The Other Side

by J. D. Robb

  Commonalities? Aside from half her DNA and a weakness for Almond Joy candy bars, she was hard put to list any more commonalities between them, but before she could mention this, her mother spoke again.

  “And you’ve done a fine job of it. You’ve spent your time filling your head with an education and making a living for yourself, a name for yourself . . . isolating yourself with your independence—”

  “I’m not iso—”

  “And you have no idea how very beautiful you are, so if you ever choose to marry, it might not even occur to you that your husband wants you only because of the way you look beside him. If he cheats on you, you won’t automatically assume it’s because you’ve lost your looks. You’ll never feel like you have to use your looks alone to get a man to spend time with you because you’re lonely . . . or marry because you don’t know who you are unless you’re somebody’s beautiful wife.”

  By now M.J. had come to a full stop midstep on the staircase, staring at her mother as if she’d never seen her before . . . and maybe she hadn’t.

  “Is that really how you’ve always felt?” Her voice was weak in a tight throat. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I had no . . . ”

  She shook her head, not knowing what to say. She’d considered her mother’s vanity a failing, an annoying character flaw, not a survival mechanism—and a very sad one at that. Had her mother really been so insecure? So lonely? So lacking an identity that she had to use someone else’s—the men she married?

  Her mother smiled and raised a hand as if she wanted to touch M.J.’s face, then, knowing neither of them would feel anything, lowered it again, saying, “If old age doesn’t give you perfect hindsight, sweetheart, death certainly does. I’m aware of the mistakes I made, and why, and I’ve accepted them. I can’t even regret them if they were partly responsible, even in a roundabout way, for the outstanding woman you’ve become.”

  “Are you drunk? Can ghosts get high?”

  “Don’t be flip. I’m trying to pay you a compliment.”

  They’d reached Adeline’s bedroom at the top of the stairs, and she sailed through the closed door without hesitating, leaving M.J. in the hallway, sputtering in disbelief. Falling back on her heels, she shook her head and wondered if she’d ever understand her mother . . . alive or dead.

  She glanced down the hall to see Imogene’s form, which had preceded them up the stairs, disappear into the room at the far end of the hall. It was a huge room, hers the times she’d come to stay as a child. A room that served as both bedroom—with small, child-sized furniture—and playroom, as her toys weren’t to be left about. Later, they replaced the furniture to make it a guest suite. It was also the only room that had windows overlooking the backyard . . . and Ryan’s backyard where Jimmy played.

  She was tempted to remind Imogene of her promise but held her tongue. Her aunt had given her word, and she had no reason to doubt her.

  Besides, she was still dealing with her mother. . . .

  “Since when do you pay me compliments?” She opened the door and sailed through her own way. “I can’t remember the last time you said anything nice about me or my life without an if or a but and a negating comment on the end of it.”

  “Didn’t I just call you an outstanding woman?” She waited two beats, denoting the lack of an if or a but, then grinned playfully. “Some mistakes I do regret, darling.”

  If that was an apology after all this time . . . well, M.J. was happy to receive it. Happier than she should be probably, considering the source was a ghost of its former being.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Adeline stepped close and spoke softly. “You’re wondering why we couldn’t have talked like this when I was alive. It was one of those commonalities I talked about before, I believe. We’re both too stubborn and unforgiving. Once the crack in the bond between us started, it just got bigger and wider until neither one of us knew how to bridge the gap and fix it. I think we both wanted to, but we didn’t know how.”

  M.J. sat on the bed. “Do you know what happened? How it started? I mean, underneath it all, we always loved each other, right?”

  “Of course.” Her mother sat down next to her. She smelled of lilies. “I’ve thought about it . . . I’ve gone over every second of the past and . . . I believe it started sometime after your father died, because before that we were so happy together, the three of us.”

  She thought about it. “You weren’t, you know . . . like you said a few minutes ago . . . about being beautiful. You weren’t like that with him, were you?”

