Family Love

by Liz Crowe

  “God damn it,” she muttered, stomping over to the thermostat.

  “God damn it,” Antony parroted, clear as day. She froze and turned. Anton looked up at her, his lips twitching in amusement. “God damn it! God damn it!” Antony sang out, sensing he might have broken the tension in the room.

  “Hush your mouth,” his father said before giving him a harmless light whack on his butt and setting him down. The little boy’s dark eyes widened. “I swan, Lindsay, this boy is a mirror image of Lorenzo. All the way down to his attitude.” He raised a dark eyebrow at her. “You sure I’m the only Love brother you—”

  “Anton Dominic Love, if you even finish that sentence in your fool head, I will come across this room and snatch you baldheaded.” Kieran was hiccupping now. His arms nearly choked her. She sighed and dropped into a chair, landing on several squeaky toys in the process. Antony glared at all of them, then ran up the few steps to the bedroom hall and into his room.

  Anton’s shoulders slumped as he took in the chaos.

  She kept patting Kieran, making soothing noises. He finally peeled himself off her. “Down, Mama,” he said, letting her kiss his boo-boo before hitting the floor and running off after the brother who’d whacked him, calling “Ant-ny! Ant-ny!”

  Exhaustion, heat, frustration all hit her hard. She let herself drift, the familiar sound of the wonky ceiling fan that needed balancing and the loud dishwasher that needed replacing filling her ears.

  “They gonna be all right in there?” Anton asked, making her startle.

  “Who? The boys? Of course. They’re inseparable. But Antony gets jealous if you pay Kieran too much mind.”

  He pulled off his Kentucky Wildcats ball cap and ran a hand over his hair. Lindsay watched him, wishing she had the energy to get up and go to him. They hadn’t had sex in weeks, not since … She blinked, counted on her fingers, and then slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “What is it?” Anton glanced at his watch. “I really need to get to …”

  “Lord have mercy, Anton. I am pregnant again.” She was sprawled on the couch wearing a pair of jeans that could probably walk on their own and an old Halloran Farms T-shirt. For some reason, she glanced at her toenails. She hadn’t painted them a pretty color in more than four years now, not since the boring days spent in her mother-in-law’s basement waiting for Anton to get home so they could screw some more. Her hair was too long, and in need of a professional thinning out. But there was no money for that.

  There was no money for much at all beyond the small amount Anton insisted on paying his uncle for their house loan, plus groceries, gas, and insurance for the second-hand truck she now drove, the utilities, and the one luxury she allowed herself, daily delivery of the Lexington Herald newspaper. She’d finally paid the last installment to the hospital for Kieran’s birth only the week before.

  She burst into tears. Anton stood, staring at her, mouth hanging open, probably doing a similar calculation of impossibility in his head. “We can’t,” she said, covering her face. “I can’t do this anymore.” She got up, fury replacing frustration. “I am no more than a glorified maid and cook, and … and … baby factory.” She smacked her stomach, then began stalking through the room, snatching up toys and blankets, cursing under her breath. “I’m not. I won’t do it.”

  Anton grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. His handsome face, the one she had come to adore—even though she’d admitted to herself she married the man in a fit of pique, hoping for the very dismay it caused her parents—was smooth and calm.

  He took the junk from her and tossed it all on the floor before folding her into an embrace. She closed her eyes, sucking in deep breaths of him, the man who’d given her exactly what she wanted—escape.

  “Shhh …” he said when she started sobbing again. “It’s all right. It will be all right. I promise. The brewery’s doing great. We should expand, but are gonna wait it out a couple of years and just keep cranking on what we’ve got.”

  “I don’t want to hear about that goddamn place,” she muttered into his chest. A ridiculous statement. The brewery was all they had besides this falling-down-around-her-ears house. “I hate it.” An even sillier thing to say.

  But Anton simply held onto her, the way he always did, riding out the temper and the tears, allowing her to get to the other side of the moment, her pride only a bit tattered.

