“Hello, Mom,” Gincy said. “I wasn’t gone all afternoon; I was back by one. And I didn’t tell you where I’d gone because you were taking a nap when I came in. Anyway, I went to the post office and then I went shopping for more cleaning supplies. I ran into Chrissy Smith at Harriman’s. She said again how sorry she was about Dad.”
Ellen nodded. “She’s always been a nice girl.”
“Who is Chrissy Smith?” Tamsin asked.
“Someone I went to grammar school and high school with,” Gincy explained. “She was at Grandpa’s funeral, but I don’t think you met her.”
“She’s lived in Appleville all her life,” Ellen said. “Raised her children here, and now she’s a grandmother. It’s too bad her son moved away. She never sees those grandkids.”
“Why did he move away?” Tamsin asked.
Ellen waved her hand dismissively. “He got some job offer in Chicago, at one of those big universities where they teach all sorts of things and who knows what else.”
“He’s a professor?” Tamsin asked.
“A doctor of something, yes. It’s a real shame.”
“But Grandma,” Tamsin argued, “that means he’s smart and ambitious. Don’t you think his parents are proud of him?”
Gincy waited for her mother’s reply, but Ellen said nothing.
“Sit down, Mom,” Gincy said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Ellen took her seat.
“Where’s Tommy?” Tamsin asked, pouring them each a glass of water.
“He’s a grown man,” Ellen said. “He has his own life. He doesn’t need to report in to me.”
Gincy brought the meal to the table—sliced steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots—and took her seat. “So he just shows up when he wants to?” she asked.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. I am his mother. He’s welcome here.”
But I’m not welcome because I’m the one who moved away and keeps you from seeing your grandchildren, Gincy thought. A real shame. And she wondered how her father had felt about Tommy’s showing up without notice. Ed Gannon had probably just accepted the situation for what it was—inevitable.
Above all, be kind. If you can’t change something, accept it and make lemonade.
“Has Tommy been looking for more work?” Gincy asked her mother. “When I was in town earlier, I saw several signs advertising low-skilled jobs. Full-time jobs at that.”
“I don’t like to ask him about work. Your brother is sensitive, Virginia.”
“About as sensitive as a bucket of hair.”
The second the words were out of her mouth, Gincy wanted to crawl under the table and stay there.
Tamsin put down her fork. “Mom, that’s gross. We’re trying to eat.”
“Your mother has always had a rough way of speaking,” Ellen said with a frown, poking at a carrot but not bringing it to her mouth.
And it got rougher whenever she was around her mother. Here she was, almost fifty years old, and still reacting childishly to her mother’s well-known abhorrence of bad language and unpleasant imagery! Did people ever really grow up, Gincy wondered. Or were they always to some degree the silly or stubborn or fearful or insensitive kid they once were?
“Sorry, Mom,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.” And she shouldn’t have; what happened to setting a good example for her daughter? She remembered what Danielle had pointed out earlier. Her mother was going through a difficult time; she didn’t need to be tormented or antagonized by her own daughter.
And what did Gincy really know about her brother? What had she ever really known, beyond the stereotype she had wanted or needed to see? For all she knew Tommy’s apartment was plastered with posters of puppies and kittens and he cried himself to sleep every night after watching It’s a Wonderful Life. And the fact was that he cared enough about his mother to have called his sister for help. That showed a heart in the right place.
Above all, Gincy thought, be kind.
“There’s chocolate cake for dessert,” she said. “The kind you like, Mom, with the white icing and the mint chips.”
Ellen put down her fork, her meal almost untouched. “My appetite seems to be gone,” she said. “Something seems to have killed it.”
Tamsin reached across the table and took her grandmother’s hand. “Come on, Grandma. I’m sure you could manage just a small slice. I’m having a piece.”
“Well, all right. Just a small slice.”
“But try to eat more steak first, okay, Grandma? You need your strength.”
