“I know,” Gincy said. “You’re right. Like I said, I can have a nasty, suspicious mind.”
“Mom. Don’t exaggerate.”
I just wish it weren’t happening this way, Gincy thought, staring up at the ceiling. It was peeling in spots, she noted. It should be repaired and painted.
But the ceiling—as long as it wasn’t leaking—wasn’t a priority at the moment. Her mother—and yes, her brother, too—were the priorities. Seeing her mother depressed was a challenge against her long-held belief that Ellen Gannon was basically heartless and untouched by stronger emotions. It made her uncomfortable, this challenge. It made her feel deeply unsure. If she had been so wrong about her mother—and about her brother—what else had she misread or misinterpreted? Who else had she ignored or unintentionally hurt?
Gincy sighed. Rick was wonderfully wise when it came to emotional matters, but at that moment she wished she could ask her father for advice about how to handle her mother and brother going forward. She wished she could ask him for the truth about his relationship with her mother. For the truth about Tommy.
She wished she could ask him for the truth about herself and why she felt that her mother seemed not to like her all that much.
“Good night, Mom,” Tamsin said, with a yawn.
“Good night, Tamsin.”
Within moments Tamsin was sleeping the sleep of the just, Theodore tucked under her arm.
But it was a long time before Gincy could find any rest.
CHAPTER 9
“Good morning, Virginia. Good morning, Tamsin.” Gincy turned from the stove to see her mother settling herself at the table. Her appearance was noticeably neater than it had been the day before, and her hair looked freshly washed. Gincy felt warily hopeful. Maybe, she thought, her mother’s condition wasn’t as bad as it had first appeared. Everyone had an “off” day every now and then.
“Did you sleep all right, Mom?” she asked, putting a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table in front of her mother.
Ellen sighed. “As well as can be expected. Virginia, you snore. I could hear you right through the wall.”
“She’s like a walrus!” Tamsin said. “I mean, if they snored. They probably do. Do all animals snore? I wonder if turtles snore.”
Ellen picked up her fork and poked at her eggs. “These are too runny,” she said. “And the bacon is too crispy. I can’t eat any of this.”
Well, Gincy thought, this combative, critical woman was certainly more recognizable as her mother than the passive, spiritless woman who had greeted them yesterday. Combative and critical Gincy could handle.
“Why don’t you have a piece of cinnamon toast, Grandma,” Tamsin suggested. “Mom made a whole bunch.”
“Cinnamon makes me cough. I’m fine with just coffee.”
We’re playing the martyr now, are we? Gincy thought, crunching loudly into her own cinnamon toast. That, too, she could handle.
“I could make some regular toast,” Tamsin offered.
But Ellen declined. “Coffee will be enough.”
“You have to eat something, Mom,” Gincy said firmly. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. You could be malnourished. I think you should see your doctor.”
“Why?” Ellen demanded. “So he can pump me full of drugs so you can bring in your delinquent friends to do despicable things to me?”
Tamsin choked on her orange juice. “Sorry,” she mumbled from behind her napkin.
“My God, Mom!” Gincy cried. “What are you talking about?”
But Ellen said no more.
Above all, be kind, Gincy told herself. Her mother needed help, and like it or not as the older, responsible child she was the one who had to get her mother back on her feet, even if that meant listening to crazy accusations of abuse while she was at it.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Ellen demanded, putting her coffee cup down heavily on the table. “Who told you to come?”
Gincy hesitated. She didn’t want to rat out her brother. He had done the right thing in calling her, and she didn’t want him to be taken to task for it. Only days ago she wouldn’t have cared. But now . . . Well, now, strangely enough, she did.
“No one told me to come,” she said. “It’s the Christmas season. Like I told you yesterday, Tamsin and I just thought we’d pay you a visit.”
“A surprise visit. You know I hate surprises.”
Yesterday her mother had seemed flustered by their presence; this morning she was clearly annoyed. Well, Gincy thought, annoyance was an improvement over confusion, just as criticism was an improvement over passivity.
