All She Ever Wanted

by Lynn Austin

  My mother closed her eyes and slowly tore the form in half.

  “No!” I screamed.

  “I’ll get you the money,” she said quietly. I scrambled to my feet and pulled the mangled papers out of her hands.

  “How? Are you going to steal it, like Daddy? Well, don’t bother! I’m leaving home and never coming back!”

  I packed my meager belongings in the suitcase Connie had given me for a graduation present, and left. I was so angry and frustrated that I walked out to the county highway and hitched a ride to Bensenville with a car full of hippies. They dropped me off at the Greyhound station, and I caught a bus to Albany the next day. By the time I reached the campus, I had pieced the loan form together with tape and forged my mother’s signature on it. A receptionist guided me to an information board, and within two days I had found a house full of hippies who were looking for another roommate, and a summer job at a coffee shop close to campus. My working hours were from five-thirty in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon, so I was able to work a second job washing dishes at a restaurant from four o’clock in the afternoon until closing. I worked myself to exhaustion every day that summer, but I didn’t care. Nobody knew the old Kathleen Gallagher who’d had cooties and a Communist uncle and a thieving father. I was starting life all over again.

  Two weeks after moving to Albany, I came home to my apartment after a long shift at the restaurant and saw Uncle Leonard’s beat-up car parked at the curb. It could have been any one of my family members, since they all used his car. Even Poke took it for joyrides whenever he felt like it, never caring that he was only fourteen.

  But when I got closer I saw Uncle Leonard himself sitting on the front stoop with his head in his hands. He looked like a cadaver in the yellowgreen light of the street lamp. He saw me approaching and stood.

  “Kathleen… something terrible has happened,” he said. He gripped my arms, and I wasn’t sure if he was holding me up or leaning on me for support. I waited the longest moment of my life.

  “Your mother is dead.”

  Chapter

  12

  B y the time Kathleen finished telling her story to Joelle, she felt as though she had aged thirty years. She could feel the tension in her shoulders and neck, the writhing knot in her stomach from reliving her past. And she hadn’t even told Joelle the worst of it. Sooner or later she would want to know how her grandmother had died, but right now, Kathleen couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

  Why did she still feel as though her mother’s sudden death was her fault, even though it had happened after she left home? She would have to tell Joelle the details before someone else in the family did, but she had raked up enough muck for one morning.

  “I have to stop for gas,” Kathleen said, switching on the turn signal to exit the highway. “Do you need to get out and stretch? Want a sandwich or something?”

  “Sure. … Mom, don’t you want to just drive into Riverside and find all those horrible people who laughed at you and show them how rich and successful you are now?”

  Kathleen’s answer was quick: “No. I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  The truth was that no matter how hard Kathleen had worked or how successful she’d become, the shame would never go away. She may have changed, but the town’s perception of her probably hadn’t, and after all this time she still feared their scorn.

  “No one will believe it’s true,” she said quietly.

  “Mom, you’re driving a Lexus, for crying out loud.”

  It was on the tip of Kathleen’s tongue to say: They’ll assume I stole it.

  She pulled the car to a halt beside the gas pump, and Joelle hopped out with the grace and energy of youth; Kathleen climbed out as if she were eighty-four instead of fifty-four. She filled the gas tank, and when she went inside to pay for the gas and buy sandwiches and drinks, Joelle set a package of Hostess Twinkies on the counter.

  “These are for you, Mom. To make up for all those times you couldn’t afford them.”

  Kathleen was so touched she could only manage to say, “Thanks.”

  She waited until she’d negotiated the entrance ramp and they were back on the highway before she said, “Do you understand why I wanted a different life for you?” And why I was so upset with you for shoplifting? she wanted to add.

  “I guess so. …”

  “And now that you know a little more about my past, do you understand why I resigned from my job at Impost? They weren’t asking me to break the law, exactly, but it was much too close to the line for me to feel comfortable.”

  “What about Grandma’s story?” Joelle asked after a moment.