  “Gracious, no.” Her tone became dreamy. “Alex was my childhood sweetheart. I loved him before I even knew what beautiful was. And he adored me, always. No matter how I looked. No matter what I said or did—even when he was annoyed with me, I always knew he loved me.” She played with the wedding rings on her ring finger, silent for a moment, then she looked at her daughter. “He adored you, too. The three of us were perfect. We waited so long to have you, wanted you so badly. When we were finally blessed, we believed you were the symbol of our love that would live on after we’d grown old together and passed on.” She hesitated. “Is it bad, do you think, to be grateful that I wasn’t able to have any more children? After your father . . . I never wanted any more. I was afraid I wouldn’t love them like I loved you.”

  M.J. shook her head. “I don’t think it’s bad.” She stared at the pink and gray floral pattern in the rug and wondered what it would have been like to have siblings. Naturally, she’d wondered before . . . wishing for a sister to take some of the social pressure off her or a brother or two to become Mama’s boys so she could fade into the sidelines altogether. But looking back, it was easy to see she might have smothered with a pillow any other children vying for what little attention her mother had to offer.

  “What are you thinking?” Adeline asked. “Did you want brothers and sisters? Sisters especially can be quite comforting at times.”

  “No, I’m glad you didn’t have more children. As you may have noticed over the years, I don’t play well with others. There are people at the office who I think are actually a little afraid of me.”

  Adeline chuckled. “Only because you’ve become so adept at isolating yourself.”

  “I’m not iso—”

  “If you’d just open yourself up and reach out to other people, you’d see how eager they are to be your friends.” She leaned as if to bump shoulders, everything about her lighthearted and mischievous—not at all the way M.J. remembered her. “Like Ryan. He seems very eager to know you.”

  “Mother.”

  She stood. It was starting to get dark, and if she wanted to go through more of her mother’s things, looking for whatever it was that she’d lost, she needed to keep at it. She had no time for silly ghost games.

  “Oh.” Adeline sighed wistfully, falling back on the bed like a love-dazed teenager. “I loved falling in love with your father. I even loved thinking I was falling in love with the others.”

  Strange . . . it wasn’t what her mother was saying but the way she’d fallen back on the bed that caught M.J.’s attention. She recalled the last time she’d spent the weekend with her mother and how, at not even sixty-five yet, the arthritis in her knees made climbing the stairs a struggle . . . Had she flung herself on the bed like that then, it would have looked a little like watching a turtle on its back.

  “How old are you?”

  “What?” Adeline lifted her head off the bed.

  “Why aren’t you an old ghost? You know, the age you were when you died? Why are you young? How old are you as a ghost?”

  Her mother sat up easily. “We wondered about that, too. We don’t know. Poor Odelia looks older than Imogene and me put together, but she’s only the middle child. I’m hoping this is how we look or feel or . . . whatever when we get to the Other Side.” Her smile was anxious. “I want your father to recognize me.”

  “So you were this age when he died?”

  “This or close to it, yes, I believe s
o.”

  “And Imogene?”

  She nodded. “Has to be after Rufus died, she’s still so young and weepy.”

  She tsked in disgust. “Rufus?”

  “It’s from the Latin for redheaded. And he had the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” Half her mouth curved up in remembrance, then fell again. “After a few years, Imogene stopped crying and became very bitter and sharp-tongued. Her husband left her finally, and she came back here to live for years and years. I don’t know how Odelia stood her. She was a very unhappy woman. Thank God her ghost isn’t so bad. She sheds a good many tears, but she’s far from mean-spirited . . . no pun intended. She’s just very sad, you know?”

  “And Odelia? Does she cry?”

  “She cooks. Incessantly.”

  “She was never married.”

  “As far as I know, she’s never loved anyone or anything but her stove.”

  “How old do you think her ghost looks?”

  “Maybe midfifties.”

