shirt, and flat shoes that are good for walking. I brushed my hair into a ponytail and put on small silver earrings in the shape of crescent moons. They were a gift from Simon on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday, and for this reason I have been tempted to throw them away on a number of occasions, but they are so pret
ty that I never have. I don’t have much jewelry. It would be a shame, I think, to throw out something I find beautiful, simply out of spite.
—How you doing, sweetie, says Bobby, when I’ve crossed the small lawn. His voice is sugary.
—Not bad, I say. How are you?
—Doing really good, says Bobby, and the other two murmur something similar.
Everyone drags on cigarettes.
—Can you spare one? I say. I haven’t smoked a cigarette in years—not since I was with Simon, who smoked socially. Occasionally, I would join him.
Bobby fumbles with his pack, jerkily. I watch all of his movements. Is he breathing more quickly than he should be? Maybe it’s just the cold. I don’t know what Bobby’s reasons are for avoiding my texts about Kacey, but there is something in his demeanor today that strikes me as nervous.
I consider asking him if I can talk to him in private briefly, but I fear that might put him on guard. Instead, as lightly as I can, I say, You know, I’ve been texting you.
—I know, says Bobby. He holds out the pack, one cigarette loose. I take it.
—I know, he says again. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve been asking around.
He holds out a lighter and I stand in front of it, breathing until it catches.
—Thanks, I say. Have you heard anything about her?
Bobby shakes his head. I haven’t, he says. John and Louie look at him.
—Sister’s missing, he says, tilting his head in my direction. Kacey.
—Shit, says John. He’s older than Bobby, smaller. I’ve never known him well. He seemed like a grown-up when we were kids. I’ve heard around the neighborhood that John’s part of the same bad scene that Bobby is.
—Man, I’m sorry to hear that, John says. I study him.
—Thanks, I say again. When’s the last time you talked to her? I say to Bobby.
Bobby looks skyward, miming thought. Probably . . . he says. Jeez, Mickey, I don’t know. I probably seen her around the neighborhood here and there, maybe even last month. But the last time I actually talked to her has to be more than a year ago.
—Okay, I say.
We all take drags. It’s cold out. Everyone’s nose is red.
Historically, at O’Brien family functions, the subject of addiction is not mentioned. Many people in our family use. Kacey is an extreme example, but other members of the family partake to varying degrees. Though it’s talked around—I heard Jackie’s doing better; Yeah, she is—it is considered impolite to use specific language, reference specific problems or episodes. Today, I ignore these rules.
—Who’s been dealing to her lately? I ask Bobby.
He frowns. He looks, for a moment, genuinely wounded.
—Aw, come on, Mick, he says.
—What? I say.
—You know I’m not into that stuff anymore.
—I do? I say.
John and Louie shift.
—How can I be sure? I say.
—Just have to trust me, he says.
I drag on my cigarette. I could, I say. Or I could trust your arrest record, which I can bring up on my phone right now, if you’d like.
I’m surprised at myself. I’m crossing lines left and right, now. Being reckless. A cloud passes over Bobby’s face. I don’t actually have access to his arrest record on my phone. He doesn’t know that.
—Look, he says, but before he can continue, we hear a voice I recognize immediately. Gee used to say it sounded like a foghorn.
—Is that Mickey? asks my aunt Lynn. Ashley’s mother. Is that you, Mickey?
And for a moment the conversation is derailed. I turn toward Lynn and pretend to listen while she demands to know where I’ve been all these years, and talks about how the world is crazy, and tells me she hopes I’m being safe at work.
—How’s your grandmom? says Lynn.
Before I can respond, she continues: I saw her a couple weeks ago. She came to the birthday party Ashley threw for me. It was nice. I’m fifty-five, can you believe that?
I nod along as Lynn talks about Ashley, about how Ashley made a carrot cake that day, about how she doesn’t like cream cheese frosting so Ashley put vanilla on it. But all of my senses are directed to my left, where my three cousins are still standing, shifting in place slightly, exchanging glances that I can’t interpret. Louie whispers something I can’t hear, and Bobby nods his head ever so slightly.
Simon used to laugh at me: he always knew when I wasn’t fully listening to what he was saying, distracted by someone else’s conversation going on nearby. You’re so nosy, he’d say, and I never disagreed. My strong peripheral vision and my ability to eavesdrop are both skills that have served me well on the street.
Someone goes by carrying a serving platter, and Lynn departs, as abruptly as she arrived, without saying goodbye.
—Let me take that for you, she calls, in her brassy voice, and then she’s gone.
Slowly, I turn back to my cousins, who have moved on to a new topic of conversation, everyone’s favorite in Philadelphia: it’s the Eagles’ unexpected winning streak, and their odds of a shot at the Super Bowl. When I look at them, they go quiet again.
