by Tracey Lange
“Okay. I’ll come home.”
A certain comfort came with making the commitment. She couldn’t back out after that.
The instant Denny had mentioned the idea of going home, there’d been a lifting in her chest. And even while she argued with him part of her wondered if it was possible. The truth was—and she hadn’t seen this coming—she didn’t want to say no. When she had woken up in that hospital room to see Denny standing there, his big solid presence filling and warming the space, a potent homesickness had hit. Listening to him talk about their father and brothers the last couple of days had only sharpened the ache.
But really it had started the morning of her accident, when she opened that email from Jackie to find a link to a local newspaper photo. It was a picture of Denny and Kale standing in front of their brand-new pub, big smiles on their faces. Denny sported his usual frat-tastic look—untucked button-down and cargo pants. Kale wore a T-shirt and jeans he might have picked up off the floor that morning. They were both close to six feet, but Kale wasn’t as thick as Denny. He was mindful appeal and softer edges to Denny’s raw charm and rough corners, in both appearance and manner. There was a large “Opening Soon” banner hanging above them and the caption read: Owners Denny Brennan and Kale Collins plan to offer Mamaroneck locals the same ambience and flavor of their popular first location in West Manor—which has won Best Local Pub in Westchester for two years running!
Only after reading the caption did Sunday let her eyes land on the other two faces in the photo, like her brain knew she needed time to prepare herself. Sitting on Denny’s and Kale’s shoulders were their kids, Molly and Luke. Molly, the niece she didn’t know, and Luke, Kale’s son. Who looked just like his dad, the same curly hair and sweet smile. She stared at the little boy until the constriction in her chest became too painful. Then she had slammed her laptop shut.
She’d been on a mission later that night at the bar, to soften the severe sting that came with realizing how much everyone had moved on without her.
It turned out to be depressingly easy to close out her life in LA and pack up the few things she wanted to take with her: clothes, photos, her laptop, and journals. Five years reduced to a suitcase. She called the small circle of friends and coworkers who would notice she was gone, and two days later they were on a flight to New York.
The fluttering in her stomach became very pronounced once they landed at JFK. Specifically, when she was looking for their luggage in baggage claim while Denny ducked outside for a quick smoke. She’d given him a load of shit about starting up his dirty habit again. He’d quit almost ten years ago after meeting Theresa, who was a nurse-in-training at the time and said it was a deal-breaker. But he promised it was just until Theresa came home.
A chill hit when they stepped out of the airport, but the sky was blue and the sun strong. Unlike the general sameness of LA weather, spring in New York fluctuated wildly. Denny hailed a cab and she soaked in the cityscape as they crossed the Triborough Bridge, the massive cluster of towers and spires, sleek high-rises mixed in among historical architecture. By contrast she’d never thought of LA as a true city, with its clumps of tall buildings surrounded by a vast network of squat ones. Not to mention the ever-present layer of smog. The Manhattan skyline was clear and crisp, like her world had come back into focus, and there was a surge of exhilaration at being home.
But when they arrived in West Manor forty minutes later and the cab wound its way through town, all the doubts slithered back in, twisting her insides into knots. She hadn’t allowed herself to think this through, how she was going to find her way back into the family. At least she had some time before she had to face Kale, who wasn’t due to return for over a week.
Her hometown hadn’t changed much, but that was by design. This part of New York was rich in history and there were countless historical societies committed to preserving it. In grade school she had learned all about the rich and powerful Philipsburg family, who acquired over fifty thousand acres north of Manhattan in the 1600s. They imported slaves to develop the land and make Philipsburg Manor a thriving center for agriculture, before it was confiscated during the Revolutionary War and used as collateral to raise funds for the Colonial cause. Like other towns in the area—or hamlets, as they liked to call themselves—West Manor had its fair share of structures listed on the National Register of Historic Places, including the Episcopal church, an old cemetery, and an out-of-commission railroad station. It was a quaint, comfortable town that came with a high cost of living. Most people either worked on Wall Street or fought for jobs in construction, health care, or retail.
