It Burns a Lovely Light (20 page)

"All right, I get it. You make me sound like an idiot."

"I don't mean to, it's just..."

"Like hell you don't." Dion pressed her lips together. "Let me tell you something, Farley James. It takes courage to fall in love. To put yourself out there, vulnerable and exposed. That's not for the faint of heart."

Farley started to speak, but Dion held up her hand.

"You know what? You're right. I
am
miserable right now. And I've been stood up
again
, as you so kindly pointed out. I'm bleached and broke and behind in my classes. But at least I took a chance.
I tried. I'd rather have my heart broken ten times over than to be a pathetic coward like you."

"I'm not a coward," said Farley, stung. "Just because I don't stand by and let some loser walk all over me..."

"No, of course not." Dion swallowed, her cheeks burning. "You just prance around with your head tucked up your ass, pretending not to see what's right in front of you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Will you
come on
!" yelled Henry, leaning in the door. "It's freezing out here!"

"Shit!"

Farley jumped out of bed. She was late for work; she'd slept through her alarm again. For the past week she'd been waking up in the middle
of the night and ruminating over the painful sting of Dion's words. Because Dion had been right, of course. Farley
was
ignoring what was right in front of her - specifically, a very tall, sweet, loving man with dark eyes and a huge heart - because there was nothing in the world she could do about it.

Slamming a toothbrush in her mouth, she brushed while she dressed. She slipped her sneakers on without tying the laces, stuffed a knit hat on her head and skipped every other step as she ran down the back stairs.
She tripped over her laces as she entered the kitchen and barreled head-first into Ryan's stomach. Books flew from his arms.

"For crying out loud," he mumbled, scooping up the
books.

"Sorry." She bent to help.

He studied Farley as she threw on her coat.

"You look like you lost your best friend," he sneered.

"Ryan..." warned Veda Marie, slicing a ham on the
kitchen counter.

"Bye, Veda Marie," said Farley, ignoring him.

The mudroom door slammed behind her. She stood outside for a moment, catching her breath, then slammed back in.

"Why do you do that?" she demanded.

"Do what?" he asked, all piety and innocence.

"You know what. It's like you get off on other people's
misery."

Veda Marie's eyebrows went straight up, but she remained silent. Farley put her hands on her hips.

"What's with you, Ryan? My mother used to say you were the closest thing she knew to God."

His upper lip curled into a perfect snarl. "Take it from me, toots; you didn't deserve to have Pauline for a mother."

Farley was momentarily stunned. That was a low blow - even for Ryan.

She snorted. "You got that right."

Driving down Overlook Trail, Ryan had to remind himself to slow down. It would not do for a priest to run over someone.

Claire pulled the car up next to Farley and rolled down the window. "Hop in. I'll drive you to work."

"Thanks," said Farley, shivering as she slammed the car door. "It's freezing."

"It's not much warmer in here. So help me, our next car will have a heater that works." Lightly pressing the gas pedal, Claire continued down the hill. "Veda Marie tells me Ryan is on a tear."

"You mean as opposed to his usual, perky self?"
Farley blew on her hands and rubbed them together to warm them. "What's with him, Claire? He didn't used to be this mean. The way Pauline used to talk, he was practically a saint."

Claire grunted. "I wouldn't go
that
far. But your mother's death hit him hard."

"And here the rest of us are doing so well," mumbled Farley.

At the bottom of the hill Claire put the turn signal on.

"Ryan actually grew up to be a fairly well-rounded kid, thanks to your mother," she said. "She certainly raised him better than Abigail ever could have." She chuckled. "Of course, he's always
had an attitude when it came to me. He considered me competition - being Pauline's twin."

Farley blushed, recalling her own similar feelings toward her aunt.

"For the most part," continued Claire,
"Pauline single-handedly raised Ryan. She preferred it that way - and she was good at it. She instinctively seemed to know when to let him learn from his mistakes, and when to protect him. Even the fact that your Grandfather blamed
him for our mother's illness never seemed to touch him."