  “Did anything significant happen to her during those years?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Rats. M.J. thought she was going somewhere with the ghost’s ages and corresponding events in their lives, but Odelia didn’t fit that pattern. It had to be something else. Something they all experienced. Something they all lost. The death of a loved one worked for Imogene and Adeline except, one, it was too obvious, and, again, it didn’t include Odelia.

  Six

  “Maybe we should put off the deconstruction for the time being, Mr. Brown,” she said bright and early Monday morning—admitting nothing. “I hadn’t been in the house since the day of my mother’s funeral, but now that I have, and I’ve had time to think”—and to realize what an adolescent snit I’ve been in most of my life, she thought to herself—“well, I think there might be a few things from the house that I’d like to keep after all.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “There will still be plenty to recycle and for the consignment shops and all that. I’m thinking mostly family pictures, things no one else would have any interest in.”

  “You take what you want, Ms. Biderman. I’m glad you’re having second thoughts. Do you have boxes, or can I drop a few off at the house for you?”

  “Thank you. That would be great. I won’t be out again until Saturday. Will they be okay on the porch?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll fold ’em flat and set a rock on top of them.” He paused. “Just, ah, let me know when you’d like me to take another run at the house.”

  “You know I will, and it won’t be long. We have a deadline for the Smoothie Hut deal, and I intend to meet it.” Call waiting beeped in her ear and the light on her second line began to blink—she spoke a little faster. “You’re still with me on that, right?”

  “Absolutely. You tell me when, and I’ll clean it out and tear it down in a matter of days . . . five, tops.”

  She glanced at her computer calendar and noted the narrow time frame. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Brown. Thank you.”

  She touched her earpiece to disconnect and answer her second line. “Biderman. How can I help you?”

  “You can agree to go out with me Saturday night.” She recognized his voice immediately—his topic was a big clue, too. She tittered a little inside and, without thinking twice, tossed her pen down on the Longwire file that lay open in front of her. “Are you busy? I can call back and ask again later.”

  “No. I haven’t even finished my second liter of coffee yet. I’m just getting started. I can’t believe you remembered where I work.”

  “I know I should claim the credit, but I’ll tell you the truth; I searched for you on the Internet. You are the only Maribelle Joy Biderman in the whole wide world . . . as my son would say.”

  She sat up straight. “I’m listed on the Internet that way . . . by that name?”

  He laughed. “Only in the real official places like birth records, Columbia’s list of graduates, and—”

  “How’d you know I graduated from Columbia? That’s not on the Internet, is it?”

  “Company profile says you got your MBA there . . . and your mother told me. Every time I saw her, she’d brag about it like there was no one smart enough to be with you.”

  “And now you want to prove her wrong, huh?”

  She didn’t need the stunned silence on the other end of the line to realize that what she’d just said . . . what had slipped from her lips so easily, so thoughtlessly, so naturally was exactly the sort of statement she’d been making for years to keep most people at bay; to isolate herself just as her mother said . . . but why?

  She liked Ryan. Naturally, he wasn’t the first man to ask her out, nor was he the first to ask from someplace other than the more clinical let’s-scratch-our-itch arena that she generally preferred. . . . No, come to think of it, she didn’t prefer it; she simply felt safer and less vulnerable there.

  “I’m sorry. I’m . . . That was rude. I—”

  “Hey. No. I get it.” He laughed good-naturedly. “You’re a beautiful, successful woman. You must have guys hitting on you all the time. It’s smart to keep your defenses up, but—”

  “No. It isn’t. And if you’re still offering, I’d be pleased to go out with you Saturday night. Very pleased.”

  She heard the smile in his voice when he said, “Good. I’m glad.”

  “I’m . . . I’m here late most evenings, but in case Jimmy gets sick or ...”

  “I change my mind?” he finished for her. “It ain’t gonna happen, Maribelle Joy. I’ve wanted time alone with you since I first saw you on the other side of the fence. So, as you were saying . . . barring a catastrophe with my son and the end of the world . . . ?”