  When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and serious. She let him kiss her softly, then more intensely, as the messy room, the loud boys, the upside-down kitchen all faded from her consciousness. He always could do that, shut out the real world and its late bills, boiling hot house, squabbling kids.

  “Lindsay, I love you so much,” he said, reaching down to grab her ass. “Was it the night of the storm?”

  She sighed and let him reach under her shirt for her bra-less boobs, amazed that her poor body could even respond, but it did. “Yeah, I’m guessing. I mean, I think that was the last time we did it.” The night of the storm had been epic, a post-fight, midnight encounter after she’d spent an hour fuming in the other room and then crawled into bed and pounced, needing the physical connection so badly it had been painful.

  And somehow, right then, she was all right with the concept of a third child. A baby, she calculated when Antony would be four, Kieran three. Manageable, she figured, now that she had a few friends who could help.

  But as soon as she fumbled for Anton’s zipper and he was tugging her up toward the kitchen for a modicum of privacy, she heard another bang and a screech of anger, then a cry of pain.

  “Shit,” Anton muttered, putting his clothes together and running for the steps. “Please, dear Lord, let it be a girl this time.”

  Lindsay watched him run down the hall and throw open the door. Deciding to let him deal with the boys for a change, she tugged her shirt down and rebuttoned her jeans, smiling at the thought of a baby girl … a daughter, which she would treasure. They’d be friends, like sisters, but with a stronger bond. She determined right then and there that she would be the best mother to her little girl. Still smiling, she patted her stomach, making a mental note to call the doctor on Monday to have him confirm what she already knew in her soul.

  As she was passing by it, the wall-mounted phone rang, startling her out of her perfect mother-daughter relationship musings. She grabbed her cooling cup of coffee and took a sip before answering, figuring it was Marianne, hoping she might come over and bring Rosie. The bossy little girl distracted her boys nicely. She was already thinking how she’d invite Tanya Norris, another young mother she’d met at church, and ask her to bring her son, Paul, who was almost the exact same age as Antony.

  “Hello?” She sat, only half listening, half pondering the pretty, pink nursery she’d make out of the fourth bedroom.

  “Lindsay?”

  “Oh, hi, Frank. What’s going on?”

  “Um, honey, it’s Mama. She’s … well, she’s dyin’, and she’s askin’ for you.”

  Lindsay froze, not even hearing when Anton came in, carrying one son in each arm, both of them sobbing. She glanced up and noted blood running down Antony’s cheek. Without a word, she hung up, took the boy and cleaned the wound. She plunked him in the living room amidst his cars then took Kieran from Anton. He quieted within a few seconds.

  “I have to go see Mama,” she said in a small voice.

  Anton frowned. “I’ll take the boys. Or do you want me to come with you?”

  She shook her head and turned from him, her mind blank and her chest aching with emotions she didn’t care to identify. “Come on, darlings,” she said, taking Antony by the hand. “Let’s put on our Sunday clothes.”

  Antony pulled away from her. She gripped him hard and leaned down to look into his Love family eyes. “Young man, you will come with me, and you will do what I say. Mama is not in the mood for your nonsense.”

  He blinked, glanced over at his father, then at her. “Okay.”

  “You mean, ‘yes ma’am,’” sh
e said, still holding his hand tight.

  “Yes ma’am.” His small voice nearly broke her heart. But she had to establish control over this now, because, no matter how many fantasies of baby girls in fluffy pink dresses she might conjure, she was certain there’d be another Love brother added to this fold in a few months.

  “Yes ma’am,” Kieran parroted around his thumb.

  “Take your finger out of your mouth, Kieran Francesco.”

  He did. Antony took his brother’s hand and they went carefully up the steps to the bedrooms.

  “Let me know if you need me, or anything,” Anton said from the kitchen. “I love you, Lindsay.”

  She pulled her heavy hair up off her neck but didn’t turn to face him. “I know you do,” she said, following her boys upstairs to change into a decent outfit so she could introduce them to their dying grandmother.

