by Juliette Fay
Janie’s heart began to pound. What in God’s name am I doing here? she wondered. “I’m Janie LaMarche.” The old woman gasped. Her fingers flew to her mouth. Janie was afraid she might have a heart attack right there on the spot. Oh, great, she thought. That’s all we need.
Janie took a deep breath and tried to smile, hoping the effort would diffuse the ticking bomb of Mrs. Seagrave’s distress. She shifted Carly to her left hip and held out her right hand to shake. “I got your letter.” Mrs. Seagrave was still looking at her like the fifth horseman of the apocalypse, so she tried a different tack. “This is my daughter, Carly.”
Tears began to well in the corners of Mrs. Seagrave’s wrinkled eyelids. “Oh, dear, yes,” she said finally. “Isn’t she lovely. Please come in.” She closed the door behind Janie and leaned against it for a brief moment.
Janie glanced around. The house was large and elegant. A little overdecorated with dark antiques, but Janie could see that it was comfortable, lived in. A chess set lay on a small table by a window. The pieces were set up as if a game had been going on and then paused indefinitely.
“You have a lovely home,” said Janie.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Mrs. Seagrave–”
“Fran. Please.”
“Fran, I’m sorry I scared you. I should have called first. But I’ve been thinking about this way too much. I had to just act. Can you understand that?”
“Certainly.”
“And now that I’m here, I don’t really know what to do next.”
Fran took a breath and nodded. “Do you want to talk to him right away, or should we sit and have some biscuits first?”
Janie smiled apologetically. “Maybe biscuits.”
They sat at an oversized oak table, bitten along the edges by the thousands of meals that had occurred there. Fran served strong coffee and large, grainy cookies that she referred to as digestives. Carly ate four.
Fran asked carefully, tentatively, about Janie’s life. How did she feel the children were doing, did she have activities that she enjoyed? Janie found herself telling Fran about the porch. They shed some quiet tears together over the notion of Robby’s gift coming long after his death. “A thoughtful, generous man,” Fran said with a delicate sniffle.
“Yes,” said Janie. “He was.” She told Fran about Shelly and Aunt Jude and Heidi, and even briefly mentioned Tug and Father Jake. “You know the strangest thing about the last year? All these people that I started out not liking—I think I was just too angry to like anyone—and now they mean so much to me. It was the people I least expected could help me that have been there the most.”
“You must have been willing, on some level, to let them.”
“I think I was, even despite myself.” She thought about this for a moment. “Maybe I could see your brother now.”
Fran led them out to a sunny room at the back of the house. An elderly man, much older-looking than Fran, sat slumped in a cushioned chair in the far corner. His gray skin hung in drapes from his face. He’d shaved, but there were patches of whiskers here and there that he hadn’t seen or perhaps hadn’t bothered with. There was a book in his hand with soldiers on the cover, a history of some kind. But he wasn’t reading it. He was staring at the floor tiles.
“Emmett?” said Fran. “There’s someone here to see you.” He looked up, struggled to make his eyes focus. Fran squatted down beside him and patted his arm. “Now I don’t want you to be upset with me…but this is Mrs. LaMarche.” The old man put a hand quickly over his face, and his shoulders began to shake. Fran looked back up at Janie, as if to apologize.
Janie shifted Carly around off her hip and sat down on the unused ottoman by the man’s feet. The little girl slumped in her arms, and Janie cradled her close. “Mr. Daly? Emmett? Your sister is so worried about you…and to be honest, I can see why. You seem like you’re kind of…wasting.” He gripped his sister’s hand and shook even harder. Janie thought, Well this isn’t working. But here she was, what could she do? Walk out?
“It’s been a tough year, I know. For both of us. The worst year. We have every right to feel like hell. You should have seen me last spring. I was a holy wreck. I was not fun to be around, I promise you.” His shaking quieted as he began to listen to her, but he still held his hand over his face. “We’ve had some really bad luck. The worst luck. Well, not so bad as some. You read the newspaper these days and people in these war-torn countries, they have it worse. They’re losing people right and left. And living in hell. We have it better than them, don’t we?”