  A shadow of dread passed over Kathleen. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you wanted me to hear your story so I could understand you better—and I do, now that I know what a lousy childhood you had and everything. So… what about your mother? Why did she spend so much time in the outhouse? What was her story—what was her childhood like?”

  “My mother would never talk about herself.” Even as she said the words, Kathleen realized that she had never talked about herself, either, for all these years. But what if Joelle was right? What if there was something in her mother’s past that would explain her behavior? Kathleen knew that she needed to forgive her mother for the mistakes she’d made, just as she hoped Joelle would forgive her. But had she ever bothered to try to understand her mother?

  “You don’t know anything about your mom?” Joelle persisted.

  “Not much. … Just a few family stories that have been passed down over the years. My great-grandfather supposedly left Ireland in the 1920s and started all over again in America with my grandmother.”

  “You mean your great-grandmother.”

  “No, his wife stayed behind in Ireland with the rest of the children. Only my grandmother Fiona and her father came over.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Anyway, Grandma Fiona left New York City at some point and started all over again with my mother and Uncle Leonard in Deer Falls, that little resort town in the Pocono Mountains.”

  “What about Fiona’s husband?”

  “I don’t know anything about him. I think he might have died around that time. Anyway, my mother left home during World War II and started all over again in Riverside—where we’re going.”

  And Kathleen had left there in 1968, starting all over again in Albany. What a legacy! Running away from life’s problems.

  “Why did everyone keep leaving home?” Joelle asked.

  “I guess for the same reasons that I did—they wanted to take control of their lives, change the direction they were heading, get out of whatever rut their parents were in.”

  Joelle nodded, looking thoughtful. Kathleen felt a little thrill—they were communicating. And without any help from homely Dr. Russo, thank you very much. Kathleen had a question for Joelle, but she proceeded carefully, as if one false move would send them sliding all the way back to where they’d started, like a tiresome game of Chutes and Ladders.

  “What do you want your life and your future to be, Joelle?”

  “I want…” She stopped, shaking her head. “Whatever. Never mind.”

  “No, I’d really like to know.”

  “It will only make you mad.”

  “That’s okay. I still want to hear it—not so I can talk you out of it, I promise. But so that we can get to know each other a little better. Please?”

  Joelle exhaled, and when she finally spoke, her words came out bitter and tight. “I hate my life.”

  Her words stunned Kathleen. How often had Kathleen voiced the same thoughts when she was growing up—hating her life, hating her poverty and shame. But Joelle had everything Kathleen had dreamed of and longed for. How could she say she hated her life?

  “Why?” Kathleen managed to ask.

  “Because it’s so phony and plastic. I can’t stand the way you and Daddy and all my friends’parents liv
e—it’s like you’re not really living at all!

  You’re just making money and spending it—and not even enjoying it. And you’re all so boring. At least your father and your Uncle Leonard sounded like interesting people.”

  Kathleen wanted to interrupt, to argue that being a criminal or a Communist made life difficult, not interesting. She wanted to defend herself and prove that she really was living and enjoying her life. It was the life she’d chosen and worked for. But she held her tongue and allowed Joelle to finish.

  “I don’t want to live the way you and Daddy do. I want to do something that matters.”

  “Don’t we all?” Kathleen murmured.

  “I mean, I don’t care if I have a job that makes a lot of money. I want to do something to help people.”

  So many thoughts came to Kathleen’s mind: how Joelle had been pampered and catered to since the day she’d been born; how she’d never even helped out around the house, much less helped strangers; how she was accustomed to nice stuff, expensive stuff, and lots of it. Joelle had no idea what it was like to have to scrimp and save just to buy a bottle of shampoo, or how disgusting your clothes smelled when you bought them at the thrift store, or what it was like to go to bed on a bare mattress with an empty stomach. Joelle threw more food into the garbage every day than Kathleen used to eat in a week when she was a child. Her daughter was rich and spoiled and dearly loved, and she took it all for granted.

