“When can we ask her?” Radha whispered to me. “I, like, need to know. Or I’m going to explode.”
“I’ve never been very good at being patient,” I told her. “But we have to try. I know Heather. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
I’d just finished helping my second bride when I spotted Micki slip into her office. I took my moment, following her in. I had lots of things on my shopping list, but only one absolute goal. It was the reason I justified coming back to the shop.
“You’re taking this back,” I said, handing her a check. “I spent a thousand of it on Dr. Indigo, which I shouldn’t have done. I’ll work for free on Sundays until I pay you back.”
Micki stared at the check as though it were a pit stain on a silk dress. “Nope,” she said.
“I’m not spending this,” I said. “Where did you get it anyway?”
I watched her face closely as she struggled for an answer. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. Did this come from sacrifice? I don’t want you giving up anything for me.”
“It’s not for you,” she said, growing angrier, “it’s for Kylie.”
“I love my daughter, and I’d do anything for her, but neither of us wants you to go without because you’re paying our bills.”
“We’re family,” Micki said. “That means something to me.”
I’ve got to admit, as complicated as her answer was to me, it still sent a shiver of satisfaction up my spine. But still, I knew for a fact the Patels didn’t have this kind of money to spare. “Where did you get it?” I repeated. “I need to know.”
Micki sat at her sewing table. She unspooled a length of ribbon and wrapped it around her fingers. “I took out a small business loan.”
“You what? Oh, Micki.”
She shook her head. “People do it all the time, and for lesser reasons. Sandy and I made the decision together.”
My bullshit meter started spinning. “Sandy agreed to give this money to me, a stranger? I have a hard time believing that.”
She tugged hard on her hot-pink sweatshirt. “I think I’m getting a hot flash.”
“You are not. Tell me the truth.”
“Fine. Sandy only agreed to it if I promised to use half of the money to fund our adoption of Radha.”
That felt like a swift punch to my midsection. “All of your money should be used toward making that happen.”
“Two good causes. You can’t argue with that.”
I needed to argue with it, but I couldn’t find the words.
It turned out I’d have a while to come up with something.
“Mommy, help!”
Kylie’s voice reached me through the closed door. I grabbed my purse with the EpiPen.
“Mommy!”
My heart stalled, but my feet didn’t. I could feel Micki at my heels.
But it wasn’t Kylie who needed my help, it was Bernie.
She lay on the floor, a tiny, fallen bird. A large man was bent over her, carefully administering CPR. Heather was screaming into the phone, pacing. Radha was curled up into a little ball.
I knelt at Bernie’s head. “I can take over if you need,” I told the man. “I’m trained.”
He nodded, red-faced. “She’s so fragile. I’m afraid I’m hurting her.”
I quickly took his place, shutting down my emotions as best I could. I tilted Bernie’s small head back, gave her what I hoped were breaths her body would accept, and then began my compressions.
“I called 911,” Heather yelled, though she was right next to me. “Oh my God.”
I kept going, focusing on the task. I could hear Kylie crying, but I didn’t let anything register. Breath, breath, compressions. Breath, breath, compressions. I didn’t know if it was working. I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t tell how much time passed before the EMTs took over. I fell back against the coffee table, disoriented and panting. The paramedics were already getting Bernie into the back of the ambulance before it struck me that I should follow.
“Can I come with?” I asked.
I heard someone say, “Are you family?”
“No.”
“I am,” Micki said, pushing past everyone and climbing in. “I’m her daughter.”
The EMT gave her a look but didn’t protest.
“Call us!” I shouted. And then the doors slammed, and the sirens blared, and somehow I found my way back inside.
“So, what happened?”
Heather made coffee for me and the helpful stranger, and hot cocoa for Kylie and Radha. We sat huddled in the middle of the store, numb with both shock and worry, and tried not to stare at Bernie’s abandoned purse and sweater on the floor in front of us.