Gincy, only occasionally believing in God and usually only when convenient, thanked Him or Her or whatever God was, for the gift of her daughter.
CHAPTER 15
Gincy was sitting at the kitchen table, her legs stuck out in front of her, ankles crossed. Her mother had gone to her room, and Tamsin was somewhere in the house texting with her friend Julie. Gincy had given permission for this. It seems Julie had been asked out by their classmate Steven and couldn’t decide whether she wanted to go out with him. Together the two girls were trying to guess what, exactly, “going out” meant at the moment and what, exactly, Julie was committing to if she said yes. “When in doubt,” Gincy had told her daughter, “say no. Especially when it comes to boys.”
“So, is it true what Grandma said, about your being boy crazy when you were my age?” Tamsin had asked.
“Absolutely not! My boy crazy phase came a lot later, long after I was out of the house and living on my own and a legal adult.”
Tamsin had laughed. “I get the hint, Mom.”
Gincy pressed the button on her phone that would connect her to her husband.
“It’s been a weird day,” she said when Rick answered his phone.
“Weird in what way?”
She told him first about her conversation with Danielle.
“Did she remind you to be nice?” Rick asked.
“Yes. And she told me to accept what can’t be changed.”
“Good advice.”
“And she thanked us for the birthday check we sent Michelle.”
“So far I’m not hearing anything that qualifies as weird,” Rick said. “Or am I missing something?”
“No, this is the weird part.” Gincy told her husband about running into Chrissy Smith and what her old friend had told her.
“Can you believe my parents held hands?” Gincy asked. “That they went for regular walks together? I know Chrissy isn’t lying; why would she be? But why didn’t Dad ever tell me that sort of thing?”
“Why would he have?” Rick asked. “Gincy, people don’t usually relate the tiny private details of their daily lives. Think about it. Who else but you and I know that when we’re alone we call each other Pinky and the Brain? If they did know they’d probably think we were nuts. Well, maybe we are nuts, obsessed with old cartoon characters. The point is, your dad was hardly the kind of guy to talk about something as personal as his marriage with his daughter. Or with anyone, for that matter.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Pinky? I’m a mass of contradictions.”
Rick laughed. “Brain, welcome to the human race.”
“No really,” she insisted. “On one hand, I never wanted my parents to be unhappy. But now that I think they might really have been happy, I’m . . . upset. What’s wrong with me, Rick?”
“You’re tired. This visit home is taking a bigger toll on you than you expected. I should have come with you. I can be there tomorrow afternoon if you want.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. But thanks.”
“Did you see Tommy today?” Rick asked.
“No. It seems he comes and goes as he pleases. Mom doesn’t seem to mind. Rick? Do you think Dad was embarrassed by Tommy?”
“I’m not sure it was in Ed Gannon’s nature to be embarrassed by anyone, let alone his own flesh and blood. I know he loved Tommy. He never said as much, but I know it. Ed seemed to me to be one of those people who tell you more with their silence—and by
their actions—than with their words.”
“You’re right,” Gincy said. “Dad wasn’t a judgmental man. I mean, he knew when someone was trouble, but he didn’t punish or mock him for it. In fact, I remember there was a guy who worked at the hardware store once, a long time ago. He was nice but seriously incompetent, to the point of being a menace to the other guys. I remember there was an accident with the machine you made keys with. I was fascinated with that machine when I was a kid. Anyway, Dad gave this guy chance after chance. Finally, the store owner fired the guy. I really don’t think Dad could bring himself to do it, even though as manager it was probably his responsibility.”
And I really should have learned that lesson from my father, she thought. Compassion. Patience. Above all, be kind.
“And remember,” Rick was saying, “as you yourself have pointed out, for all anyone knows, Tommy has mental issues or a learning disorder that was never identified. We can’t judge him.”
“I know. Rick, there’s more.” She went on to tell her husband about her mother’s distress while writing out her Christmas cards.