Where exactly was she going with this?
“Emmett, please. Please look at me. I want you to see my face.” Slowly he took his hand down. Janie could see the dampness on his cheeks and the tiny streams in the folds of his skin. He glanced up at her, then back down again. “Well, I don’t know how much you saw in that quick look, but I hope you saw me. And I hope you saw that I’m okay. And my daughter here is so content, she’s passing out in my arms with a belly full of cookies.”
Emmett’s face squeezed up into a ball of wrinkles. “No father,” he gasped.
“No,” said Janie, and she felt the tears come to her own eyes. But she wasn’t sure if she was crying for Carly or for the old man who felt so responsible. Maybe both. “Sometimes life is just…”
“Suffering,” he muttered.
“True.” She rocked Carly back and forth, and soon the breaths came in smooth even passes.
Emmett reached out and touched her elbow very quickly, then pulled back as if he had risked too much. “There was no soft place to land,” he whispered.
“No,” said Janie. “Sometimes there just isn’t.” Carly’s face, smooth and slack, seemed to glow up at her. Blessed and cursed, she thought. Every one of us.
“Emmett,” she said gently. “I want you to stop beating yourself up. It was an accident. And you’re making it worse by letting it ruin your life. You’re making the accident happen every day. Let it be over, now, Emmett. Please. For all of us.”
SHE STAYED A LITTLE while longer with Fran and Emmett. When Fran walked her out to the front door, the older woman suddenly burst into seismic sobs, barely able to catch her breath before another overtook her. Janie held her arm, afraid she might fall.
“Oh, dear,” Fran gasped, as her crying finally slowed. “Oh, my dear. Thank you.”
Janie nodded. “You know,” she said. “I need to thank you, too. I think this was a good idea.”
“I’m so glad,” Fran beamed through her tears. She patted Janie’s cheek. “Your mother must be so proud of you.”
WHEN JANIE DROVE BACK down Pelham Heights Lane, she looked for Tug’s truck, but it was gone.
22
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20
My mind is full of Emmett. Poor old guy. Poor, miserable, guilt-ridden, practically suicidal guy. I keep thinking that while I’ve spent the last eleven months climbing out of a hole, he’s spent it digging his hole deeper and deeper. I had no idea. I never even thought of him.
I’m not sure if I actually forgave him. But I told him it was over. I hope it helped. I really hope I helped someone for once in the last year. So many people helped me. I didn’t realize that either, until I was talking to his sister, Fran.
I picked up Dylan from school that afternoon, and Miss Sharon sent home her little class newsletter, which mentioned how they were practicing their manners. (It’s like finishing school for five-year-olds, I swear.) One of the things she’s been trying to teach them is to think of others. The kids are supposed to ask their parents and siblings, “How was your day?”
So, of course, Dylan asked me about my day and what I did. It was pretty cute, actually. Except how do I tell him, “Well, I went to see the guy that killed your father.” Kind of hard to explain. I started out saying I went to visit an elderly man who was very sad. Dylan wanted to know why he was sad. I said the man did something by accident that hurt someone and he was feeling very, very bad about it. Did he say he w
as sorry? Yes, he’s so sorry.
It went on like this for a while, and little by little, the truth leaked out. Dylan already knew that Robby had been hit by a car while he was riding his bike, so that part wasn’t a surprise. What surprised him was that I hadn’t gone to see Emmett sooner! “Didn’t Dad die a long time ago?” he asked me. “How come you let the guy be sad for so long?”
So add that to the list of things I’ve screwed up this year.
Then, Dylan asked—demanded, really—to see Emmett himself! I called Fran to see if poor Emmett was up for another excruciating visit, she said fine, and we went over today. We didn’t stay long because the kids got fidgety. But Emmett and Dylan did talk for a few minutes, and Dylan asked him, “Did my dad say anything?”