Her heart hammered against its cage as they rolled past houses that had served as the backdrop to her childhood. Sunday had only been back once, for her mother’s funeral. It was a brief trip, and she’d stuck to the house and immediate family. Now she’d have to settle back in, reacquaint herself with people. It would be harder to avoid the faces and places she didn’t want to see. At least the one face that was still long gone; Jackie had confirmed it. In fact, that family’s house in West Manor had been sold. And the Penny Whistle Pub was closed down now, converted to a small market. That helped.
Her agitation settled a bit when they pulled up to the three-story white Colonial that had always been home. Black shutters, red front door, four dormers poking out of the roofline. It seemed larger than Sunday remembered, probably because her whole apartment could fit in this house ten times over. “You need a big house for a big family,” her mother used to say with a touch of defensiveness. But they all knew she had secretly loved having one of the largest houses in the neighborhood.
Her father was waiting in a rocker on the front porch. She could see the flat tweed cap above the newspaper he was reading. When he closed the paper and stood in his cardigan and khakis, she drew in her breath.
“I know,” Denny said. “He looks a lot older than when you were here last.”
There was a touch of frailty about her dad as he laid his paper on the chair, navigated the porch steps, and walked down the path. He moved with less certainty. His wrinkles were more defined, and the thick hair was much more salt than pepper now. But then he adopted his Dad Pose, the same one her brothers often used: wide-legged stance, arms crossed, hands tucked up under armpits. While Denny settled up with the driver and grabbed the suitcases, she climbed out and met her father at the curb.
“Well, look what the cat drug in.” A smile broke across his broad, ruddy face, but as he got a closer look at her it faded fast.
“Hi, Dad.” She offered a one-armed hug.
He hugged her back. “Christ Almighty, Sunday.”
“I’m fine. It will all heal.”
After looking to Denny for confirmation, her dad nodded and cleared his throat. “Come on in now. They’re all waiting on you. Except Shane. He’s at work.”
As she followed him up the path she noticed the trim rosebushes lining the front of the house were still well cared for, green shoots starting to wake up after a winter’s sleep. Her mother had loved those roses, every one of them a deep scarlet color. After she died, Shane became their caretaker, and he clearly took his job seriously. The house looked okay. But there were areas of peeling paint and tarnished spots here and there, conditions that would not have been allowed to exist under Maura Brennan’s watch.
Sunday climbed the porch, stepped across the threshold, and slammed into the familiar mixed aroma of old wood, black tea, and fresh laundry. Maybe even the slightest scent of her mother’s rose perfume. The first thing she noticed was a large banner that read “Welcome Home Sunday” in bright multicolored paint strokes. Had to be Jackie and Molly’s handiwork. It was strung up between the living and dining rooms. The old paisley sofa and armchairs were in remarkably decent condition, no doubt because they’d been protected in those awful plastic covers, at least until her mother died. The old cherry dining table and chairs were more scuffed up. The built-in shelving nook in the living room that had long been her mother’s shrine to Denny hadn�
��t changed much. It was still filled with soccer trophies, team pictures, laminated newspaper clippings, though some Molly paraphernalia had been added.
Beneath the welcome sign stood her aunt, her niece, and her brother Jackie. She felt her bruised face bend and pull into a smile at the sight of them. However, their expectant smiles all faltered in unison.
“Come on, everyone,” her dad said, waving them over. “Don’t be shy.”
Clare recovered first, stepping forward in her white blouse, long dark skirt, and simple pumps. As close to a nun as possible without the habit and veil. “Hello, pet.” She put her hands on Sunday’s shoulders, her eyes riveted to the damage. “My God, child.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Denny walked in the front door with the suitcases and Molly ran to wrap her arms around his legs. “Daddy!”