“She wanted to try on a veil. Radha grabbed it while I was chatting with Melvin here, who just walked in to say hi.”
“It’s Mel,” said the man. He smiled at me, and I saw kindness in his eyes. “I came to see Heather. I manage O’Malley’s Pub on the weekends, right next door.”
I knew I should say it was nice to meet him, or some kind of pleasantry, but I could only bob my head a little.
“I didn’t get the veil she wanted,” Radha said miserably. “She was crabbing at me, and I said to hold up, I’d find the right one. When I turned around, I heard a loud noise.” Radha started to cry. “Bernie fell over. She was on the carpet, and she wasn’t moving.”
“Then, Mel said he knew CPR, and I called 911,” Heather said. Her hand was shaking so much she put down her mug. “She looked so pale and lifeless. Did it seem like the CPR was working?”
“I’m not sure,” Mel said. “I don’t even know if I was doing it right. I’ve only practiced on mannequins. It’s a lot harder in real life.”
“She’s so fragile,” I said. “Her tiny bones. I didn’t want to hurt her. I hope I didn’t break any of her ribs.”
“You had her life in your hands,” Heather said. “I don’t think Bernie’s going to mind a broken rib.”
I thought about that. I’d had Kylie’s life in my hands when I administered the EpiPen that kept her throat from closing up. I’d felt in control then. With Bernie, it felt like trying to grasp sand as it slipped through your fingers—her spirit flittered in and out of this world. Was I supposed to keep pulling it back? Regardless, I had to try. I sent a quick message out into the universe. Please let her make it. I don’t think she’s done here.
We waited. Radha closed up the shop, and Mel had food sent over from the pub, though none of us could eat. I had a few nut-free snacks for Kylie, and she picked at them.
I should take her home, I thought. She’s exhausted, and she has school tomorrow. Her face was flushed, and red shot through the whites of her eyes. I shifted closer to her and pulled her skinny body onto my lap. “You tired, baby? Do you want to go home?”
Kylie sat upright. “No. No way. We have to wait until we hear Bernie is okay.”
A cold thought, a shard of ice piercing my frontal lobe, nearly stole my breath. We all wanted Bernie to be okay, but I knew too well how little that could mean sometimes. “Let’s hope,” I told Kylie. “That’s all we can do.”
Sometimes hope is not enough. Three hours later Micki came back, supported by a devastated Sandy. “She’s gone,” she said as we rushed her. “Oh my God, she’s gone.”
CHAPTER 23
It felt wrong, being in Bernie’s house, going through her meager belongings, trying to pretend we had a right. Micki actually did have every reason to be there—we’d found Bernie’s important papers neatly stacked in an old metal file cabinet, and Micki was both sole beneficiary and executor.
“Well, that’s pretty convenient,” my mom said, not bothering to lower her voice.
“Shut it,” I scolded her. “I mean it.”
“It’s fine,” Micki said, though her forehead scrunched like she was trying not to cry.
My mom took the news hard. It had been years since her parents had died, but Bernie’s passing resurrected the angriest part o
f her grief. She’d insisted on coming along, and her mood was protective and suspicious.
Micki, Sandy, Radha, Mom, Kylie, Heather, and I—our strange sort of family moved through Bernie’s house, searching for clues about how she lived her life, in the hopes it would tell us how she wanted us to honor her death.
“Bernadette Dunleavy. Was she Catholic?” Mom asked. “She’d want a church ceremony and a burial.”
“We don’t know,” Sandy said. “She was around all the time, but she wasn’t very forthcoming about her life.”
Kylie and I went through her closet, an irony that wasn’t lost on me. Without the wedding dresses, the space was nearly empty. Bernie had been mortified when Micki gently explained what Radha had been doing, and she’d returned the wedding dresses immediately. Though giving them back had been the right thing for her to do, I almost wished she’d died with them in her closet, a strange sort of legacy. “Find a nice outfit for Bernie,” I said to Kylie. “One she’d really like.”
