by Tracey Lange
Till recently he’d fought his doctor’s suggestion to write down things he didn’t want to forget, determined not to become reliant upon notes like some feeble old fart. But this was too important to take the risk.
One way to keep Sunday from leaving again was to find out why she left in the first place.
* * *
“Do you think the Yankees will win tonight, Dad?” Shane asked.
“I sure as hell hope so. They’re overdue.”
They were set up with ham-and-cheese subs on TV tables in the living room, a tradition on the nights the Yankees were playing and Shane was off work. It was the first evening they weren’t eating as a family since Sunday had come home.
“Where is everyone, Shane?”
He responded without taking his eyes off the game. “Jackie’s working late. Denny drove Molly to Theresa. Sunday went to the pub to do some work.”
Each one of his children was special, but there was something very peaceful about Shane. His youngest son was uncomplicated, eager to please, never in a rush or frustrated with his dad’s memory slips. Of course, Shane had never graduated to that phase when children realize their parents are vastly imperfect beings.
When he’d taken longer to meet certain developmental milestones, such as walking and talking, they hadn’t worried much. Maura had delivered four babies in six years. By the last one they well knew each developed at their own pace. When Shane continued to have trouble communicating—not responding when they called him, garbled speech, talking too loudly—they had him evaluated. Initially he was diagnosed with a hearing deficiency. But even before he started preschool they began to wonder, and it was confirmed when his peers surpassed him in the learning environment. The specialists diagnosed a mild form of mental retardation, nowadays called an intellectual disability.
“My God, Mickey,” Maura had said. “What will his life be like? We won’t always be around to take care of him. And I see how people look at us now. Everybody knows.” There had been panic in her wide eyes, a mother worried her boy would face alienation throughout his life. But also the panic of people knowing their business. By then Maura believed she’d brought this on herself by daring to have a baby at forty-two years old, which just wasn’t proper. She came from a backwater town in Donegal, born into a frosty, highly judgmental lot who believed in the literal letter of Catholic law. She’d watched her parents forever shun her older sister for marrying a divorced man, never even knowing their own grandchildren. They’d taught Maura to hide weaknesses and flaws. But there was no hiding Shane or his disability from the eyes of the world.
He’d put his hands on her narrow shoulders. “Shane has brothers and a sister that love him. We’ll all help him to live a full life. And when you and I are gone, they’ll always watch over him.”
He couldn’t have spoken truer words. After his children learned about Shane’s disability they closed ranks, each of them taking on different roles with him. Denny, his protector, using his fists to punish any miscreant who dared look sideways at his youngest brother. He had Shane manage equipment for the soccer team, and found him jobs later on. Sunday told him stories and helped with his schoolwork, talked him through bouts of anxiety. Jackie built LEGOs with him, and took him on long walks. And it was Kale who introduced model cars to Shane and kept him in a steady supply.
Mickey had taken pleasure in bringing Shane to his worksites, where he’d been fascinated by the massive equipment. Tragically, though, Maura had never seemed to find her way with Shane. She often looked at him with a mix of distaste and fear, as if his booming voice and uneven gait were a reproach from the Lord Himself. She had no patience for helping Shane learn tasks or play a game. His exuberant demonstrations of affection, the powerful hugs and proclamations of love, turned her stiff as a board. The whole family was grateful when mother and son found one shared activity—Shane helped with Maura’s roses. It required little conversation since he had a natural aptitude for it, and they could work alongside each other but focus on the ground beneath them.
When Maura died twenty years after Shane’s diagnosis, she at least went assured that her youngest was well looked after. Mickey didn’t know if Heaven existed, only that if it did his entrance through the pearly gates was far from guaranteed. If he got the chance to make his case to St. Peter for overlooking his many transgressions, he’d point down to his children and say, “I must have done something right.”
When the phone rang, Shane was deep in his sub, crumbs and juices spilling over his hands, onto his tray. Mickey got up to answer it.
“Mr. B? It’s Kale. We just got back. How’s everything with the Brennans?”
On the TV, Boston scored a hit. “We’re all good here,” Mickey said. “Shane and I are just watching the game.”
“I won’t keep you. I was hoping to catch up with Denny. His cell went to voicemail. Is he still at the pub?”
Mickey looked around the living room, into the kitchen. Damn it, when had he last seen Denny. “Let me think…”
“Oh boy, Boston has the bases loaded, Dad.”
“Ah, Jesus. That’s not a good start.”
“What was that?” Kale asked.
“Sorry, Kale. I was talking to Shane.” Mickey couldn’t recall seeing Denny for a while. “Denny must still be at work.”
“I’ll catch him at the pub.”
Mickey hung up and sat back down. It wasn’t until Denny got home from Theresa’s a few minutes later that he realized his mistake.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kale
“I’ll catch him at the pub.”