“The visit was my idea, Grandma,” Tamsin said quickly. “I just thought it would be fun.”
Ellen bestowed a smile on her granddaughter. “Who’s taking care of your father while your mother is here?” she asked. “Who’s seeing to his meals?”
“Dad’s taking care of himself, Grandma. He’s actually a better cook than Mom.”
“Thanks,” Gincy muttered.
Ellen frowned and turned to her daughter. “Now that you are here, what am I supposed to do with you?”
“Nothing. You don’t have to entertain us, Mom. We don’t want to be any trouble. In fact, for starters, how about I get down to some cleaning.”
“Are you saying I keep a dirty house?”
Tamsin shot her mother a warning look. “Of course not, Grandma. But it is a pretty big place and you’re all alone. We just want to help out a bit.”
Gincy resisted a frown. She felt badly that Tamsin was in the position of mediator. It wasn’t right that the child among them should be burdened with the job of making peace. Maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t have let Tamsin come along. She could always call Rick and ask him to come and take her back home....
“I’m so glad to see you, Tamsin,” Ellen said, reaching for Tamsin’s hand. “My only granddaughter. Your mother should let me see you more often.”
Gincy clenched her fists on her lap. Okay, she thought. Tamsin stays, at least for the moment.
“I hope your mother doesn’t allow you to date,” Ellen went on. “You’re too young to have anything to do with boys, though I never could control your mother when she was your age.”
Gincy’s cup rattled against her teeth. Tamsin’s eyes widened. “Uh,” she said, “I’m allowed to date if I want to, Grandma, but I don’t want to.”
Ellen suddenly released her granddaughter’s hand and turned to Gincy. “Your father used to mow the lawn,” she said. “Now who’s going to do it?”
“How about Tommy?” Gincy suggested.
Ellen frowned. “Tommy has so much to do, Virginia. I hate to ask him.”
Above all, be kind. “What does he have to do?” Gincy asked. “He told me he works only part time at the convenience store. Mom, I’m sure he’d be happy to help out if you just asked him.”
And her mother would have to ask him, Gincy thought, because it would never occur to Tommy to offer help. He was not used to being relied upon. He might even feel that his offer of help would be automatically rejected. It was an unsettling thought. Everyone needed to be needed. Everyone needed a place in the chain of social responsibility. No man or woman was an island. It was something Ed Gannon often said.
“Mom’s right,” Tamsin said. “I’m sure Uncle Tommy would be happy to help. But how about we talk to him about the lawn when spring comes, okay? There’s no use worrying about mowing the grass in December.”
But who’s going to shovel the snow? Gincy wondered. Tommy had never been strong, and she had no idea when he had last been to a doctor. She wasn’t at all sure he had the strength—or the heart health—to lift their father’s old shovel or to push the old snowblower. She would have to arrange something before she went back to Boston, maybe find a local kid willing to do the job for not too much money. Luckily, it had been an oddly mild winter so far. What little snow had fallen had simply melted away.
“And the roof,” Ellen said now. “What am I going to do abo
ut the roof? Your father said something about the roof, but I can’t remember what.”
Tamsin looked helplessly at her mother. Gincy got up from the table. “Don’t worry about the roof, Mom,” she said. “I’ll take care of it. Now, how about I make you a bowl of oatmeal?”
Ellen sighed. She seemed suddenly drained of the cantankerous energy she had possessed only a moment ago. “All right, Virginia,” she said. “Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER 10
Ellen ate most of the oatmeal Gincy had prepared for her, complaining only that it was too hot.
“Wait a few minutes before taking a spoonful,” Gincy had advised.
“Or blow on it, Grandma,” Tamsin had suggested. “That will work.”
Around midmorning, Gincy heard a small thud from the direction of the front hall. “The mail comes early here, I see,” she said. “I’ll get it.”
