by Liza Palmer
My chest clenches as I remember.
I am standing outside of All Saints Church.
“You have to go in, Gracie. Your family needs you,” John whispers. I’m clutching the “program” for my own mother’s funeral. IN MEMORIAM: EVELYN BONITA HAWKES. AUGUST 11, 1948–AUGUST 29, 2004.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I say, my eyes closed as I luxuriate in the wind on my face.
John waits. I don’t move. I don’t do anything. He probably doesn’t know that this isn’t happening. This is all a dream. This is where the entire world morphs into a roller coaster ride and we all realize we’ve showed up to work without our pants on.
“Grace…” John soothes, coming up beside me. His hair smells of the shower, his black-as-pitch eyes are rimmed in red, his just-shaved face is soft and inviting.
“I’ve had some time to think about it,” I start.
John is quiet. Cautious.
“It’s not real,” I say, distant and unaffected.
“What?” John asks, his face worried.
“A dream,” I clarify, breathing in.
“Grace—” John says.
“We’re going to wake up any minute,” I say, sure of myself. John pulls me in for a hug. My arms are lifeless at my sides.
“Gracie…” John whispers, his mouth so close to my ear, our bodies knotted in a black-clad tangle. This can’t be happening.
“Any minute now,” I repeat, my head on his chest. John takes a big breath and squeezes me tighter.
“John… Grace, we have to go in,” Huston says, appearing in the gray, arched doorway, his face expressionless. His suit is perfectly pressed. John warily lets go of me and turns to Huston.
“You… you okay?” John asks.
“I’m fine,” Huston answers, his voice detached and lifeless. John helplessly stuffs his hands into his pockets. We’re all fine.
“I’m on my way,” I say, my voice coming from some other body. Huston walks into the church, a tiny slip of paper in his hand. I can literally hear the world stop turning. The wind stops blowing. No birds. No leaves rustling.
“The wind stopped,” I note, my voice now a distant rumble.
“Grace, we have to go in,” John urges, taking my hand. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything.
“Oh, sure… sure…” I dreamily answer, straightening my dress. John tightens his grip around my hand, his brow furrowed. We climb the stairs to the church as I anticipate the alarm clock buzzer that will surely awaken me from this nightmare.
And I wait.
My heart seemed to simply stop serving as anything but a vital organ. No emotion seeped in or out of its sealed chambers the day Mom died. I suppose that made it easier to walk away… from Huston, Abigail and Leo. From Evie. From John: a man who demanded my whole heart. After that day, I simply had nothing to give.
I look up to see Abigail. She is still. Her shoulders hunched over… exhausted. She’s looking at a pile of letters that are strewn on Dad’s desk.
“What… what is it?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Letters. Unopened and returned. Addressed to Mom,” Abigail says, flipping through the pile of letters on the desk.
“How many?” I say, unable to fully grasp what I’m seeing. What exactly happened between Mom and Dad? And were we just the collateral damage of their star-crossed love affair?
“Tons,” Abigail answers, carefully sifting through the letters.
“Open one,” I say, quiet. Unable to touch them.
Abigail picks one up that has come open from being in the drawer so long. She slips her fingers inside the envelope and delicately unfolds the piece of paper within. She reads. I’m not breathing. Abigail flips the letter around revealing two words.
I’m sorry.
Abigail opens another letter: I’m sorry. Another: I’m sorry. Another: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. A thousand times… I’m sorry.
“She never read them,” Abigail sighs, holding one in her hand. The paper wrinkles and sags like a little dead body.
“How many times can you say you’re sorry and still cheat?” I ask, remembering the women who called the house and hung up whenever we answered. The women Dad brought home to “jam with.” The women Dad got caught with at various hotels/coffeehouses/bars. The women he prized more than Mom. The women he prized more than us.
“I know.” Abigail nods.
“What was she supposed to do? What would you have done?” I ask. How was it possible that two people who loved each other just simply couldn’t live with each other?