That’s what he’d been hoping to hear, that Denny was still at work. Kale hadn’t talked to him in twelve days other than a brief text conversation about Theresa and Molly going to stay with Theresa’s sister. Kale had known things were tense between Denny and Theresa, with the ongoing problems at the new location and Mickey’s recent accident in the garage. And Theresa was fed up waiting for Denny to be ready to have another baby. But their separation had been a shock.
He slid his cell into his jacket pocket as he pulled into their driveway, and he and Vivienne both breathed a massive sigh of relief. An hour’s drive to the airport in Dublin, followed by a six-hour flight, was enough to make anyone wish for the day to be done. Never mind that he’d had to sit apart from his wife and son on the plane, beside a large, loud woman who snored like a freight train. There’d been another hour waiting in line to deal with a lost suitcase. All this on top of a big send-off the night before. He had imbibed more alcohol in the last two weeks than in the previous two years. At least it seemed that way. Denny would probably call bullshit on that.
“Thank God,” Vivienne said, climbing out of the passenger seat, stretching, and scraping fingers through her long blond hair. She opened the back door and checked on Luke, who was dead asleep. “Now he’s out. We could have used some of that on the plane.”
Kale smiled at his three-year-old in the rear. Luke’s head tilted sideways against the car seat and his mouth hung open in a perfect O. He’d inherited Kale’s dark curls, but the bottomless blue eyes were all Viv. Luke never stirred while Kale reached in and pulled him close, carried him into the house and up to his room, removed his shoes, jacket, and pants. Next he collected the bags from the car—the ones that had made it to New York—while Vivienne moved through the house flipping on lights and turning up the thermostat.
“Want a cup of tea?” she asked when he came back downstairs. She removed her trench coat and hung it on the hooks by the door, winced as she slid off her shoes. For some reason she refused to leave the house in anything other than heels.
He left his jacket on and checked his watch. “I was going to catch up with Denny.”
“Imagine that,” she said. “Twelve whole days without Denny and the Brennans.”
His nerves bristled a bit. “I just want to find out where we are with the new place.”
She nodded in understanding; she knew he was worried about it. �
�Okay. I hope it’s good news.”
“Me too.” He leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll try to make it quick.”
He escaped out into the cool night air, got back in the driver’s seat, but didn’t start the car right away. Viv had been great about the trip, making all the travel arrangements and then spending almost two weeks around a big family she didn’t know and couldn’t understand half the time. She tried to ingratiate herself to his aunts and cousins, listened to countless stories. Though she’d pleaded with him to pay the cost to come home two days early.
Through the living room window he watched her climb the stairs to their bedroom at the rear of the little Dutch Colonial house. First on her wish list for their next place, which she’d been talking about more and more lately, was a main-floor master suite. And an open-concept design. Stainless appliances and quartz countertops. She had a long wish list.
He could go back inside, wait till tomorrow to catch up with Denny. But her sarcasm about being away from the Brennans had irked him. He started the car and headed for the pub.
It took less than five minutes to drive into town; he usually walked. Brennan’s was closed this time on a Monday night, so Denny was probably working on their ledger, trying to get it in some kind of order. God help them if they didn’t find another bookkeeper soon. They ran a great bar and restaurant, but they had no business doing their own books.
Saw Mill Road was almost empty so he parked in front of the pub rather than pulling behind into the parking lot. He pulled open the door, inhaling the smell of polished wood and quality beer.
“Denny?” It was fairly dark, but a lamp was on in the small office behind the bar. “I’m glad you’re still here. Let me get a beer.” He poured a Guinness just the right way—forty-five-degree angle, pausing at three-quarters full to let the surge settle. After taking a deep draw of the creamy beer, he took off his jacket and laid it on a stool. “That was a loooong trip. It was good to see everyone, but I am family’d out.” He headed down the length of the bar and turned in to the office. “What’s the word on Mamaroneck—”
He felt himself, at a cellular level, freeze. Standing before him, a kaleidoscope of purplish-yellow bruises covering her face, was Sunday. She stood by the desk, wide-eyed and stiff.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
She offered a lopsided smile. “Nope. Hi, Kale.”
When her voice confirmed she was really there, some chemical flooded his brain and propelled pure excitement through his entire body, fingertips to toes. The urge to reach out and touch her was so powerful he took a small step forward before catching himself, causing his beer to slosh over the edge of the glass. He reached over to place it on a file cabinet.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” he said. All he could do was stare. It had been almost five years. Her wavy hair was shorter, ended at her shoulders. She wore an oversized T-shirt with colorful paint stains that had to belong to Jackie. But her face …
“It was kind of last minute,” she said. “Denny didn’t think you were back for a couple more days.”
Which is why he hadn’t received a heads-up yet, no doubt. “I came back early.” He nodded toward her. “What happened?”
“I was in a car accident. But I’m fine.” She waved a dismissive arm and he noticed the other one, a bulky black cast hanging by her side. Black. How very Sunday.
“How are you?” she asked. “How’s your family?”
His family. Vivienne and Luke. For a moment they’d ceased to exist for him. “Good, they’re good. We all are.” He glanced at the desk, which was covered in paperwork. “How long are you here for?” He sounded awfully calm for being so spectacularly blindsided.