  By the time she realized that her response had been somewhat less enthusiastic than it should have been, Anton had left.

  She found a half-decent dress and slapped on a bit of makeup, then picked up the kitchen phone, determined to put it right—to assure Anton that she did love him, more than she knew how to express some days.

  She tapped her fingers on the cracked Formica, her mind whirling at the scene she anticipated at her estranged mother’s deathbed as she waited for someone to locate her husband and put him on the phone. “What is it?” Anton said, his voice neutral in a way she understood, and which made her glad she’d paused to do this before heading to the hospital. “Lindsay? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, honey. I just wanted to tell you I love you … too.” She gnawed her fingernail, nervous for some reason at his silence.

  “I know you do, Linds,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but he’d already hung up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her mother’s room was at the end of a long labyrinth of corridors and elevators in the University of Kentucky’s newest medical complex. By the time Lindsay parked, after circling several floors in the garage while Antony kicked her seat and Kieran whined about the heat, she was tempted to turn right around and go home. Why she’d even bothered with this would be impossible to explain to anyone, even herself.

  “Come on, sweeties,” she said, tugging the sweaty, restless toddlers from the seat and setting them down for a second so she could grab her purse and lock the car. “Antony, come here this minute.” Kieran had a death grip on her skirt, thumb plugging his mouth, while Antony had scurried to the tail end of the truck, and was gaping at everything, practically quivering with delight.

  “Cars, Mama!” he yelled. “Lookie! Cars and trucks and cars!”

  “I know, honey. Now get over here and hold Mama’s other hand. We’re going inside, and you need to stick close to me, like glue, okay?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Kieran piped up. She crouched to be on their eye level, nausea hitting her hard because of the exhaust fumes and fear of what she had to face. But it had the remembered edge of her early pregnancy days. Figures, this would be day she got her worst symptoms and had to face her mother for the first time in over four years.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Antony touched her face. She noted his filthy fingernails with dismay.

  “Nothing, darlings. I just want to tell you I love you.”

  “Love you too,” Kieran, her sweet-natured little redheaded Halloran child mumbled. She pulled his thumb out of his mouth with a loud pop. Antony giggled. Kieran glared at him.

  “Big boys do not suck their thumbs.”

  He looked down at his feet. Antony bumped his shoulder, which almost knocked Lindsay onto her butt. “Antony Ian Love, I swan you will be the death of me.”

  He smiled up at her, his concept of “death” limited to the frogs he found and squeezed so hard they expired before he could present them to his parents. She rose, swallowing the urge to bolt, or puke, or cry, and took her sons’ hands. “Let’s go see …” She stopped, unsure what to even call the woman neither boy had ever met. They’d each met their Grandpa Halloran one time, about a year ago, when he was at JR’s house, and she’d brought the boys over.

  “Nana Halloran,” she said, firmly.

  “Nona?” Kieran stopped. He was flat-out terrified of Anton’s mother.

  But Antony had started hopping around madly, swinging from her hand, nearly yanking her shoulder out of its socket.

  “Nona! I love Nona! Will she have ‘lato?” which was his shorthand for the gelato his grandmother always served the boys when they visited, which wasn’t often. When she’d gotten a look at baby Antony she’d shed real tears of joy, declaring him “una miniatura” of his “padre.” When Anton had shown her Kieran at about six weeks old, she’d hissed, backed away, and spit on the floor.

  “Sorry, Linds. It’s the red hair. She has a thing about it.”

  “No, Antony. Not Nona.” She sensed Kieran relax. “Nana. It’s a grandma you don’t know, because you haven’t met her … yet.”

  “Oh,” Antony said, deflating to such a point she practically had to drag him into the building, the elevator, down the hall, to another elevator and around several corners until she reached a tall desk bristling with medical staff.

  “Excuse me,” she said, gritting her teeth when Antony tried to wrench out of her grip and take off down the hall. “I’m looking for Gloria Halloran’s room.”