“I would have done the same thing,” Abigail confesses, putting the letter back down on the desk. She sifts through the wreckage and pulls a single piece of paper off the desk. I shuffle through the letters, trying not to think about the choices I’ve made. The shortsighted choices that felt good at the time. I can easily envision a future that has me writing a thousand letters with the same two words. Abigail’s entire body sags as she reads the sheet of paper she’s unearthed.
“He was there,” she sighs, cradling the paper.
“There? Where? What… what are you talking about?” I ask, reaching for the paper in her hand. The program. IN MEMORIAM: EVELYN BONITA HAWKES. AUGUST 11, 1948–AUGUST 29, 2004.
“He was there,” Abigail says again. She is growing angry. She wants answers. We all do.
“You didn’t mail him this?” I ask, holding the program carefully.
“No!” Abigail insists, some of that anger being funneled my way. I back off.
“Okay,” I soothe, secretly flipping the program around, looking for proof it wasn’t mailed. Abigail narrows her eyes at me.
“Jesus, Grace—he was there,” Abigail yelps, snatching back the program.
“None of this makes any sense,” I mumble, shaking my head.
“We’ll figure it out later. Let’s just get the documents we need and get the hell out of this haunted house,” Abigail says, her voice dipping when she says the word hell. She collects herself once and for all.
“Right… right,” I agree, taking a deep breath. Abigail sets the program aside, stacks all the letters and robotically gets back to the job at hand.
“Okay—here’s his Social Security card. That’s one,” Abigail says, laying the tattered blue piece of paper on the desktop. Raymond Mateo Hawkes.
“You named Mateo after Dad?” I ask, holding up the evidence.
“I liked the name,” Abigail says, over her shoulder.
“Ah, you liked the name,” I repeat with disdain.
“Later… remember?” she warns, pulling out file after old file. I open the steno notepad back up and flip through the pages while Abigail shuffles through the old file folders. I scan the entries.
“Dad must have a rental,” I say, noticing there’s another address that he seems to be paying the mortgage on.
“Oh yeah?” Abigail says, pulling out an old Medicare bill. That’s two out of three. All we need now is his medical insurance card. I flip the pages of the steno notepad some more.
“He pays the utilities there, too. Sweet deal. Remember that apartment over Top’s Burgers where the utilities were paid?” I ask.
“We should probably let the tenant know what’s going on, just in case there are any problems,” Abigail says, sifting through papers and files deep in the desk.
“We can add it to the list of things we’re not going to be pushy about,” I say, still flipping the pages of the steno. Abigail gives me a little smile as she continues to search for the final document.
“Nana Marina must have been loaded,” Abigail says, flipping through Dad’s banking records.
“And Dad got everything,” I say, flipping another page.
“Aha!” Abigail says, holding up the medical insurance card victoriously.
“Abigail?! Abigail?!” Leo calls, bounding up the stairs. It sounds as if a herd of buffalo are following him.
My stomach drops. Oh, shit. Connie’s back. Connie’s back?!
“In here,” Abigail says, closing the drawer and stacking the necessary documents to take to Nurse Miller. She’s trying to act calm and collected, but I notice her hands are shaking as she piles the documents and starts for the door.
“I told you she was coming back,” I say, feeling nauseated.
“We’ll just explain to her that we needed the documents. Nurse Miller will have to back us up, she knows we need—” Abigail is cut off by Leo breathlessly approaching the office door. The twins are right on his tail. Evie is just next to him, ready to burst. I close the steno pad as I formulate a plan to duck out the back.
“Is she in the house already, or did you just spot the car?” I blurt, not able to help myself.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine—” Abigail says, herding everyone out of the office. Leo stops us.
“No… no. It’s not that,” Leo says, stopping us cold.
“Not what?” I need clarification.
“Connie’s not here,” Leo quickly replies.
“Then is the house on fire, because that’s the only other reason you should have come barreling up here like th—” I start.
“No woman lives here, Gracie. No woman has lived here for a very long time. Like since Nana Marina,” Leo interrupts.
chapter thirteen
What are you talking about?” I say.