Timid about going through someone else’s things, Kylie hesitated. “Why?”
“Because we need something to bury her in,” I said, deciding to be honest. “We need to bring it to the funeral home.”
“She liked wedding dresses,” Kylie said. “Let’s ask Micki if we could have one.”
Was that macabre? Inappropriate? I wasn’t certain, but I agreed to ask.
Kylie placed a palm on the closet door. “When Grandma’s mom died, we made those posters with all the old photos, remember?”
“I sure do.” Gathering up the photos of my grandmother had been traumatic, but taping them to the poster board was the first step toward healing—my grandmother had lived a full life, a happy life. It was there for all to see, and as people made their way to pay their final respects, they smiled with satisfaction, remembering Gloria Stefancyk exactly as they should have, a happy, grounded, community pillar of a woman.
“We need to do that for Bernie,” Kylie insisted. “So everyone who comes can see who she was.”
“That is a fantastic idea, my little warrior.” I glanced around. “Finding photos might be a little tricky, but everyone has some, right? Let’s look.”
We looked. And looked. Bernie could confound a CIA operative—Kylie and I could not find a single shred of evidence that she had a past. After a while, Kylie gave up and dashed off to help my mom, who had insisted on finishing up the projects she’d promised Bernie.
I sat on Bernie’s stiff mattress, scanning the room one more time. Where would I keep my valuables if I was an intensely private ninety-year-old woman?
I stood up quickly and lifted the mattress. It was the oldest hiding place in the book. But then, Bernie probably was around when the book was written.
Jackpot. There were some assorted papers and manila folders, and a clear sleeve envelope that held a few photographs.
Selfishly, I wanted to sift through them by myself first. The envelope was stiff with age. I reached inside and pulled out a photograph. The colors got me first, the saturated Kodak colors of postwar America, the colors that made everything look cleaner and more vibrant. I recognized Bernie immediately. Her cropped silver hair was a rich chestnut, and she wore a full-skirted dress in peacock blue. With her head thrown back in laughter, she looked exactly as she did during the fashion show, when her dress revealed more than we’d intended.
Another woman, taller and rounder than Bernie, sat next to her. Her cheeks were rosy and cherubic, and her honey-toned hair hung loose to her shoulders. Her laugh was more reserved, but the glee in her eyes told me that she was just as amused. It was a lovely photograph. We could definitely use it.
I turned it over, eager to see if she’d written the year or any other information on the back.
Me and Regina, 1956.
My heart went still.
Regina.
Reggie.
Oh, Bernie, I thought. Oh, you sweet woman. This was your love.
There were four more. Bernie and Regina standing in front of Marshall Field’s in the ’60s, older but still laughing. Bernie and Regina sitting in front of a Christmas tree in some nondescript house, pointing at an older man wearing a Beatles mop top wig. Bernie and Regina sitting in the front row of what looked like an in-store fashion show, in the ’50s.
But it was the last one that took my shattered heart and pounded it some more.
Regina, gray-haired and stout, stood next to some guards in front of Buckingham Palace. Wish You Were Here! was printed across the bottom.
That was it. Did Bernie ever join her?
I’d never know what really happened, but I could say with certainty that it was a sad story.
Because Bernie had never gotten her wedding.
She never got to wear her perfect dress.
I needed to talk to Micki about giving Bernie her chance.
“I’m not taking a damn thing!” My mom slammed her hand on the kitchen counter. “I promised her I’d help out, and I intend to keep that promise.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Micki said flatly. “If you’re going to do this work, it’s going to be for the new owners. You should get paid.”
“Not taking a dime,” Mom said. “Final word.”
I watched them bicker, amazed at how even the most different people could be similar in certain ways. My mind flashed to Micki refusing to take my check. Mom and Micki shared a stubbornness that would have made me smile if they weren’t snarling at each other.