“Of course there was a reason she hadn’t written out her cards yet,” she said. “The idea was too painful for her. And what did I do? Force the issue.”
“You meant well,” Rick told her. “You tried to get her engaged in what was once a pleasant activity for her. That’s all, Gincy.”
“And poor Tamsin had to witness the debacle.”
“Our daughter is a strong young woman. I’m sure she handled it.”
I hope so, Gincy thought. “And then I ran into Adele Brown, you know, the woman at Number Twenty-one.”
“Boy, you’ve had a busy day!”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, she told me how she and her husband have been concerned about Mom. About how they offered to call me but how my mother told them she was fine and not to call me because I was so busy with my big, important job in the city.”
“Huh. Those were your mother’s words? A big, important job?”
“According to Adele, but maybe she embellished. I’ve never known my mother to acknowledge that I do anything more important than sweep floors.” Gincy sighed. “I’m sure all the while Adele was telling me about her concerns she was thinking what a lousy daughter I am, leaving her aged, grieving mother to rot away all alone in a dirty house.”
Rick sighed. “I’m sure she was thinking no such thing. All right, I don’t know the woman, maybe she was thinking just that, but you can’t be concerned with other people’s judgments. Just do what you think is the right thing. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re there in Appleville, with your mother.”
“I should have come here before now,” Gincy said. “I should have acted without waiting for someone to beg me to come home and help. I should have known Mom might be having trouble adjusting to widowhood. Why am I so insensitive when it comes to her? Why have I never been able to make the transition I made with Dad that summer I met you and Clare and Danielle? I couldn’t wait to get on the road the moment Dad’s funeral was over. You had to force me to go to that awful lunch at that awful restaurant afterward. And I know the funeral home recommended it, but it was still awful. Why didn’t I want to stay around? Why didn’t I want to make sure that Mom was okay?”
“Would it be too clichéd to say that the mother-and-daughter relationship is often fraught?”
“Yes,” Gincy said. “It would. And look at Danielle and her mother, and Clare and hers. They get along beautifully. And Tamsin likes me, I know she does. I’m the freak show of the bunch.”
“Gincy. Take a deep breath. Look, are you at all concerned about your mother continuing to live alone?” Rick asked. “Do you think she’s competent, aside from the grieving, I mean?”
Gincy sighed. “I think she’s competent, yes. I don’t think she needs a minder, not full time. It’s not time yet for us to be thinking about assisted living, as long as I can get her to eat regularly again and to show some interest in the house.”
“Okay. Good. Try to keep focused on the task at hand, which is to get your mother through this phase. Try not to—now, don’t freak out—try not to focus too heavily on your own feelings. Keep your thoughts on her.”
“What did I do to deserve you?” Gincy asked suddenly.
Rick seemed to hesitate a moment before answering. “What do you mean?” Gincy thought he sounded wary.
“What’s that song from The Sound of Music? It goes something like, ‘Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.’ To be loved by you, I mean.”
Rick laughed. “Virginia Gannon-Luongo, you’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“Are you calling me old?”
“Your middling age,” Rick corrected.
“Yes,” she said. “I am getting sentimental. And it’s all because of you.”
CHAPTER 16
“What about this one?” Tommy asked, holding out a screwdriver with black tape around the handle.
Gincy looked at it and shook her head. “Too big.”
They were alone together in the part of the basement that had been their father’s workspace. Ed Gannon had kept his tools carefully labeled and stored, the floor swept clean of all wood chips or metal shavings, and his copies of Popular Mechanics and Woodworkers Guide neatly stacked.
They were looking for a screwdriver of a particular size. Gincy had noted that the screws in several plates covering outlets on the first floor needed tightening. It was a job she could easily handle. At home, she, not Rick, was the one to change the lightbulbs and hang the pictures and fix the garbage disposal when it broke down because Rick had accidentally dropped a fork into it. Or the lid of a small metal can. He did that at least once a month.