“No pwetty soaps,” Emilygrae offers.
“Just because there are no pretty soaps, mija, doesn’t mean—” Abigail begins.
“There aren’t any woman’s clothes,” Evie adds.
“Are you proud of yourselves? I believe there’s a grassy knoll out back, maybe the women live there?” I say, eyeing Leo.
“It’s not a conspiracy theory. Where are Connie’s clothes? Where is all the… girl stuff?” Leo stutters.
“What are you trying to find? Tampax? I think Connie’s a little long in the tooth for that,” I say, shutting the desk drawer and looking to Abigail.
“Leo, Connie and Ray are married. They live in this house. Now, we need to get back with these documents,” Abigail says, herding the children out of the office.
“Will you just come look?!” Leo shouts.
We are all silent. Shocked. Emilygrae and Mateo move closer to Abigail. Evie looks uncomfortable at Leo’s tone. Even Leo looks a little taken aback.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” Leo says, taking Abigail’s hand, and as is always the way—no one can tell Leo no.
“You have five minutes,” Abigail says.
Leo leads us into the first bedroom that Abigail and I walked into. The depressing worn-out comforter and the half pillows are just as dismal the second time around. Leo goes over to the closet door and opens it wide.
“Well?” he says, standing back so that Abigail and I can see inside. It’s one of those older-home closets—small and cramped. It is packed with men’s clothes: jackets, slacks, shirts, all in some shade of navy, black or gray. The floor of the closet is littered with luggage and a couple of random pair of shoes. All men’s.
“Honey, a lot of couples spread their clothes out over several closets. Women tend to have more clothes than men,” Abigail says. Leo shuts the closet door.
“That’s what we thought, too,” Leo says.
“But we checked all the closets and nothing. No girl clothes,” Evie adds.
“No gore cloves,” Emilygrae repeats quietly.
“Not even on the floor,” says Evie.
“Not even in the washa-machine,” Mateo says.
“We need to get back to the hospital with these documents. It’s a proud moment for everyone. We should really consider writing Parenting magazine,” I say. Leo sighs loudly and looks at Evie.
“What…” Abigail says absently, obviously not listening.
“We should probably get back before Leo recruits the kids as drug mules,” I say. Leo crosses his arms across his chest.
“What were you saying about that other property?” Abigail starts. Leo perks up.
“That Dad had a rental?” I say, lifting up the steno pad. Leo glares at me.
“How do we know it’s a rental?” Abigail asks. Leo steps forward.
“We don’t… I guess,” I say.
“No, we don’t. Two pieces of property for two different people,” Abigail says, walking out of the bedroom and back into the office.
“This isn’t an episode of Law and Order,” I argue, following Abigail into the office.
“We can’t dismiss the whole ‘sons of bitches’ thing,” Leo whispers, just out of kid earshot.
“I’m certainly not defending what she said, I swear. But can we just take a second here? Grief makes you do and say some crazy stuff. Trust me… I know,” I plead. Leo darts around me and joins Abigail by Dad’s desk. He sees the program.
“What��s this?” Leo asks, holding up the program.
“The program to Mom’s funeral,” I say, promising myself that we’re not trying to figure that out just yet.
“Did you mail it to him?” Leo asks Abigail.
“Why do people keep asking me that?” Abigail exclaims.
“We think he was there,” I say quietly.
“And those?” he asks, pointing to the stack of letters.
“Unopened letters from Dad to Mom saying I’m sorry… over and over again,” I say, mechanically.
“Awesome,” Leo mumbles. He shakes his head. My thoughts exactly.
“A haunted house,” I say.
“We need to get out of here,” Leo agrees, opening a drawer in a small file cabinet just to the side of Dad’s desk.
“I never wanted to come in here in the first place,” I say.
“Then let’s find what we’re looking for,” Abigail says. The kids are riveted.
“Here we go,” Leo says, pulling out a file filled with bills.
“Anything?” Abigail asks, looking over Leo’s shoulder.
