All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  You’d think she would have offered to help us out through the years, Michelle thinks bitterly, not for the first time. But her mother-­in-­law seems oblivious to the fact that her son and daughter-­in-­law are perpetually in a financial struggle. Lou has never asked her for help, and Michelle has never felt comfortable suggesting that he do so. He’s not particularly close to her; never has been.

  Not the way Michelle was close to her mother. Joy Panati had been forced to make ends meet on Social Security and her meager secretary’s pension. Still, she had always been generous with Michelle and Lou. That was just her way. She was so big-­hearted.

  Michelle swallows hard over the lump that always readily forms in her throat when she thinks about her mother.

  I miss you so much, Mommy . . .

  “Anyway,” Lou is asking, “where are those corn nuts? I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “There’s some leftover tuna salad in the fridge.”

  Lou makes a face. “No, thanks. I feel like something crunchy. I need junk.”

  ‘‘They’re in the cupboard. Next to the can of peanuts. Also crunchy, and a more healthy kind of junk.”

  “I’ll be right back. You want anything?”

  “I’d love a cherry Popsicle.”

  “Do we have any?”

  “I bought some today. I was craving them. Ate almost the whole box, but there should be one or two left.”

  Lou heads into the kitchen and Michelle turns back to her magazine, feeling at ease now that her husband is home.

  She manages to get through the first few paragraphs of the article before Lou calls to her from the kitchen. His words are muffled.

  “What?” she asks, sticking her finger in the magazine page and sitting up straighter. He does this all the time—­goes into another room, then talks to her so that she can’t hear what he’s saying. She always ends up frustrated, getting up and going to him. And right now, with her swollen feet, she doesn’t want to move.

  “Where did you say you put them?” he calls loudly enough for her to hear.

  “The cherry Popsicles?”

  “I know where those are,” he says sarcastically, loud and clear. “I meant the corn nuts.”

  “In the cupboard.”

  “Which cupboard?”

  “The one above the microwave.”

  “What?”

  She sighs and raises her voice. “The one where we keep the snacks.”

  “Where the peanuts are?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “They’re not there.”

  “Yes, they are.” Michelle waits, not wanting to get up, listening as he searches the cupboard, rustling cellophane packages and clattering cans against the countertop.

  “They’re not here, Michelle,” Lou says again a few minutes later.

  “Great,” she mutters, putting her magazine aside without remembering to save her place, and hoisting herself to her feet. “The man can never find anything.”

  “I’m coming,” she calls to him, and makes her way to the back of the house.

  In the kitchen, she finds him holding her cherry Popsicle in one hand and putting things back into the cupboard above the microwave with the other.

  “They were right next to the can of peanuts,” she tells him.

  “No, they weren’t. But I found these,” he replies, holding up a package of Fritos. “They’ll do the trick.”

  “But I bought corn nuts.”

  “You must have put them back.”

  “I did not,” she says, irritated.

  “You must have. Here, take this, it’s dripping,” and he hands her the cherry Popsicle.

  She licks it quickly, then says, “I know I bought the corn nuts. I remember putting them away.”

  “Well, they aren’t here. Maybe you ate them.”

  “The whole bag?”

  “There was only one Popsicle left,” Lou points out with a shrug.

  “Are you implying that I do nothing but stuff my face?”

  “Of course I’m not implying that. All I said was, maybe you ate the corn nuts.”

  “And I said I didn’t. I don’t like corn nuts, and I wouldn’t eat an entire bag of them, let alone not remember doing it.”

  “Did you call your cousin about the plans for the family room?” Lou asks, as if poised to point out, once again, that her memory is going.

  “Yes, I called him. He says he’ll come over some night next week to go over things with us.”

  “Which night?”

  “He wasn’t sure. He’ll let us know.”

  “I hope he gives us enough advance notice. I’m really tied up at work these days.” Lou shoves a handful of corn chips into his mouth and says, crunching, “In fact, I’m going to have to go in to the office over the weekend.”

  “Not Sunday.”

  “Why not Sunday?”

  “Because we’re taking that childbirth refresher course Sunday night at the hospital. Remember?”

  “No.”

  “And you think I’m forgetful?” Michelle shakes her head.

  “I thought we agreed that those breathing exercises were useless the first time around,” Lou said. “Remember? You told me they were bullshit.”

  “That was when I was in the middle of hard labor. We have to go to this class, Lou. I signed us up, and I’ve got Molly lined up to baby-­sit.”

  He sighs and reaches into the bag of Fritos again. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll work tomorrow.”

  “Not all day?” Is it her imagination, or is he suddenly spending nearly every waking hour at work?

  “I hope not all day. Look, I don’t want to put in all these hours, Michelle, but I just got promoted. It goes with the territory.”

  “I know.” She sighs. “I just feel like we hardly see each other these days. And things are going to get so crazy once the baby is here . . .”

  “It’ll be okay. At least then you’ll be back to normal.”

  She bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that you’re kind of nutty when you’re pregnant,” he says, apparently oblivious to the warning tone in her voice. “You know, you’re so moody, going around complaining all the time, forgetting things—­”

  “I didn’t eat those corn nuts!”

