Kiss Her Goodbye (12 page)

Dad, he doesn't get angry very often. Not even when he drinks.

Robby crumples the empty french fry bag and pitches it toward the trash can. Misses. Shrugs.

Lately, Dad just stares off into space a lot and eventually passes out. This morning Robby found him sleeping in the bathtub, fully clothed—no water or anything. God knows the old man acts like he's allergic to soap.

It used to embarrass Robby, having a slovenly drunk for a father and a drunken shrew for a mother. He never brought friends home to their apartment in Orchard Arms back when he was a little kid in elementary school and cared what all the kids from the burgeoning new development thought. Now that he's in high school, there's more of a mix, so he can choose the kind of friends who couldn't care less what his home and his parents are like, as long as they get what they want from him.

They don't get it lately, now that he's on probation.

Getting caught selling weed shocked him almost as much as his old man's reaction to the news.

Dad cried.
Cried
.

The only other time Robby saw him shed a tear was when his mother walked out—and that time, Robby was disgusted by his father's blatant emotion. As far as he was concerned, his mother could rot in hell.

But his father . . . well, he must have cared about her. He must care about Robby, too, because when he showed up at the police station that night, he grabbed him and hugged him, tears rolling down his face. He was loaded, as always, blithering on about how he'd failed his son. Robby was throwing his life away, Dad slurred, and it was all his own fault. He wouldn't be able to bear it if Robby went to jail . . . or worse.

As they drove home—Robby at the wheel, at the cops' insistence—Dad made Robby promise that he'd never sell again.

He promised.

And Robby, who breaks promises like his mother broke seals on twist-off wine bottle caps, is hell-bent on keeping this one.

It won't be easy, that's for damn sure. It wasn't like he was a big time dealer making a shitload of cash, but at least it kept him in french fries and Marlboros and regular unleaded for his car. Now he figures he'll have to find a job. A real job.

Yeah, like people are just standing in line to hire a wise-ass kid with a record.

Okay, the record is sealed. All he has to do is stay out of trouble, and it will go away.

Yeah, that's
all
.

Needing a cigarette, Robbie plops the empty paper cup beside the crumpled napkins on his plastic tray stands, brushing crumbs from his jeans. He heads for the door, passing a trash can stacked high with empty trays.

Oh.

Right.

He left his garbage and tray on the table. Lately, he's been trying to remember to clean up his table, ever since some old guy made a comment about lazy kids expecting everyone else to pick up after them.

The comment was meant to be overheard, and Robby knew it was directed at him. At the time, his gut response was to shoot the man a belligerent glare. But for some reason, as he drove away from the restaurant that night, he felt guilty.

That's been happening a lot lately, and it bugs him. Life is easier when you don't give a damn what other people think of you.

Outside in the crisp October night air, Robby reaches into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. There are only three left. That will get him through the night, but he'll need to buy more in the morning. Crap. The cash stashed in a coffee can in the top of his closet will last him a few more days, tops.

Robby pauses on the concrete curb to light a match, ignites the tip of the Marlboro, and takes a drag. Soothed by the rhythm of smoke drawn into his lungs, then exhaled slowly through his nostrils, he saunters toward his car.

Later, he'll remember how Jen Carmody popped into his head in that moment before he reached the car. He'll remember, and he'll wonder, feeling only slightly foolish, whether he might be psychic.

That his brain would suddenly conjure an image of Jen's face just then will seem eerily fortuitous, but now, when it happens, it doesn't strike him as particularly unusual.

After all, she's a pretty girl, and he enjoys busting her chops the way he did after school this afternoon. To his surprise, she isn't as straight as Amber said. Who would ever think that someone like Jen would agree to cutting class with him? Not that he believes it will actually happen. But wouldn't it be fun to show her that there's more to life than the soccer field and getting good grades?

Yeah, he thinks, cigarette clenched between his lips as he reaches down to open his car door, and Erin will be pissed as hell if she finds out that Robby's hanging out with her blond friend behind her back.

Erin Hudson is cute, but she sure can be bitchy at times. She also likes to think she's got some claim on Robby. Yeah, right.

He slides into the driver's seat and closes the door, inhaling with another drag the familiar scent of his car: mildew and stale smoke. He turns the key in the ignition and after three tries, the engine roars to life.

Wondering how he's going to afford a desperately needed tune-up, Robby reaches down to tap the cinder tip of his cigarette into the open ashtray.

That's when he spots it.

A white envelope propped on the console.

Frowning, he reaches for it, wondering who put it there.

He left the car unlocked. He always leaves the car unlocked, knowing nobody would bother to steal a heap of junk in this neighborhood.

The envelope is sealed and he wonders, as props his cigarette in the ashtray and slides a finger beneath the flap, whether it was meant for somebody else. It's not like his name was on the front.

Yeah, and it's not like Robby cares, once he sees what's inside, who the intended recipient was meant to be.

Cash.

And, according to the unsigned note, there's more where it came from. A lot more. All he has to do is show up at a designated time and place . . . and prove himself willing to earn it.

 

 

The house is dark when Lucy arrives home.

She wonders what Henry thought when she didn't get back before he left for work. He thought she was at mass. Was he worried that she failed to return? Did he even notice?

Probably not. She fixed his sandwich before she left, washed the dishes, swept the floors. She left nothing unfinished, almost as though she wasn't sure she'd ever be coming back.

That's a laugh.

What was she thinking? That she'd be running off to some paradise island with her long lost lover?