“This is marked November 2005. It’s all of the paid bills for that month,” Leo explains, flipping through the bills in the file. We all watch. And wait.
“There! There!” Abigail blurts, pointing inside the file folder.
“It’s the water and power bill for 1375 Daly Street. Constance Noonan,” Leo proclaims, holding up the bill.
None of us knows what to do. We just stand there and stare at one another. Even the kids are silent.
“We’re driving by,” Abigail says, looking at her watch and heading out of Dad’s little haunted office.
“Wait, what?” I say, following her out.
“If Connie’s living at this Daly house, she’s just about to leave for the hospital. We can catch her coming out,” Abigail says, hopping down the stairs. I race down after her, carefully avoiding eye contact with Nana Marina’s crucifix. Old habits. Leo, the damning water bill and the kids are behind me.
“And do what? Tackle her? Ask her to go on Judge Judy? Will you just be rational,” I plead, whirling her around at the bottom of the stairs.
“She’s been lying to us, Grace. Lying! She’s been making us feel like second-class citizens while our father is dying. I’m not going to tackle her, but I sure as hell want to,” Abigail says, wriggling her arm free and walking out, the word hell not whispered in the least.
“Listen, will you? Abigail!?” I yell, following her. Leo stands on the porch with the kids safely behind him as Abigail strides down the front walk, opens the minivan door and waits. Leo looks down at the kids and then to me.
“There’s no harm in driving by. Evie, close the door,” Leo says, stepping down off the porch with the twins on either side. I finally catch up to Abigail.
“Are you actually thinking about this? Do you think maybe stalking a senior citizen with your children in tow might be a bad idea?” I say.
“She doesn’t know what kind of car we drive, besides what’s worse? Figuring out that she doesn’t live there or finding out that she does?” Abigail says, latching Emilygrae into her car seat as I latch in Mateo. Evie climbs i
nto the third row with Leo.
“You know, it could just be Dennis who lives there. Sure, it’s not exactly a good thing that a billion-year-old man is mooching off his stepfather, but that could explain all of this,” I say, climbing into the front seat. I look back at Leo. His face is resolute. Scary, even.
“Could be,” Abigail says, inputting the Daly house into her GPS. The machine bells on and tells us to flip around and head back the way we came. The directions are brief: this other house is apparently within walking distance.
I sit back in my chair and stay quiet. I can’t believe this. We’re stalking an old lady. Stalking. Old lady. A soccer mom, her jailbird brother, the AWOL sister and a pack of kids. In a minivan. Are stalking Everyone’s Nana. This is the worst cloak-and-dagger shit I’ve ever seen.
If we get caught… if Connie, wait… if Connie sees us, that means she’s coming out of the Daly house. Which means she doesn’t live at Dad’s house. Which means that… she lied to us. She made us feel unwelcome at our own father’s bedside. I buckle my seat belt across my chest just as the GPS unit tells us we’re arriving. Not quite the gesture of unification I was hoping it would be.
“Okay, there it is. It’s a town house, that one… the beigey one on the corner,” Abigail says, pointing at a very modest town house that looks kind of new compared to the other houses in the neighborhood.
“If you pull over on the other street we might not be quite as visible,” Leo says, leaning forward and pointing to a much busier street where our car might not stand out as much. I don’t bother reminding Leo that our stalkee is an old lady and not Henry Hill from Goodfellas and therefore probably not scanning the streets for our impromptu stakeout.
Abigail makes a quick U-turn and parks on the north side of the cross street. All of us fight the urge to duck down. Or at least I do. As I turn around and look at the back of the minivan, I see Emilygrae and Mateo have unlatched themselves and are now crouching on the floor along with Leo and Evie.
“She’ll see you!” Emilygrae giggles. I crawl back into the minivan and crouch down by the door, where Leo had crouched earlier this morning. Abigail squats down between the two front seats, poking her head up now and again to get a better look. Leo comes up and squats next to me. The minutes pass. It’s nearly eight-thirty a.m.