Poor Emmett almost lost it. But he pulled himself together, and he told Dylan that Robby died very quickly, so he didn’t get a chance. But Emmett said he thought that if Robby had had the chance, he would have said how much he loved his family.
Dylan smiled. And he said, “Yeah.”
Then we all cried (not the kids, just the grown-ups). I think partly I was crying because I was happy that Dylan heard it from a guy who seemed to have some inside information. Dylan knows Robby loved him, but today he got a sweet little reminder. He wore his goggles on the way home, but he took them off without a word when we pulled in.
So I guess that’s my miracle for today, as Jake used to call it.
JANIE’S MOTHER WAS DUE to arrive on Sunday the twenty-third, but Janie still hadn’t heard from Mike about his plans, so she called. The same woman answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Janie, Mike’s sister.”
“Hi.”
“Are you Mike’s assistant?”
“Well, no, but I do help out in the studio.”
“Oh,” said Janie. And that makes you what, exactly? she wanted to ask. The woman put Mike on the phone.
“Hi!” Mike always sounded surprised to hear from her, as if a call from his sister was a bolt from the blue.
“Hey, when does your flight come in?” Janie asked. “Uncle Charlie needs to know when to start spritzing Armor All on his dashboard.”
Silence on the end of the phone. Her sense of humor rarely made sense to him. He murmured something away from the receiver, then said to Janie, “Alicia says Saturday the twenty-ninth. We’re going to her parents’ house in New York the day after Christmas, then we’ll rent a car and drive up.”
Alicia says?
“So is Alicia your girlfriend?” Janie asked.
“Yeah,” said Mike, and Janie could practically smell the pride wafting through the phone line. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
JANIE HAD A STRANGE reaction to Mike’s news. She felt duped somehow, as if it were a trick he had played on her. Mike didn’t play tricks; he didn’t even get fairly simple jokes. Why was she so bent out of shape?
She lay in bed that night trying to talk herself out of her agitation over The Girlfriend. Mike had had girlfriends before, but they usually didn’t last very long. They were often artists themselves and dazzled by his talent. The relationships lasted as long as it took for them to realize that Mike’s lack of social grace did, in fact, matter, and was not that appealing on a day-to-day basis. Janie usually found out about them by accident. Mike almost never even mentioned them.
This was different. Mike was bringing Alicia to meet her, for one thing, a feat never before attempted in their thirty-eight years of twin-hood. He seemed excited about it. Janie assumed he would bring her to Cormac’s wedding. They would dance together while Janie sat alone at the table looking wistful…
Ah, now she was getting somewhere. You’re jealous, she realized. For once in your life, Mike has a date and you don’t, not the other way around. But there was more to it than that. When she’d talked to Mike at Thanksgiving, he was so upset about Robby. It had fanned the flames of her own anguish and had been a factor in her pulling away from Tug.
Why couldn’t she take off the ring? Partly she had worried that it would be a shock to Mike. It would be a shock to everyone when she showed up without it someday. It would seem as if she were over Robby. And while she herself knew she would never be over him completely—as Tug had said, like the bit of fence that remained in the tree trunk—it was a very different thing to make such a public statement that she was moving on. Her improved mental state seemed shameful to her.
She had the strangest urge to call Jake and ask his advice. He was always so good at helping her clarify things.
Hi, Jake? she imagined herself saying. It’s me, Janie. Yeah, the woman who had that infectious crush on you and practically asked you to leave the priesthood for her? Well, forget about that, I’m into this new guy now, and I really want to get together with him, but I can’t seem to take my wedding ring off because I’m ashamed that I might be feeling too good. Your thoughts?
Janie rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.
THE DAY THAT NOREEN was due to arrive, Uncle Charlie had a back spasm and was unable to sit up straight, much less drive to the airport. Janie ended up making the trip with the kids. It wasn’t so bad, not as much of a burden as she expected. The kids loved watching the planes taking off and landing, and there was no baggage claim to deal with. Noreen, ever the efficient traveler, only brought carry-on luggage.