She returned to the kitchen a moment later with a sheaf of coupons from a pharmacy chain, a postcard advertising a local real estate agency, and what were obviously a few Christmas cards. Gincy scanned the envelopes. They were addressed to Ellen Gannon. To Mrs. E. Gannon. To Mrs. Edward Gannon. None were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Gannon, for which Gincy was grateful. She had tried to be thorough when sending out word of her father’s death to the family in other areas of the state, as well as to the Appleville community. But you never knew what obscure Gannon relation might decide to pop up after years off the grid, assuming that Cousin Eddie was alive and well and tactlessly, if innocently, reminding his wife that he was not.
Traditionally, Ellen displayed the Christmas cards on the narrow mantle over the gas fireplace in the living room. But this year, Gincy had noted, the mantle was bare. What holiday cards her mother had already received sat in a messy pile on a small end table next to the couch.
“Why don’t you open these, Mom,” Gincy suggested now, holding out the small stack of cards just arrived.
Ellen stared at them. “Oh,” she said. “I thought I already had.”
“Not these. These are new. Here, this one’s from Aunt Lydia.”
Ellen took the envelope Gincy handed her and peered at it through her reading glasses. “Is she still alive? I thought she would be dead by now.”
“Why?” Tamsin asked. “Has she been sick?”
Ellen didn’t answer.
“If Aunt Lydia had died,” Gincy said, “her daughter would have told you.”
Ellen frowned. “Not all daughters are good and dutiful to their mothers.”
With some effort, Gincy kept her mouth clamped shut. The goal was to get through this visit without doing something she would regret. Like strangling her mother.
“Have you sent out your Christmas cards yet, Mom?” she asked.
Ellen shook her head. “I bought a few boxes of cards at the Dollar Store right after Christmas last year,” she said, “but I guess I haven’t gotten around to sending them out. They’re in that cupboard over the fridge.”
This was indeed unusual, Gincy thought, remembering now the missing Thanksgiving card. Her mother always had her Christmas cards out by early December. She liked to be the first among her friends and family to announce the start of the holiday season. In addition to being proud and stubborn, Ellen Gannon—like her daughter—was competitive.
“We could help you write them out,” Gincy said, retrieving the boxes. She doubted she had seen less attractive or flimsier cards in her lifetime. “Do you have any stamps?”
Ellen shrugged. “There might be a few in the drawer to the right of the sink. I haven’t been to the post office in a while.”
Gincy checked the drawer. “Ten stamps,” she said. “I’ll get more today.”
“Come on, Grandma,” Tamsin said. “I’ll help you address the envelopes, okay?”
Without comment, Ellen fetched her ancient address book from another drawer and brought it to the table.
“You’ve had that book since I was a kid,” Gincy said. “Isn’t it time you got a new one? Look at it. It’s so crammed with old addresses and crossed-out phone numbers, you can hardly find the current addresses. And the binding is broken.”
“It serves me just fine,” Ellen said. “There’s no need to spend money on a new address book.”
“I could buy you a new one today. It could be an early Christmas present.”
“No, thank you, Virginia,” Ellen said, more firmly now. Then she turned to Tamsin. “You know,” she said, “your mother and father never had a real wedding here in Appleville.”
Gincy opened her mouth to protest this oft-repeated complaint, but once again she got the better of herself. Above all, be kind, she thought. Think of Dad before you open your mouth.
“I’ll be back soon,” she announced. “I have a few errands to run.”
Ellen turned a page in her address book and didn’t respond. Gincy leaned down to whisper to her daughter. “Will you make your grandmother lunch if I’m not back by twelve-thirty or so?” she asked.
“Sure, Mom,” Tamsin whispered back.
“And call me if you need anything. I’ll try to be quick.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. And Mom?”
“Yeah?” Gincy said.
“It’ll all be okay.”
Gincy smiled at her daughter, but she wasn’t at all sure she believed that it would.