“I’ve never been good with my hands,” Tommy said, replacing the too-large screwdriver in its slot. “Not like Dad. He tried to teach me stuff but, I don’t know, I never really got it.” He ran a finger along the edge of the worktable. Gincy saw that his nail was ragged and there was a scar on the back of his hand. “Maybe I never really paid attention.”
The tone of wistfulness and regret in her brother’s voice struck Gincy powerfully. Certainly she had never heard it before, but maybe she simply hadn’t been listening.
“Not everyone is good with his hands, Tommy,” she said. “Rick is a menace around sharp objects but that doesn’t make him any less valuable as a person.”
Tommy smiled a bit.
“This should do.” Gincy held up a screwdriver with a red plastic handle. And then something tucked at the very back of the worktable, against the rough basement wall, caught her eye.
“What’s that?” Gincy asked.
“I’ll show you.” Tommy reached across the table and carefully drew toward them a lovely, partially carved oval frame.
“It’s oak,” Tommy explained. “Dad could tell what sort of tree a piece of wood came from just by looking at the grain. He tried to teach me that, too, but . . . Anyway, this was for Mom’s grandmother’s old mirror—you know, the one in her bedroom. The glass is okay, but the frame is cracked. Dad was replacing it for her but then he died. It wasn’t a surprise or anything. Anyway, I wish I could finish it but . . .”
Gincy looked down at the intricate carvings of flowers and vines. It was a beautiful piece. And it was a typically kind gesture on the part of her father, and a romantic one, too. Replacing the frame was something only a husband who truly loved his wife would do for her. Like hold her hand when they went for walks.
“Dad meant everything to Mom,” Tommy said, as if reading his sister’s thoughts. “She relied on him totally. It should have been Mom who died first. Dad was stronger. He would have been okay. He wouldn’t have forgotten to pay the electric bill or to throw out the milk when it went bad.”
Gincy shook her head. “Tommy, you’re exaggerating. All Mom did was criticize Dad, and he was only ever kind to her.”
“That’s so not true,” Tommy replied forcefully. “Yo
u should have seen her all those times Dad went to visit you in Boston. She hardly slept. She was worried he was going to get mugged or killed in a car accident or pushed onto the tracks in a T station. She worried he was going to eat something weird that might make him sick. She worried about everything. When he walked through the front door she’d be like, beaming. And she always made him his favorite meatloaf the day he came home. And he always said how glad he was to be here. He meant it, I know he did.”
Gincy frowned down at her father’s handiwork. Could what Tommy was telling her be true? Could she really have been so wrong about her mother’s love for her father? Her parents holding hands.... The evidence certainly was piling up against her.
“You don’t know everything, Gince,” Tommy said, more quietly now. “You’re way smarter than me, but you don’t know everything.”
“You’re right, Tommy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I gotta go. I’m working at the convenience store today. You know something, Gince? I like to work. Didn’t used to, but I do now.” Tommy shrugged. “Funny how things change.”
Gincy smiled and watched her brother slip into his coat and trudge up the basement stairs. The coat—so he did actually have one—was threadbare, as well as stained. She wasn’t sure it would survive a washing in her mother’s old machine at the other end of the basement. Her father’s winter parka was probably upstairs in the tiny front hall closet, but Ed had been a much bigger man than his son. There was no way Tommy could wear his father’s coat and be comfortable. Gincy sighed. At least Tommy had a wool hat, even if it was a bit too small for his head and didn’t quite cover his ears.
Suddenly in her mind’s eye she saw her brother as a little kid in his big, puffy blue snowsuit with a long woolen scarf wound tightly around his neck. He had had such an adorable smile. What had happened to that innocent child? Everyone had promise of some sort when they started out in this life. What had happened to Tommy’s promise?
Gincy shook off a powerful wave of sadness. It wasn’t easy to do. Then she stuck the screwdriver in the back pocket of her jeans and went upstairs. Tighten the plates surrounding the electrical outlets first, and then start one of several loads of laundry.
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