  The nurse peered over her half glasses at Lindsay, then stood up and made a show of glaring down at the wiggly little boys by her side. “I’m afraid we don’t allow children on this floor.”

  “The children are Mrs. Halloran’s grandsons. She’s dying. Point me to her room, please.” She smiled but she was not about to take shit off this woman.

  “One moment.” The nurse sat down and picked up a phone, then turned away and whispered for a few moments. She hung up and pointed down yet another bland hallway. “Room fifteen-ten.”

  Lindsay waited for the woman to apologize, but she started scribbling on a chart instead. The boys kept reaching behind her to poke each other, so she tugged them over to a couple of chairs, plunked them down, and crouched in front of them.

  “Listen to me, gentlemen, and listen good. I expect you to behave and speak when you’re spoken to and … and …” She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Antony was already trying to get down off the chair. She gave his calf a quick pinch. “I mean it, Antony. You’re the oldest and must be an example of the best behavior for your little brother. Kieran, you be a big boy. No fingers in your mouth.”

  Both of them were swinging their legs and wore identical expressions she’d come to recognize as the “set me free to run wild for a few minutes, or you are gonna pay for it, Mama” one. She sighed. No time for that.

  She took each of their faces between her fingers and thumbs and forced them to look at her. “Ice cream after, if and only if you are the very best Love brothers in the world. I mean it. If you act up or run off or do anything bad, no Sesame Street today, and no ice cream.”

  They both nodded, then jumped down took her outstretched hands. When she reached room fifteen-ten she hesitated outside the closed door a few moments. Antony, being Antony, knocked for her. The door opened into a private room that already smelled of death. She closed her eyes against a rush of nausea, then opened them when she felt someone’s arms around her. Frank held her tight, then bent down to eye level with his somber nephews. “Hey men, how about a Coke?”

  “Coke!” Antony yelled—so loudly a few people in the hallway glanced over at them. Lindsay frowned.

  “Frank, the last thing these two need is a bottle full of sugar.”

  “Is that you? Lindsay?” A weak, but familiar voice floated over to her. “Come over here. Let me see you.”

  Keeping a grip on her sons, determined to get through this, make her goodbyes and get the hell out, she walked the few steps toward a tall bed where an emaciated version of her mother lay.

  Gloria Halloran was dwarfed in the giant bed.
Tubes and wires ran all over her, including one stuck in her nose. Her breathing came in shallow rasps. Her face was sallow, her eyes sunken. Lindsay sucked in a breath and squeezed the boys’ arms so hard they both hollered in protest. Her mother held up a gnarled hand which Keiran must have seen rising from the edge of the bed like a skeleton’s, because he pressed his face into her skirt and clung to her leg.

  “Lindsay? Honey?”

  “Yes.” Her voice broke. “Yes, Mama. It’s me.” She was shaking all over. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Mama,” she whispered, letting go of the boys and taking the woman’s papery-thin-skinned hand. Frank and JR picked up her sons and brought them close to the bed. Lindsay could hear Keiran setting up a whine in protest.

  She looked across the bed and saw her father, staring at her. He didn’t look much better than his wife.

  “It’s the cancer,” Lindsay’s mother said with a wheeze. “Started in my breasts, moved to my lungs, and apparently I’m eaten up with it now.” She coughed, which triggered beeping from some of the monitors. Kieran covered his ears. Antony leaned away from JR and tried to touch one of the many flashing buttons.

  Lindsay kept her mother’s ice cold hand between hers. Tears dropped onto the bed between them. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Gloria Halloran closed her eyes a moment. “She wouldn’t let us,” Frank said from behind her. “But it came on awful fast, Lindsay. She was fine—what, six weeks ago? Maybe a little thin and tired …” He trailed off. Lindsay kept her gaze pinned to her mother’s slack face.

  “Mama,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She wondered if this would be her mantra for the rest of her life.