“Hey, Molls.” Denny picked her up like she weighed nothing and wrapped his arms around her. The way his face eased into pure relief made Sunday tear up. After he settled her in his arms he asked, “Did you say hi to Sunday?”
Sunday walked over and poked Molly’s stomach. “I know I look scary, but you’ll get used to it.”
Her small features scrunched up as she studied Sunday’s face and arm. She had Denny’s intense gaze, but Theresa had given her the restless hair and touch of Italian olive to her skin tone. “Is that from your car accident?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Auntie Clare said you were half-cut.”
Everyone turned to Clare, who waved it off. “I said no such thing.” But her face flushed. Only she would use such an expression for drunk.
“Yes, you did,” Molly said. “When we were at the store—”
“Who’s ready for some tea?” Clare asked. She spun and headed for the kitchen.
Sunday turned to Jackie, her Irish twin at only fourteen months younger. He was a few inches shorter than Denny, and had a slighter build, all lean muscle and refined features. His hair had grown long enough to pull back into a man bun, which Denny and her dad probably had a field day with, but his face was clean-shaven. He stood underneath the banner, hands jammed in his pockets, just staring at her.
“What the hell, Jackie. It’s not that bad,” Denny said. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost.”
He probably was, in a sense. This had to be dredging up an old dark memory in his mind, one they’d both tried to bury long ago. Sunday stepped toward him.
To her alarm, his eyes watered.
“It’s okay. I’m fine, really.” She put her good arm around him.
He raised his arms to hug her back. “Hey, Sunday,” he said into her shoulder. Then he held on for a good long minute.
* * *
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the accident,” Grail said. “Or let me know you were coming back. I had to hear it all from Mom.” She lifted an eyebrow. They were first cousins and, despite an eight-year age gap, they’d been close growing up.
“Sorry. It all happened so fast. You know Denny. He’s a force of nature once he gets an idea.”
Grail just nodded. She’d always said it was one of the things women loved about him.
They were unpacking Sunday’s suitcase upstairs in her old bedroom later that evening. Clare had freshened it up, but the room looked the same as the day Sunday left. Her twin bed was still covered in the plush white bedspread with delicate violet flowers. The writing award she’d won sophomore year in high school still hung above her old rolltop desk, and the tall built-in shelves were crammed with her books. The intricate three-level Victorian dollhouse her dad had made for her fifth birthday sat on the dresser, and a crate full of her high school cross-country jerseys still sat in a corner of her closet. Nothing had changed, as if the room knew she’d be back someday and had faithfully waited for her.
“Sorry I couldn’t be here for the homecoming,” Grail said, hanging a couple shirts in the closet. “My shift didn’t end till six.” She was still wearing her work clothes, a professional pants suit and flat dress shoes with a thick rubber sole. Her dark hair was cinched back in a low bun.
“I know it was a couple years ago but congrats on making detective,” Sunday said. “How do you like it?”
“It’s good. Most of the guys treat me fairly, with the exception of one or two jackasses who are threatened by a woman in their midst.”
Sunday dropped down on the bed, put her right hand under her left arm to provide support. The cast was itchy and awkward, and it pulled at her left shoulder.
Grail sat beside her and flopped back on the bed. Growing up, Sunday had wholly worshiped her older cousin, who was far wiser and braver. When Sunday got her first period in eighth grade, it had been Grail she’d gone to, scared and in tears, because her mother had handed her a church pamphlet that explained nothing and warned of the impure thoughts she might start to experience. Grail had also been the one to help her figure out birth control when she and Kale were headed in that direction.
“What the hell happened out there, Sun?” Grail asked, staring at the ceiling. “I mean, you left here for some killer job. You never visited because you were so busy. We all figured you were living a fabulous life, with loads of money and men.”
Sunday had never said any of those things, but she’d allowed them to make assumptions. “I was getting by,” she said. “I had my own place. And the only reason I waited tables was because it left me with time to take classes, and read and write.” She shrugged. “I just didn’t want anyone to worry.”