  “Okay, I believe you. Calm down, Michelle.”

  “You think I’m nutty? Like Mrs. Connolly next door?”

  “Of course I don’t think that. It’s just your hormones. After you have the baby, you’ll be back to normal.”

  She glares at him, then tosses her half-­eaten Popsicle into the sink and stomps out of the room, muttering, “I don’t care what you think . . . I didn’t eat the corn nuts. I bought them, and I put them away next to the peanuts.”

  And then what?

  And then they vanished into thin air, just like the crackers did the other day, Michelle thinks uneasily as she picks up her magazine again and stares blankly at the page.

  It’s almost midnight.

  Rory paces to the window of her room and looks down at the silent, empty street below, as if expecting to see Molly coming in the gate.

  Where is she?

  She left hours ago, saying over her shoulder, when Rory asked, that she was going down the street to Rebecca’s. But Rory just called over there to check on her, and a sleepy-­sounding Mr. Wasner had said Rebecca was in bed and, as far as he knew, Molly hadn’t been there.

  Rory shakes her head grimly as she stares out into the darkness, telling herself that Molly’s just testing her authority. She thinks she can do whatever she wants now that Kevin’s gone.

  Well, she’s wrong.

  Rory is in charge here, and she’s not about to let her sister run around at all hours of the night, the way Carle
en had.

  Her jaw tightens as she thinks that she’s not about to let anything happen to Molly. No way.

  A sudden footstep in the hallway sends her flying to the door. She jerks it open, expecting to see Molly sneaking in.

  Instead, there, at the foot of the stairs leading down from the third floor, is her mother.

  “Mom! My God, what are you doing?”

  Maura Connolly, caught in the light spilling out of Rory’s room, blinks and says, “I’ve got to get to the church. I’m late. Patrick is waiting.”

  “Mom . . . no.”

  Rory can only stare at the grotesque sight before her.

  Her mother is wearing her wedding gown. Rory recognizes it from the old black-­and-­white framed photo on the mantel in the living room. There are streaks of dirt, probably from the attic floor, on the skirt, and the bodice is torn where Maura apparently tried to wedge her size twelve self into the size eight dress. A pillbox hat sits askew on top of her mother’s gray hair, with a pouffy veil spilling past her shoulders.

  “I’m late,” Maura says again. “Patrick is waiting.”

  “Mom, where did you find that dress? In the attic?”

  Maura’s voice is reasonable, but her eyes are vacant. “This is my wedding dress.”

  “I know, but . . . why are you wearing it?”

  A tinkle of laughter spills from her mother’s lips. “Oh, Rory, did you forget? This is my wedding day!”

  “Mom . . .” Rory doesn’t know what to say. Gently, she puts a hand on her mother’s white-­glove-­covered wrist. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

  “Bed? But it isn’t time for bed.”

  “Yes, it is. Look—­” Rory gestures at the small round window at the far end of the hall. “It’s dark outside. See?”

  “It’s night?” Maura frowns, confused. “But it can’t be. It’s my wedding day.”

  “No, Mom, your wedding day was long ago.”

  “I missed it? But where’s Patrick? Is he still at the church? He must be so angry.”

  “He’s not angry, Mom.”

  “How do you know? Where is he?”

  He’s dead.

  And you’re crazy.

  And I’ve got my hands full.

  Why did I ever come home? Rory finds herself wondering.

  And then, Why did I wait so long?

  Everything is falling apart. She’s got to make things right again, somehow. She’s got to save Mom from completely losing touch with reality, and she’s got to get Molly under control.

  Wearily, Rory guides her mother into the master bedroom and begins unfastening the row of tiny pearl buttons up the back of the dress.

  “Hey, Molly, you want a beer or something?” Ryan Baker asks.

  “Sure,” she says happily, though she’s never had a beer in her life. “I’d love one.”

  “Hey, you’re not cold, are you?”

  “Cold?” How can she tell him she wasn’t shivering; she was quivering from pure joy. She doesn’t dare. It didn’t take long to figure out that the way to fit in at this party is to act unfazed by everything.

  No, she can’t admit she’s so excited to be here—­surrounded by the coolest kids in Lake Charlotte, in the midst of their beer drinking and their hip music—­that she’s actually quivering with joy.

  Then again, she can’t very well claim to be cold on a night like this, either. It’s warm and humid and still, with no breeze to stir the water gently lapping at the sandy shore. She can hardly believe that if she hadn’t taken a chance and hiked down here alone through the woods behind the Randalls’ house—­which she had to admit was pretty scary—­she would be lying in her bed at home, staring at the ceiling, letting such a glorious summer night go to waste.

  She’s saved from replying to Ryan’s question by Amanda Falk, who pops up and says, “Hey, Ryan, have you seen Jessica?”

  “Nah,” he says vaguely, to Molly’s delight.

  “Didn’t she come here with you?”

  “Nope. I came with Andy.”