—One more question, I say. Before she disappeared, she was seeing a man named Connor. I don’t know his last name. But I think his nickname is Dock.
It isn’t subtle, the way everyone’s expressions change.
—No fuckin’ way, says Louie, under his breath.
—Are you familiar with him? I say, but the question has become rhetorical, because it’s endlessly clear that they are.
Bobby is looking at me very seriously now.
—When did they get together, he says. How long were they together?
—I’m not sure, I say. I don’t know how serious they were. I know they were together as of August.
Bobby is shaking his head.
—That guy is no fuckin’ good, he says. He’s trouble.
A little murmur of agreement from my other cousins. I pause.
—In what way, I say.
Bobby shrugs. What do you think, he says.
Then he says, Listen. I’m gonna try to find out more for you, okay? You know I’m not into that stuff anymore, he says, but I still have my people.
I nod. I see in his expression that he will take his mission seriously. That Kacey, in his mind, is family, and protecting her is his new purpose.
—Thank you, I say.
—No problem, says Bobby.
He holds my gaze meaningfully. Then turns away.
Inside again, I search for Thomas for a long time—so long, in fact, that I begin to worry. Ashley walks by and I touch her shoulder, making her whirl so abruptly that she spills her wine.
—I’m so sorry, I say, but I can’t find Thomas. Have you seen him?
—Upstairs, says Ashley.
I walk up the staircase, covered in thin flat carpet, and stand in the hallway for a moment. One by one, I open all the doors: a bathroom, a closet, a room with two single beds that must be shared by Ashley’s two younger boys. Another, decorated in shades of purple, with an italic C on the wall, is for Chelsea, Ashley’s only daughter. A third seems to be Ashley’s oldest son’s.
Ashley and Ron’s room is the one I walk into last. A radiator clanks in the corner, giving off the not-unpleasant smell of warm dust. In the center of the room is a canopy bed, and on the wall next to it is a picture. In it, Jesus holds the hands of two young children. All three figures stand on a road that leads to a shimmering body of water.
Walk with me, it says, beneath Jesus’s feet.
* * *
—
I am still contemplating this picture when I hear the faintest rustle emanating from the closet to my right.
I walk toward it and open the door. There is my son, hiding with two oth
er boys, playing Sardines, apparently.
—Shhhhhhh, they say, in unison.
Okay, I mouth, closing the door, retreating quietly from the room.
* * *
—
Downstairs again, I make a heaping plate of food from the buffet table. Then I stand alone in the living room, eating it ungracefully, guiltily, glancing up from time to time at a TV that’s on in the corner, displaying the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Around me is a din of voices I haven’t heard since childhood, all of them rising and falling together. We are related, loosely, connected by limbs of a family tree that in recent years has atrophied, decayed. Near me, an older cousin, Shane, is telling a story about how much he won at SugarHouse last night. He coughs outrageously. He reaches over his own shoulder to scratch his back.
Ashley comes into the living room then with Ron. Her four children shuffle in behind her, clearly following orders.
She says, Hey, everyone? Hey!
No one shuts up, so Ron puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.
I’m in the middle of lifting my fork to my mouth. Self-consciously, I lower it.
—Aw, here we go, says Shane. Time for church.
Ashley shoots him a glance. Now, look, she says. We won’t keep you long. But we just wanted to say we love you guys. And we also wanted to give thanks for all of us being able to be together today.
Ron takes her hand and his children, behind him, join hands too.
—If you don’t mind, says Ron, we’re just going to say grace.
I glance around. Everyone looks skeptical. The O’Briens are Catholic, if we’re anything. We’re varying degrees of religious: Some of my older aunts go to mass multiple times a week. Many of my younger cousins don’t go at all. I usually take Thomas at Easter, at Christmas, and whenever I’m feeling low. And at no childhood Thanksgiving, in my recollection, did the O’Briens ever say grace.
Ron is praying now, bald head bowed, and the room is silent. The substantial muscles in his arms are tense with feeling. He gives thanks for the food we are about to consume and for the family who’s with us here today and the family members who have already passed. He gives thanks for their house and their jobs and for their children. He gives thanks for the leaders of the country and prays that they may continue to do their job to the best of their ability. I don’t know Ron well—I’ve probably met him four times in the years he and Ashley have been married, including once at their wedding—but he strikes me as a firm person, hardworking, no-nonsense, someone with very definite opinions about everything that he’ll share with you if you give him an opening. He’s from Delco, which—though it’s just over the border from Southwest Philadelphia—makes him an outsider, and lends him an exotic quality that causes the O’Briens to afford him a certain amount of respect but also, I imagine, to mistrust him slightly.