Micki took out her checkbook and started writing, pressing too hard with her pen. “If you could admit we’re family, then I wouldn’t be writing this, because family takes care of their own. But you’ve gone out of your way to stress how much we are not connected! So . . . here!” She ripped the check from her checkbook and shoved it in Mom’s hand.
“We don’t share one drop of blood. You might share some random genetic material with my daughter, but I don’t remember ever seeing you around while I was raising her. It looks like you have a perfectly nice family already. Don’t try to take mine.” And with one withering look, my mother crumpled up the check, dropped it on the floor, and walked out.
“You need to give her time. She’s grieving,” Sandy said, pouring us all tea. We’d gone back to the Patels’ apartment after being at Bernie’s had wrung our hearts dry. I’d texted my mom to check in, but she hadn’t responded.
“Grandma sometimes needs to be alone to cool down,” Kylie said, with a wisdom that almost made me smile. “She’s not mean, she just really believes in her feelings sometimes.”
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Micki said. “I just got so mad.”
Radha, perhaps sensing things were about to get deep, nudged Kylie in the shoulder. “Hey, your mom taught me how to do updos. I want to practice on you. Want to go to my room?”
Kylie broke into a grin. “Yeah!”
“She’s a good kid,” Sandy said wistfully.
“They both are,” Micki said. “They’re so much alike that way.”
“My mom is a good person too,” I said. “I sprung this all on her. She didn’t deserve that.”
“I deserved what she said,” Micki said. “I didn’t come looking for you. Ever.”
“It wasn’t an open adoption,” I said. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“When have I ever followed rules?” she said. “I guess I was ashamed of my sister, and ashamed of myself for not stepping up and taking you.”
I put my hand on her arm so she’d know what I said next wasn’t a condemnation. “Why didn’t you take me?”
Micki frowned. “The man I was living with didn’t want to. He was strong and I was weak. I’ve learned a lot since then, about myself and relationships.”
“I like my life,” I said, realizing I meant it. “Things worked out the way they were supposed to.”
“Even if that’s true,” Micki said, “I’m still furious with myself.”
“We honor the people we love by making good choices,” Sandy sai
d. “And it’s never too late to make those. Leave Sophie be. She might accept our friendship, or she might not. We need to respect her choice. It’s not our place to force anything. You need to make the choice to let her decide how all of this will play out. In doing that you honor Ally as well.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Micki muttered, but she smiled at her husband.
As we sipped our tea, I brought out the photos of Bernie and Regina, and explained what I’d found.
“I wish she would have told us,” Micki said sadly after studying the photographs. “My heart is just breaking for her.”
“I have no idea what the full story is, but I doubt they told many people,” I said. “This was over fifty years ago. Different times.”
“She’ll get her wedding dress,” Micki said. “I mean, why not? Men get buried in Blackhawks jerseys and Cubs T-shirts. Why can’t a ninety-year-old woman get sent to her final rest in a gown?”
“The mermaid dress,” I suggested. “The one that showed off her bum.”
Sandy laughed. “She would like that.”
“No,” Micki said solemnly. “The magical one. Remember the day you did her makeup? She couldn’t stop gazing at herself in the mirror.”
I told them about Kylie’s idea of a photo display, and Sandy found a three-fold poster board left over from one of Radha’s science projects. We laid it on the floor and placed the photos of Bernie and Regina in a small, artful rectangle.
“Looks a little sparse,” Sandy said. “Two full panels are empty.”
Micki got up and disappeared into her bedroom. When she returned, she held her family photo albums in her hands. “Bernie was family. So her family is my family. Those old biddies who work at the library will never know the difference.”
I loved the idea. We ransacked the albums, pulling photographs and carefully taping them to the panels. I had some photos of the fashion show on my phone, and we found one of Bernie in her mermaid dress, her face beaming in laughter. I also found the one I took of her on the day she had her hair and makeup done, in which she positively glowed, stunning in the dress she would be buried in. Sandy printed everything out, and we placed that last beautiful photo at the top of the display.
The Other Family Page 24