She pauses on the steps, fishing through her purse for her keys beneath the porch light, hearing them jangling somewhere in the bottom. It occurs to her that it probably isn't safe for a woman to be out here alone at night. The street is deserted, and the neighborhood has gone downhill these past few years.

She should have come home before dark.

Why didn't she?

Why did she spend so many hours in church after she left the coffee shop? She prayed the rosary over and over, begging God's forgiveness, wishing she could turn back the clock, do things differently this time.

His voice was a monotone when she broke the news to him, his expression one of disbelief, but she didn't miss the fleeting glint of fury in his eyes. It was almost as though he already knew, though when she questioned him about it, he said he'd had no idea. He thought she was dead all these years, just as Lucy did.

He didn't even seem to be listening as Lucy gave him the details. He nodded and he murmured his shock, but he seemed oddly distracted.

When the waitress came to take their orders, neither of them got anything. They didn't even finish their coffee.

She shrugged. What was there to do?

She wanted to tell him how frightened she was, but something made her keep that to herself. She told him that she needed some time to think things through, and that he should do the same. They would meet again to discuss it. They didn't decide when, or where. They just left it at that.

Now, as Lucy shoves her key into the lock and turns it, she wants nothing more than to forget it for a little while—just put it out of her mind, at least until morning.

She steps into the house and locks the deadbolt behind her, then deposits her coat and purse on the hall tree.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror behind it, she frowns at her reflection. No wonder he didn't offer to run away with her. Look at her. She's gray and wrinkled and worn out, her beauty long faded, her eyes etched in a lifetime's worth of sorrow.

She reaches into her purse for her cigarettes and carries the pack toward the kitchen, deciding she'll make a pot of decaf and relax.

In the moment before she arrives in the kitchen doorway, the unmistakable smell of smoke reaches her nostrils.

Fresh smoke, not the stale lingering scent of an afternoon cigarette.

As she reaches for the light switch, puzzled, she spots it, and her heart stands still.

There, a few feet in front of her, is the glowing red ember of a cigarette, and the unmistakable outline of somebody sitting at the table, smoking it.

 

 

Jen is going to die.

She is. She's going to
die
.

She can't breathe. God help her, she can't breathe. In the terrible moments since her parents dropped their bombshell, her lungs have somehow forgotten how to do their job. It's as though she's being smothered, her chest burning and the room spinning and now her legs giving out, and she's falling, falling . . .

“Jen!” Mom catches her, pulls her onto the bed, wraps her arms around her. “Jen, sweetheart, it's okay. It's okay.”

“Jen . . .”

Her father's voice.

Only it isn't.

She gasps for air.

It isn't her father's voice at all.

She's never even heard her
father's
voice. She's never seen her
father's
face. She's never known her
father
—her
real
father—at all.

An awful rasping fills the room. For a few seconds, Jen fails to realize that it's coming from her own throat as she struggles to take in oxygen, in and out, breathe, in and out. Her chest throbs frighteningly with the effort.

Her mother is stroking her hair, cradling Jen's head against her breast, rocking back and forth, sobbing.

Over and over, she's saying she's sorry.

She's sorry. Sorry for lying.

Yeah.

Matt Carmody sits silently on Jen's other side, his hand leaden on her shoulder.

At last, Jen manages to force words past the stranglehold of revulsion; three words that are ridiculously innocuous, yet all she can muster with her world collapsing around her.

“How
could
you?”

The question is meant for her mother, but it is her father—rather, the man Jen was led to believe was her father—who replies.

“I didn't have a choice, Jen.” His voice is ragged. “From the moment I saw you, I fell in love with you. I wanted you to be mine. And you were. You
are
. You're my daughter, sweetheart.”

“No!” Jen wails. “I'm not. You lied. You . . . both . . . lied.” Her body shudders with the supreme task of summoning each word; quakes in an effort to shake away the weighted vise of hands and arms.

“Calm down, Jen,” Mom croons. “We'll talk this out. We love you. We both love you.”

In fury, Jen shakes her off, shakes them both off, leaping from their clutches with a violent, adrenaline-fueled jerk. She covers the distance between the bed and the door in a few quick strides, then spins around, trembling in rage.

“You love me? That's another lie. And I hate you. I hate both of you.”

Her mother flinches as thought she's been struck.

“Jen, you don't mean that,” Matt Carmody's voice and gaze are unnervingly level.

“How could you?” Jen asks again, and this time the question dissolves into a helpless wail.

She clings to the door knob for support, refusing to allow her legs to give way this time.

She realizes that her mother has stood and is starting toward her, arms outstretched.

Jen recoils, snarls, “Stay there! Stay away from me.”

Mom stops short a few feet away, her green eyes pleading. “Jen, try to understand.”

“I do understand. I get it, okay? I know exactly what you—”

“No, Jen, you don't get it. I was young and alone with you, not that much older than you are, really . . . I wanted you to have what I didn't. I wanted you to have two parents. And Daddy came along, and he was crazy about you from the second he saw you. He's your father. The only father who matters.”

Jen shakes her head mutely, in both disagreement and denial.

“We were going to tell you the truth before now,” Mom goes on, the words tumbling from her mouth in a heated rush, “but there was never a good time. We knew that it would hurt you and we couldn't stand the thought of hurting you, Jen.”

She snorts at that; at the thought of anything hurting more than this.

“Who is he?” she demands. “My father. I want to know who he is.”

“I'm your father, Jen.”

“No,” she tells Matt Carmody. “You aren't. You only pretended to be. Who is my father?” she asks her mother again, pinning her with a steely gaze. “What's his name?”