“Well, you kind of blew that with the whole drunk driving accident.”
“True.”
“Any boyfriends out there in LA?”
“A few. Nothing serious.”
Grail sat up next to her. “You look exhausted. You shouldn’t have been traveling so soon after the accident.”
“Probably not.”
“How’s it been with everyone?” Grail nodded in the general direction of downstairs.
“A little awkward, especially with this.” She pointed toward her face. “But we’ll get past it. Although I haven’t seen Shane yet. He works until nine.”
Grail jutted her chin toward a photo that had sat on the desk all the years she was gone. “Does he know you’re back?”
Sunday turned toward the picture of Kale from eight years ago. His dark, shaggy hair fell to his eyebrows, covered half his ears and the top of his neck, the ends curling up in random directions. Crooked grin and eyes so light they were gray. “No, he doesn’t.” She reached over, lifted the picture, and put it in a desk drawer.
“Well, let me know when he finds out. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that reunion.”
* * *
After the whole family ate Clare’s slow-cooker pot roast together, the place cleared out. Her dad had to “meet a guy”—a euphemism for placing bets with his bookie at a hole-in-the-wall bar in town. Jackie headed out to pick Shane up from Newman’s Market, where he’d been bagging groceries and stocking shelves for almost seven years. Clare and Grail left together, bickering about something pointless like the polar-opposite mother and daughter they’d always been. That was when Molly asked to have a chat with Sunday.
Looking very grave across the table with her little arms folded on top, Molly first put Sunday on notice: I’m gonna move into your room when I turn five. Mommy and Daddy already said I could. Though she offered Sunday her little room located next door to Denny and Theresa’s master suite downstairs. Then she broke the news that the dollhouse now belonged to both of them. We’re just going to have to share, Sunday. And please ask before you move things around because I have it all set up just right. While Molly talked—for quite a while—Sunday listened with a solemn face and nodded often, her heart breaking a bit over how infinitely adorable four years old could be. Only after Sunday reassured her they would work out an equitable plan for the bedroom and the dollhouse would Molly let Denny take her to Theresa. Even though he tried to hide it, Sunday sense
d Denny’s frustration with having to drive his daughter to another home for the night.
When Jackie and Shane got home, she initially just watched while Shane lumbered through the door, slipped off his backpack, and hung his coat on the rack. He sat on the small bench in the foyer, unlaced and removed his construction boots. He wore carpenter jeans and a flannel, like their dad had every day for decades. Shane was a gentle giant, even taller and broader than Denny, with his hair cropped close to his head. At twenty-five, he was the youngest of them all. He’d been diagnosed with an intellectual disability over twenty years ago, but it had never held him back. Shane was a hard worker and generally had one of the sunniest dispositions Sunday had ever come across.
Jackie followed him in. “Look who’s here, dude.” He nodded toward the living room.
Sunday stood from the couch. “Hi, Shane.”
“Oh boy. Sunday?” He stood and his right hand went up to twirl the hair on that side of his head, a habit that kicked in with confusion or anxiety. They had told him she was coming home; it was best to avoid surprising Shane. But they couldn’t have prepared him for her face.
He backed away when she started toward him. “What … what happened to your face and your arm? Is that from the car accident?” His voice was deep and always slightly louder than everyone else’s, because of the mild hearing deficiency he was born with.
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m fine.”
He stared at her. “Oh boy. You look … all messed up.” He rocked from one foot to the other.
“I know it looks pretty bad. When the car flipped over my face hit the steering wheel and I cut my nose.” She pointed to the white bandage that resided at the bottom edge of her vision. “I burst capillaries in my eyes too.” She used two fingers to pull one eye open wide. “That’s why they’re red. And I broke my arm against the door.”
He stopped rocking and leaned in for a closer look, pointed at her arm. “You got a black cast. Tony at the store broke his arm, but he got a blue one.”