"But Ryan was just a baby. How could anybody blame a baby?"

"Easier than blaming himself, I guess." Claire wiped fog off the windshield with her glove. "Your mother never said much
about Abigail, did she?"

"Only that 'Abigail was better off with God.'"

Claire sighed as she turned into Freeman's parking lot.
"Way to build the drama, Pauline."

From the kitchen came the animated sounds of Henry and Colette preparing for the day. Farley closed the office door and sat on top of her desk. "Okay. Tell me about Abigail."

Claire took a sip of her tea, clutching her mug with both hands to warm them.

"After Ryan was born," she said, "our mother became a different person. It was as if a switch went off. She cried
constantly. She slept all day and refused to hold her baby. Her doctors decided she was suffering from 'melancholy' and prescribed bed rest. The poor woman rested on and off for the better part of three years. Finally, Father agreed to
have her committed to Dixmont Insane Asylum. There, the doctors recommended an increasingly popular cure for undesirable qualities in women - moodiness, violent tendencies, alcoholism, promiscuity, hysteria. A lobotomy."

Farley was stunned. "You mean, a
'One Flew over the
Cuckoo's-Nest'
lobotomy?"

The procedure took mere minutes, explained Claire. Just long enough for a sharp, ice pick-like instrument be inserted through the eyelids
and given a slight jiggle, severing the part of the brain that managed mood and temperament. Their father was assured that Abigail would have no memory of any discomfort. And better yet, she could still function well enough for household and wifely duties.

"I remember the morning she came home," she said. "The house smelled like syrup and pine soap. Pauline and I nearly tripped over ourselves, racing downstairs to welcome her. Mother's hospital stay had seemed like forever to us."

"What was she like?"

Claire was thoughtful for a moment. "She was like the walking dead in those movies of yours. Her sweet, melodic voice was now flat and disinterested. She no longer raged, or cried, or laughed, or dreamed. She
literally hadn't a care in the world. They cut out her soul."

Farley shivered. "How old were you then?"

"We were twelve."

The two women sat in silence for a few moments, barring the occasional clanging of pots and pans.

"Poor Grandfather. He must have felt awful."

"He did, at first." said Claire. "But it
wasn't long before his sorrow shifted to anger. He began to avoid Ryan, sometimes physically pushing him away. He clearly hung the blame for Mother's affliction solely around Ryan's neck. He was more than fine when Pauline, who had always considered Ryan her own little doll, stepped in as both absentee
mother and father." She sighed. "She believed if Ryan was good enough - did well enough in school and stayed out of trouble - Father would come around. She used to say, 'You have to be the best, Mutt. Then Papa will love
you.'"

"Why didn't Pauline just tell me about Abigail?" asked Farley, walking her aunt to the front of the restaurant.

"Your mother was a firm believer in putting the past
behind her."

"Burying the past is more like it." Farley placed a hand on the front door. "What about Abigail; how did she die?"

Claire zipped up her parka and stuffed her hands in her
pockets.

"Your grandmother died with dignity," she said. "They may have severed most of her reason and emotion, but the slightest light still burned deep down inside of her. Not long after her operation, she
walked down to the river in the dead of night and threw herself in."

For the next few weeks, Dion and Farley bobbed and weaved around each other, the memory of their cruel exchange hovering over them like a
sinister shadow. They perfected the art of awkward politeness, fake smiles and otherwise subtly avoiding contact whenever possible.

"Goodnight," said Dion, opening the kitchen door.

Farley didn't look up from the potato she was peeling. "Night."

"Careful going home, Dion," called Henry from the walk-in refrigerator.

"We need to hire a new bookkeeper," said Farley.

His arms full, Henry kicked the refrigerator door closed behind him. "Can't you just say you're sorry?"

She looked up at the ceiling. "I'm
sorry
we need
to hire a new bookkeeper?"

"You know what I mean, Farley. Apologize to Dion."

The blush started in her chest and crept up to her cheeks. "What for?"