  “Oh.” Amanda’s ice-­blue eyes flick over Molly. “So Jessica isn’t here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Good.” Amanda breaks into a smile. “She’s really getting on my nerves lately. All she talks about is herself.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes.

  Molly makes a mental note never to talk about herself to Ryan, no matter what.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says to Molly, and makes his way toward the cooler over by the bonfire someone lit on the beach.

  She watches him go, admiring the fit of his Levi’s from behind, and the way they bag around his ankles, above his white sneakers.

  “So what’s going on?” Amanda asks, startling her.

  “Huh?” Molly turns her attention back to Jessica’s friend—­former friend, from the sound of things.

  “I never see you at parties.”

  It takes a moment for Molly to realize that Amanda’s just making conversation, not being critical. With her perfect dark pageboy and impeccable wardrobe, Amanda is the kind of girl who intimidates Molly.

  “Oh, I go to them sometimes,” Molly says, trying to sound airy and nonchalant.

  “Which ones?”

  “Usually high school ones,” Molly tells her on a whim. “That’s probably why I never see you.”

  “Probably,” Amanda says, looking impressed. “Are you hanging with Ryan tonight?”

  Molly hesitates before nodding.

  “Are you two going out or something?”

  “Oh . . . well, no.” Not yet, Molly adds to herself.

  “I think he likes you, though.”

  Her heart soars. “You do?”

  “Yeah. I can tell. He used to look at Jessica that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know how he does that thing where he ducks his head and kind of raises his eyes to see you?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Well, like that. He only does that when he likes someone.”

  “Really?”

  “Totally.” Amanda grins. “Jessica is going to be so pissed when she finds out Ryan’s going out with someone else.”

  “But . . . we’re not going out.”

  “You will be.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely. I’ll even put in a good word for you. Ryan and I are old friends. He listens to me. Our mothers are in the same garden club.”

  Molly smiles, wondering why she never noticed before how nice Amanda is. For some reason, she always assumed she was snotty and stuck-­up, like Jessica.

  Wait till I tell Rebecca about this, Molly thinks, then catches herself, remembering the fight she and Rebecca had.

  She wonders if their friendship is over.

  Well, so what if it is? she thinks stubbornly. Rebecca’s been such a bore lately, it’ll be no great loss.

  Besides, Molly can always make new friends.

  “So, who did you come with?” she asks Amanda, banishing her thoughts of Rebecca.

  “Dana and Noelle and Lisa. They’re over there. Want to come and say hi?”

  “I don’t know.” Molly scans the beach over by the campfire, looking for Ryan.

  Amanda laughs and grabs her arm. “Don’t worry, he’ll find you. Come on.”

  “Okay,” Molly says, and allows herself to be pulled over to the most popular girls in her class.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” Rebecca calls softly, standing in the middle of the deserted backyard. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  Where on earth is Sebastian? She hasn’t been able to sleep all night, knowing her kitten is outside wandering around. It wouldn’t be so bad if her mother hadn’t insisted that they have his claws remove
d so he wouldn’t shred the furniture. That left him virtually defenseless against whatever predators roam the woods.

  Rebecca can’t stand thinking about what could happen to poor Sebastian out here alone. Now, it’s past one in the morning and she finally snuck downstairs to see if she can find him.

  “Sebastian!” she hisses into the still night air. “Where are you?”

  No telltale rustling in the woods.

  This is all Molly’s fault, Rebecca thinks bitterly, creeping along the row of blooming peonies toward the dense patch of pachysandra near the Randalls’ yard, where Sebastian sometimes likes to hide.

  If she didn’t make me so angry when she was here earlier, I never would have told her to get out. I would have been paying more attention to Sebastian, and he never would have gotten away when Molly opened the door.

  She knows Molly’s sister Rory called earlier, looking for her. She heard her father answer the phone, and figured out what was going on by eavesdropping on his end of the conversation. She wanted to feel glad that Molly was going to find herself in trouble with her sister, but, instead, she was plagued by guilt, adding to her difficulty in falling asleep.

  If she couldn’t go to the party with Molly, the least she could have done was offer to cover for her.

  Then again, why should she?

  What’s Molly done for me lately? Absolutely nothing, that’s what, she thinks churlishly now. And I’ve lost poor Sebastian because of her.

  “Here, kitty, kitty . . .”

  She prowls along at the edge of the pachysandra, listening for the kitten. Not a sound to stir the still night air.

  It’s almost eerily quiet, Rebecca notices. There’s not even a slight breeze.

  The calm before the storm, she finds herself thinking, though she’s pretty sure there’s no rain in the forecast.

  “Here, kitty, kitty . . . Here, Sebastian . . .”

  She stops at the rusted post marking the property line between the Wasners’ house and the Randalls’. Does she dare cross into the yard next door?

  She glances up at the house; sees that it’s looming above her, dark and silent. Not that it would matter if the lights were on and Michelle or Lou were awake. They wouldn’t mind if she went into their yard looking for her cat.

  But I mind, Rebecca thinks nervously. I’m too spooked to go over there in broad daylight, let alone in the dead of night.