On the ride back to the house, Noreen chatted with the children about Italian Christmas traditions. “Have you heard of La Befana?” she asked. “The story goes that when the three wise men were looking for Jesus, they stopped at the cottage of an old woman to ask directions to Bethlehem, and invited her to come along. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have too much housework to do.’
“Can you imagine that?” Noreen asked them. “She turned down a trip to see the Baby Jesus so she could sweep!”
Janie chuckled to herself, knowing her own mother would never make such a mistake. Miss an opportunity to travel? Noreen was the anti-Befana.
“That night,” Noreen went on, “she saw the star in the sky that told her it was all true. The King of Kings had been born, and she’d missed it because she was too busy with her own little worries! Quickly she gathered up some toys to bring to the Baby Jesus, but without the wise men she couldn’t find him. Now she leaves presents for all the good boys and girls in Italy, because she’s sorry she didn’t see what was really important.”
“I want to live in Italy and get presents from that lady!” said Dylan.
Noreen looked to Janie. Janie kept her eyes on the road. “Maybe next summer we can go and visit,” she said. “It will be warm then and we can wear shorts.”
“Italy shorts?” asked Dylan.
“Any kind of shorts you like.” She glanced at her mother. “Maybe this week we can go online and price a trip together.”
Noreen sighed victoriously and settled back in her seat.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER NOREEN had tucked the kids in with promises to make them an Italian Christmas treat called struffoli, Janie paid a visit to the little back bedroom where Noreen was unpacking her clothes and quilting supplies. “Mum, I need your help with something.”
“Of course, dear-o, anything.”
Janie admitted that she had done not one shred of shopping for Christmas presents. She couldn’t face it, she explained. Christmas hadn’t really seemed real to her.
Noreen’s face went dark. “I remember that first Christmas after your father left. Jude bought all my presents for me.”
“I’m alright, Mum. I just need a little help.”
The next day they shopped together while Aunt Jude watched the children. It wasn’t so bad after all. Noreen had some good suggestions, and they ended up laughing over some of the more ridiculous items for sale: a home body-piercing kit; a T-shirt that said “Fishermen Do It with Baited Breath”; a slightly maniacal-looking Mrs. Claus doll that sang “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” in a high-pitched whine. It was Christmas Eve—most shoppers wore signs of half-desperate, half-del
irious panic.
“Okay,” said Janie, when they’d finished. “I just don’t have anything for you, yet.”
“Well, you’ve let me help you, for once—that’s a very generous gift, to my mind.”
“Come on, Mum. That’s not much to open tomorrow morning.”
“Then research the trip with me tonight, and let me tell the kids about it when they wake up,” said Noreen. “That’s all I ever wish for.”
THERE WAS NO CHRISTMAS Eve Mass offered at Immaculate Conception Church in Natick. By way of the church bulletin, the elderly Father Gilroy announced that he had detected a distinct “lack of interest,” and simply canceled it. Janie didn’t want to go to Mass on Christmas morning. It broke up the day. It wasn’t how they did it. And besides, she wanted her old church back.
“Let’s just go to the five o’clock at Our Lady’s,” she told her mother and Aunt Jude, who agreed as they shot quick glances at each other. Janie pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything snotty.
And there they were, in their usual pew at Our Lady, Comforter of the Afflicted Church. Thankfully they had gotten there early—people were standing three deep at the back. CAPE Catholics, Uncle Charlie liked to call them. Only came to church on Christmas, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, and Easter.
Father Jake processed up the aisle with several more candle bearers and book holders than usual, with all the solemn joy of a Christmas Eve service. Janie wondered what he was thinking, how he was doing. He rose and sat, blessed them and led them in the “Gloria.” He adjusted his round wireless glasses and checked the tiny microphone attached to the collar of his vestments. She missed him. Not this priest, but the man she knew under all the robes and rituals. Jake, her friend.