  Oh yes, she liked him very much. “I was just going to say that this number will patch you through to my cell phone anytime.”

  She heard him draw a surprised breath and pressed three fingers firmly against her lips to keep from laughing out loud.

  “I still don’t get your cell number?”

  “Maybe you need to work a little harder for it,” she said in a remarkably seductive voice that she hadn’t even known she owned. She bit down on her lower lip and grinned so hard her face felt stretched beyond endurance. His chuckle made her giggle like an idiot, and for the first time in her life she didn’t mind feeling like one.

  “Maybe I do. And that’s okay. I don’t mind working hard for the things I think are worth it.”

  Exactly four days, twenty-two hours, and seventeen minutes later, she was still smiling when she turned the key in the lock at Hedbo House and felt it give. It was early, barely seven, but she needed every ray of daylight she could get.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” Immediately she was assaulted with the scents of apple pies, lilies, and baby powder. She watched the gradual manipulation of light and shadow reconfigure itself until the familiar images of her mother and her two aunts presented themselves before her.

  “Good morning, darling. You’re very early”—Adeline tipped her head and studied her for a moment—“and very happy this morning. Has something happened? Have you figured it out?”

  “Figured what out?”

  “What we’ve lost?”

  “Oh. No. But don’t worry, we will. We have two weeks to figure it out and one to tear the house down to meet the Smoothie Hut contract, and I intend to.” She spoke with determination to all of them, but it was obvious they’d been searching too long to feel her optimism. “Come on now. Think positive.”

  Odelia smiled kindly. “I have pies in the oven, dear. May I think positively in the kitchen?”

  She didn’t wait for permission, and M.J.’s eyes narrowed with purpose as she followed her aunt down the hall. Odelia was as good a place to begin as any.

  She looked back over her shoulder before entering the kitchen to see her mother and Imogene walking up the stairs to the rooms they felt most comfortable in to await their own interrogations. Eventually it might prove beneficial to talk
to all of them at the same time, but for now she’d concentrate on one at a time—looking for common threads in their stories, similarities of any kind, or something lost that one may have forgotten but one or both of the other two recall very well.

  “Apple pie again? Did you never make any other kind of pies?”

  “Don’t you like apple pie?” She took her oven mitts off the counter and opened the shadowy oven door. “I thought it was everyone’s favorite. I won a bake-off with this recipe and received fifty dollars in the mail when it was published in the Pillsbury Down Home Fall Favorites Cookbook.”

  “But Grandfather still wasn’t impressed?”

  “Oh, but he was. He was thrilled for me. He loved my cooking. He always said he was my biggest fan. He even sponsored several annual cooking bees to raise money for the local schools. But when I kept winning, it started to look like the contests were fixed, even though Papa always refused to be one of the judges. Eventually it came down to making money for the schools or keeping me as a contestant, so I stopped participating.” She set the steaming-hot pie on the counter and, admiring it, sighed. “Papa said it was probably for the best. I was putting too much stock in winning, getting my hopes up too high on a dream that could never come true.”

  “But what about Julia Child? Didn’t you ever use her as an example of what you wanted to be?”

  “Of course I did.” She turned to the pie waiting on the counter behind her and put it in the oven, closing the door silently. “He said the only reason she was who she was, was because she was a freak . . . a freakishly tall woman, with a freakishly odd voice and a similar sense of humor—people are always drawn to the ridiculous. I, on the other hand, was a lovely girl, he’d say, that any young man would be honored to have as a wife, but I was too ordinary to be like Julia Child.” Her laugh wasn’t amused. “And thank God for that, he’d say.”

  “What an ass.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Odelia looked up, startled.

  “I’m sorry. I know you loved him, but your father was an ass . . . in my opinion. I think you would have made a wonderful chef. He should have encouraged your dreams.”