  But Kathleen didn’t say any of those things. Instead, she pulled out to pass a slow-moving truck, and waited until she was sure her voice would sound encouraging, not critical or sarcastic. “You don’t have to wait to help people, Joelle. Why don’t you go to Mexico on the youth group mission trip this summer?”

  “Mexico!” Joelle’s expression of disgust was priceless, as if she was imagining what it would be like to sleep on the floor or to sacrifice her daily shower and her favorite TV shows or to eat mystery food. And how it would be to rise at dawn to do manual labor all day, coming home sweaty and dirty. Kathleen fought to suppress a smile.

  Joelle eyed Kathleen carefully, as if suspicious of her motives. Kathleen hoped her face didn’t betray her amusement.

  Finally Joelle lifted her chin and looked away. “Maybe I will go to Mexico.”

  Kathleen finally grinned. “My uncle Leonard would be proud of you.”

  They pulled into a motel in Bensenville a little after three o’clock. Joelle had been dozing. Kathleen rubbed her shoulder. “Joelle, we’re here.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed around, still groggy. “Is this the town where you grew up?”

  “Not quite. There aren’t any hotels in Riverside. This is the closest town that has one.”

  “Why aren’t we staying with your family?”

  “Um… no room.” Hadn’t she been listening? Didn’t Kathleen just explain how poor her family was, what a dilapidated house she’d lived in? Kathleen wanted a clean bathroom and a firm mattress—and as little contact with her family as possible. Joelle should thank her for it.

  They checked into the hotel, and Joelle flopped onto one of the beds with the TV remote. Kathleen couldn’t seem to relax. Retelling the story of her past had reminded her of how much Mrs. Hayworth had once meant to her, and she was sorry they’d lost contact. On impulse, Kathleen pulled the phone book out of the nightstand drawer to see if there was a listing for her. There was, and it was at the same street address in Riverside where she’d always lived. Kathleen quickly dialed the number before she lost her nerve. She found herself half-hoping Mrs. Hayworth wouldn’t answer, afraid of the memories that would be unearthed if she did. Cynthia answered on the second ring.

  “Why, Kathleen Gallagher!” she said after Kathleen identified herself. “How are you? I was just thinking about you the other day when I read about your brother in the newspaper.”

  A shudder passed through Kathleen at the mention of her brother. She wondered what crime he’d committed this time to get his name in the paper. She could barely answer Mrs. Hayworth’s question as she fought the urge to leap into her car and flee home to Maryland.

  “Um… good. I’m good. I’m here in town, actually. Well, in Bensenville.”

  “Wonderful! Why don’t you come over for a visit?”

  “I’d hate to bother you if you’re busy…”

  “Nonsense. I’m a seventy-nine-year-old widow. How busy do you imagine I could be? I’d love to see you.” Kathleen didn’t feel right about accepting Cynthia’s invitation to dinner, but she finally agreed to stop by afterward for coffee.

  “Isn’t Mrs. Hayworth your friend May Elizabeth’s mother?” Joelle asked when Kathleen told her where she was going.

  “Yes. She invited me to come over later. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. I won’t stay long. The hotel pool looks nice.”

  Joelle shrugged. “I’ll come.” She punched the TV remote lazily, flipping through the channels, then suddenly sat up. “Hey, do you suppose they still have their bomb shelter? It would be awesome to see it!”

  Cynthia Hayworth met them at the front door, struggling to quiet a yapping little dog named Fluff. Kathleen thought of the break-in fortyodd years ago and wondered if it would have happened if the Hayworths had owned Fluff back then.

  The Hayworth house, which had once seemed so huge and modern and glamorous to Kathleen, now looked small and outdated, like something from a 1960s museum. The sunken living room looked unchanged after all this time and even had the same brocade sofa she remembered. The pastel bathroom fixtures hadn’t been updated, either, but the little doll that once hid the roll of toilet paper had disappeared, replaced by a bowl of potpourri. Kathleen glanced at the floor as she entered the front foyer, looking for the spot on the carpet where Poke and JT had thrown up, but the shag carpeting had been replaced.