"For whatever it is that's making you both so
miserable."

"It's complicated." She picked up another potato and pretended to examine it. "The night Duncan stood her up...I might have said some things I shouldn't have."

Henry feigned surprise. "No...
you
? I don't believe it."

He ducked as a potato flew past his head.

"Halleluiah," breathed Dion, lowering herself into
the bathtub.

Her feet were throbbing. She had been on them since she woke up that morning, already late for her eight o'clock Anatomy lab. Today was cadaver day, and she'd had to wait to have her turn at the liver. By the time
she took a much needed shower - the odor of formaldehyde still lingered, but at least it was manageable - she was late for her job at Freeman's. She closed her eyes and sank into the soothing warmth of the water.

"What is this obscenity doing in the bottom of your trash can?"

"Ma!" Dion screamed and sat up, using her hands to cover her breasts.

An empty cardboard container splashed into the bath water,
the words Home Pregnancy Test printed in black. Mrs. Piotrowski yanked a towel off the rack and tossed it on the floor near the tub.

"You're nothing but a filthy slut," she hissed. "Get out of my house."

Farley gasped as Henry pulled up to the front of Dion's house. In the glow of the headlights with her breath rising around her, Dion looked like a stricken angel. She rushed toward Henry's car, her wet hair
plastered to her face and her arms filled with clothes.

From the porch, Mrs. Piotrowski emptied another drawer of her daughter's belongings onto the wet cement. Farley threw open the car doors. Dion flung her armload into the back seat. They worked fast, scooping up
anything in their path. Slips and underwear blew across the lawn. Pantyhose clung to the bushes.

Farley salvaged a soggy white nursing shoe from the neighbors' bushes. If Mrs. Piotrowski tossed it from the second- floor window,
she thought, the bitch had one hell of an arm. Behind her, she heard Dion groan.

"Don't, Ma. Please..."

"Henry!" yelled Farley, as Mrs. Piotrowski hoisted
a bundle of white nursing school uniforms and scrubs over the railing. Henry caught the bundle inches before he hit the ground, his elbows skidding on the cement walkway.

Henry slammed the trunk and hopped in the car. Dion and
Farley slid over to make room for his long legs.

"Let's get out of here," he panted, reaching for the gearshift.

"Wait," said Dion, shivering and trying to catch
her breath. "My school books..."

"Henry, find something to put on her feet," said Farley, her teeth clicking together as she opened the passenger door. "I'll get the books."

Henry looked down. Dion's bare feet were covered with blood.

"Mrs. Piotrowski, we need the nursing books!" screamed Farley, pounding on the front door with her frozen hands.

Dion rolled down the car window. "And my notebooks, next to the nightstand!"

"And the notebooks next to the nightstand!" cried Farley, adding steady kicking to the mix. "I'm a big girl Mrs. Piotrowski;
I can keep this up all night!"

Books flew from the second-floor window.

Tires screeched as Henry finally pulled away from the house. They rode in stunned silence. After a while, Dion rested her head on Farley's
shoulder.

Farley chuckled. "I guess that answers the age-old question of 'Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.'"

Dion played with her straw. "Anyway, the pregnancy was
a false alarm."

After buying bandages for Dion's feet, Henry had driven straight to Primanti Brothers, famous for their oversized deli sandwiches and late night hours.

"It's funny," she said, wiping her tear-stained
eyes. "All I ever wanted to do was be a good nurse. That, and knock somebody's socks off. Now I don't know if I'll ever do either."

"You're going to be a terrific nurse," said Henry.

"That's right." Farley reached for his pickle. "And you can knock your own socks off."

Henry scraped his chair back. "I should probably give Claire and Veda Marie a heads-up."

The girls watched him weave his way across the crowded restaurant.

"What if they don't want a new border?" asked Dion.

"Don't worry; they'll be thrilled." Farley didn't
mention that Claire would also be glad for the extra income. She reached for Dion's hand. "I owe you an apology. I feel really bad about what happened between us. I should have kept my mouth shut. I had no right..."