“I’m not sure. I needed a break from LA, and it sounded like Denny could use some help.” There were pinkish pools of blood in the whites of her eyes, which glowed against the dark blotches.
He made himself look away. “There’s no arguing with that.”
“I thought I’d come back for a while and see what I could do…” She seemed to be gauging his reaction.
What did “a while” mean? My God. Had she moved back home? “Well,” he said, “you might want to start with the books, before Denny and I end up in jail or the poorhouse.” What the hell was he saying? He ran a hand through his hair and tugged on it a bit, a way of pinching himself.
But then she laughed that laugh he knew so well, low and soft, a little throaty. She gestured toward the desk. “I already started digging into some of it.”
There was nothing else to say without veering into dangerous waters. All the safe small talk was used up.
“Listen, Kale, I know this is awkward, and I’m sorry for … For so many things.” Her voice wobbled at the end.
Warning bells went off in his head. This conversation—this whole situation—was full of land mines. He felt shaky, light-headed. Untethered to reality. And he couldn’t trust himself right then. “We don’t need to do that,” he said, holding his hands up. “I’m glad you’re here to help out. Denny’s needed it for a long time.” He hadn’t meant it as an accusation—or maybe he had a little—but she glanced down. “We’ll see each other around, so let’s just move on.” He gave the next seven words some heft. “There’s no need to revisit the past.”
She nodded. “Right. Okay.”
But he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her face. It wasn’t just the bruises. Underneath those he saw the lively eyes that hinted at her curious mind and dry sense of humor. She was just a little beat up. From an accident, and maybe from whatever life she’d been living the last five years. A life he knew nothing about. “I’m going to take off,” he said. “Tell Denny I’ll catch him in the morning.”
“I will.”
It was time for him to go, but he wanted to stay, talk to her more. Sunday had ripped out his heart, but she’d also been the most important person in the world for a long time. And, for the moment, he was uplifted. The sheer relief at seeing her again transcended everything else.
Without letting himself second-guess it, he stepped forward and hugged her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders with a delicate touch. “Welcome home, Sunday.” He felt her tense up for the briefest second before her good hand slid up his back.
“Thank you,” she said into his shoulder.
He pulled away and said, “Good night,” which was all he could manage through an acute ache in his throat. He left and was almost to the end of the bar when he turned back to get his beer. He stopped at the office door.
She was sitting at the desk, head in her hand. It looked like she might be crying. His first instinct was to walk back in there and make sure she was okay. But he didn’t feel in control of his own emotions, and Vivienne and Luke were tugging at his conscience now. He walked away, grabbed his jacket, and went out to his car.
He’d known the day would come when they would have to face each other, make conversation. At least it was over. But now a barrage of questions were elbowing their way to the surface, ones that had haunted him for a long time after she left.
He stuffed them back down deep and headed home to his family. None of those questions, nor the answers she might offer, mattered anymore.
* * *
The next morning, after Vivienne and Luke left the house, he took an unusual route to work.
Since birth he’d lived four blocks from the Brennans, except for the few years he shared a dorm room and then a small apartment with Denny. His house was farther from downtown, where the homes were still classic but a little smaller. His normal route to the pub took him past the Brennan house where, most mornings, he stopped in to wait for Denny. He’d sip coffee with Mickey and talk about how the Yankees were looking, climb up to Shane’s room on the third floor to check out the latest LEGO build, chat with Jackie if he was home. And, without fail, if Molly was around she’d sit Kale down and demand a card trick. He’d shown her the only two he knew last year, simple sleights of hand, and she made him do them over
and over. After that he purchased a 101 Card Tricks for Beginners book he found online.
But he wasn’t up for seeing Sunday again yet, so that morning he bypassed Poplar Street altogether.
He’d slept little the night before, just tossed and turned, his gut doing gymnastics. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been looking forward to getting back to the calm of home. But it was all upended last night, the instant he laid eyes on her.
When he got to the pub Denny was already there, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, man.” He poured two cups of fresh coffee and slid one across the bar. “I was waiting to tell you until you got home so you didn’t worry about it on the trip.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Kale pulled off his jacket and dropped onto a stool. “So what happened?”
Denny leaned forward on the bar. “She was drunk and got into an accident.”
“Jesus.” The Sunday he’d known never would have done such a thing.
“I went out there to check on her. But then I asked her to come home.”
“Is she back permanently?”
“I hope so.” Denny straightened up and crossed his arms. “I get how weird it must be for you. But it’s good to have her back. Dad and Jackie are all smiles lately. You should see Shane—he won’t leave her side except to go to work. And she’s finally getting to know Molly.”
So much had gone on lately in the Brennan family and, somehow, Sunday had been in the middle of it and Kale had missed it. Almost like she’d usurped his place. Which was silly. They were her family. “Is she really working on the ledger?” he asked.
“She’s just helping out until I find another bookkeeper.” Denny shrugged. “You know she’ll do a good job.”