  Kathleen never would have recognized Cynthia if they had passed each other on the street. But when she looked closely, she could still see the glamorous woman she remembered underneath the aging exterior. Cynthia was still elegant—a classy lady—wearing a dress and jewelry and nylons, even on a warm summer evening. Her silvery hair looked freshly done. Kathleen felt a jolt of surprise to realize that her own mother would be in her late seventies, too, if she had lived. In Kathleen’s mind, her mother would always look the way she had the last time she had seen her, remaining forty-four forever.

  They chatted comfortably as they sipped coffee and lemonade, catching up on each other’s lives. Kathleen was touched by the kind way that Cynthia drew Joelle into the conversation.

  “How are May Elizabeth and Ron?” Kathleen asked after awhile.

  “May is on her third husband, I’m sorry to say. She has three children, one from each, and lives in Atlanta. Ron went into his father’s business, of course. He runs the factory now. He married Debbie Harris—remember her? They have three children, too, and their second grandchild is on the way.” The idea of Ron Hayworth as a grandfather made Kathleen feel very old.

  “I was telling Joelle on the way here what it was like growing up in Riverside, and I realized that I’ve never thanked you for helping me. You always made me feel welcome in your home, and you took an interest in our family and helped us out with clothes and things. You put your faith into action. And it’s thanks to you that I’m a Christian today.”

  “Oh, dear,” Cynthia said with a worried look. “I have a confession to make. I’m afraid that my motives weren’t entirely unselfish, years ago. You see, I knew your mother before you were born, before she married your father. We were once best friends.”

  Kathleen couldn’t reply. She couldn’t picture it. How could classy Cynthia Hayworth be best friends with frumpy Eleanor Gallagher? No. Cynthia might as well have told Kathleen that her mother had once been best friends with the Queen of England. But then, hadn’t Kathleen and May Elizabeth once been unlikely friends, too?

  “I always felt guilty about how differently things turned out for your mother and me,” Cynthia continued, n
ervously stroking the dog’s fur. “So I decided to help Eleanor and her family—behind the scenes, so to speak.

  Then I grew very fond of you, of course. I felt so bad when you stopped coming to church. I know it was partly because May Elizabeth treated you so badly once you girls got to junior high and high school, and I still feel so sorry about it all.”

  Kathleen barely heard Cynthia’s apology as a hundred questions swirled through her mind. “When did you know my mother?” she asked. “Where did you meet her? I know Mom left Deer Falls and came here, but do you know when or why? We were just wondering about that, weren’t we, Joelle? My mother never talked much about herself.”

  “I wish now that I would have told you about my friendship with your mother when you were growing up. Maybe it would have helped you understand her better if you’d known a little bit more of her story. But then again, May Elizabeth knew all about me, and it didn’t seem to help our relationship.”

  “How did you and Mom meet?”

  “Eleanor and I both came to town after Pearl Harbor to work in my husband’s factory. Of course, it wasn’t his factory back then, and he wasn’t my husband. It was called Riverside Electronics, not Hayworth Industries. They had converted it into a defense plant during the war to manufacture electrical components and things like that. Eleanor and I were very, very different—yet we also had a lot in common. We were both born during the Roaring Twenties, spent our childhood under the cloud of the Great Depression, and came of age during the worst war the world had ever seen. And then we both applied for a job on the very same day. …

  Chapter

  13

  RIVERSIDE, NEW YORK— 1942

  Cynthia Weaver waited in the crowded front office at Riverside Electronics, wondering where she could go and what she would do if they didn’t hire her. It hadn’t taken very long to fill out the employment form since her only work experience had been on her family’s farm. She hoped it would count for something. Women filled the tiny office: most of them older than Cynthia, many of them housewives in calico shifts and no-nonsense shoes, all of them looking for work. She felt out of place dressed in her Sunday best, but compared to the young woman sitting in the chair across from her, Cynthia felt like she’d just fallen off the turnip truck.