CHAPTER 11
Appleville Park was a charming spot in the spring, summer, and fall. Beds of seasonal flowers were kept well watered, and the wide sweep of immaculate lawn was perfectly even like the proverbial carpet. A large stone birdbath attracted a variety of small birds, eager for a drink and a bath. The gentle splashing sound of the little fountain at the center of the birdbath was one of the few entirely pleasant memories Gincy held of Appleville. As soon as she was old enough to get about on her own—she remembered her first bike, a hand-me-down from a male cousin—she would come to the park just to listen to the music of the fountain.
But at this time of year the fountain was silent, the flowers were gone, and the birds were nowhere to be found. Appleville Park presented a bleak and barren aspect typical of winter in New England, grim and gloomy without a blanket of pristine white snow. If you were happy, the monotone gray landscape could make you weep. If you were unhappy, it could make you head right back home with a vow not to leave the house again until the first forsythia had flowered. There were good reasons so many New Englanders flew off to warm climes for as long a part of the winter as they could afford.
And not only New Englanders, Gincy thought. Danielle Leers Lieberman, one of her two closest friends, made a habit of traveling south each winter, even if it was only for a long weekend. She and her husband, Barry, along with their three daughters, who ranged in age from ten to seventeen, lived in New York, a state far enough north that it experienced its own notably brutal periods of snow, ice, and biting winds.
Then again, not everyone who lived in one of the northern states wanted an escape from below-freezing temperatures. Clare Wellman Livingston, the other of Gincy’s closest friends, lived in Maine with her husband, Eason, also a teacher, and their eight-year-old son named Sam. When they weren’t skiing or snowboarding or ice-skating, they were camping—yes, even in January—and ice-fishing, something Gincy could never imagine doing.
Danielle. Clare. Gincy. An unlikely trio at first, their friendship had only grown stronger over the years since they had first met while renting a house together on Martha’s Vineyard one summer. The women had kept in close touch over the years in spite of their demanding lives, what with spouses and children and careers, and now, in Gincy’s case, with the death of a parent. Clare and Danielle had always known that the relationship between Gincy and her mother was toxic—they had been insanely supportive and sympathetic when Ellen was a no-show at Gincy’s wedding, even pretending not to notice the tears Gincy was struggling to hold back—and when Ed Gannon died, they had openly wondered what would become of that relationship now that he was no longer around as the only re
al cement between the women. Gincy had flippantly told her friends that she was planning to wash her hands of the old curmudgeon, but neither Clare nor Danielle had believed her.
“You can be a lot of bluster,” Danielle had told her, “but at heart you’re a good person. And you’ll just have to deal with that.”
Clare had said, “Gincy, you always do the right thing. Why pretend otherwise?”
Both women had offered to come to Ed’s funeral, but Gincy had refused their kindness. Neither had ever met Ellen Gannon, or Tommy, for that matter, and Gincy had been very keen to keep the situation exactly the way it was. In the end, Clare and Daniel had sent flowers to the funeral home and a personal note of condolence to Mrs. Gannon. Gincy remembered quite clearly her mother showing her the notes and saying, “You’ve been remiss, Virginia. I don’t know why I’ve never met these friends of yours.” What had she replied? She couldn’t recall.
Gincy dug in her pocket for her phone and, after taking off her glove, pressed the button that would connect her with Danielle.
“Is matricide ever okay?” she asked without bothering to say hello, shoving her hand back into the glove.
“No!” Danielle replied loudly. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
Gincy told her friend that she had arrived in Appleville yesterday afternoon.
“Tommy called me,” she said. “He thought something strange was going on with Mom. He was right. I think she’s depressed.”
“And you haven’t even been there twenty-four hours and you’re already considering murdering a depressed old woman?”
“Well, she had to complain for like the thousandth time that Rick and I didn’t have a real wedding. It was a real wedding! Legally binding, legally witnessed. I even wore a dress. Me! And she would have known that firsthand if she had gotten past her crazy hatred of Boston and come with my father. Not that it bothered me, her not being there. I mean, she’s only my mother, for Pete’s sake. Why should she have made the effort to witness her only daughter tie the knot?”
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