Kiss Her Goodbye (13 page)

Mom avoids looking at her daughter and her husband, bowing her head as she says quietly, “Why does it matter? He isn't your father, Jen. He signed away his parental rights after you were born so that Daddy could adopt you.”

The latest blow slams into her with nearly as much force as the initial one. He didn't want her. Her own father didn't want her.

“You're lying,” she accuses.

“No, Jen. It's true.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” she asks, her voice a mocking echo of theirs just a few nights ago, when they lectured her about violating their trust. “You're liars. Both of you. I hate you.”

This time, her mother doesn't flinch. She merely comes closer, reaching toward Jen, saying, “You don't mean that, sweetheart. I don't blame you for—”

“Get away from me!” Jen shrieks, backing into the hallway, becoming vaguely aware of her brothers cowering there. “Don't touch me!”

“Jen—”

She wrenches from her mother's beckoning arms, turning and racing down the hall.

“Let her go, Kathleen,” she hears Matt say, just before she slams the door to her room behind her.

Let her go.

All right, that isn't entirely true. Her mother, after all, is still her mother, and her brothers are still . . .

No. Curran and Riley are mere
half
brothers.

A fresh wave of loss surges within Jen, along with the acrid, aching anguish of betrayal.

She sinks to her knees on the floor and buries her face in her hands, silent sobs wracking her body. She won't let them hear her cry, and she won't let them see her cry. She doesn't need their apologies or their concern; she doesn't need
them
.

From now on, she'll be isolated in her sorrow and anger, she thinks, lifting her trembling chin with firm resolve. Isolated.

The first line of the John Donne poem she learned for English class just days ago flits into her head.

What did John Donne know, anyway? Nothing.

Jen wipes the tears from her cheeks and sniffles.

She slowly gets to her feet, finding strange comfort in the notion of herself as an island, buffered by an anesthetic sea of inner strength.

Nobody can reach me now
, she tells herself as the tide of excruciating pain begins to ebb, giving way to stoic resolution.

Gradually, her heart slows its frantic pace; at last, the pain in her chest subsides and she catches her breath.

She hugs herself, rocking back and forth, cradled in her own arms, now, and not her mother's.

Despite her newfound calm, a chill seems to seep in, settling over the room, over Jen herself. Huddled on the floor, she assures herself that the odd sense of foreboding means nothing—that the worst is behind her.

Yet for some reason, the words of the seventeenth-century poem have become a refrain in her head—this time, not merely the opening line, but the closing ones as well.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls
, Jen recalls.

 

 

Everything has fallen into place this week with such simplicity and speed that one might easily become convinced that the fates are conspiring to aid this glorious plan for vengeance. Yes, it's almost as though it were meant to be.

But of course, it
was
meant to be. What was begun fourteen years ago will at last be carried through to fruition. There's no doubt about it.

And the sheer anticipation of that triumphant, long-awaited moment threatens to become excruciating if things stretch out much longer than they already have.

Speed breeds recklessness. Recklessness can easily lead to discovery—or, more disturbingly, to a tragic mistake.

Poor April. Her only crime was looking so much like Jen; same slender build, same long blond hair. The night was dark, and suddenly, there she was, walking along the side of a deserted road. It seemed too good to be true . . . and of course, it was.

Poor, poor April.

The moment she was in the car, it was obvious that she was the wrong girl. Yet it was too late to set her free. There was nothing to do but make sure she'd never tell.

What a waste.

A waste of time and energy disposing of the body in a remote forest more than an hour east of Buffalo.

And yes, even a waste of a young life . . . not that the girl's disappearance impacted many people, in the end. Not the way Jen Carmody's will.

What delicious irony.

Patience.
Yes, patience is the key to seeing this thing through to a satisfactory conclusion. Patience and clever and painstaking attention to detail. That's what keeps them all fooled.

Nobody must ever suspect the malignant intent that lies concealed beyond the most benign of facades. When the bloodshed is over, they'll all be left wondering how such a thing could have happened; wondering who among them could have been filled with such murderous hatred.

That, in the end, is what makes it so perfect.

Kathleen hurries across the sidewalk toward Saint Mark's Church the morning of All Saints' Day, shivering in her black trench coat. The crisp breezes of October have given way overnight to the raw and incessant November wind.

She's late for the nine
A.M.
service, having spent an extra fifteen minutes searching for Riley's missing sneaker. It turned up tucked into the leg of his Winnie the Pooh costume, which he'd tossed behind his bed after trick-or-treating until well after dark last night. That, of course, was right before he threw up from all the chocolate he had pilfered from the bag of loot Kathleen mistakenly believed she'd so cleverly hidden inside the dryer upon their return.

“You hide our candy in there every year, Mom,” Curran pointed out as she mopped his brother's vomit from the bathroom floor.

Okay, that's true. She does hide it there every year, after going through it to make sure there are no apples with pins or homemade cookies with razor blades.

“And you always steal all of our Milk Duds first.”

Also true. This morning, she has a loose filling to prove it.

As she hurries up the steps of the church she runs a hand through her mussed hair, only to have a gust kick up promptly to tousle it again. What does it matter? She didn't even bother to put on lipstick or mask the blue-black circles beneath her eyes. These days, attempts at masking her exhaustion seem to be futile. She's never felt—or looked—her age until now.

There will be time after mass to run home and pull herself together before meeting Maeve for lunch at Ernesto's . . .
if
she feels like bothering. Big if. The last thing she wants to do today is sit in a pricey trattoria and make idle chit-chat, but her friend insisted. Kathleen broke two lunch dates with her last week, and screens most of her calls lately. She can't help it. Jen's hostility has been all-consuming these last few weeks, and she doesn't feel like discussing the situation with anyone but Matt.

Not that she feels like discussing it with him, either. He tends to shrug off their daughter's anger, saying she'll get over it sooner or later. And if she doesn't, he thinks they should all go to therapy together.

Therapy.

There is no way. Just no way. Kathleen can't sit in a stranger's office and have her emotions dissected. If she opens that door there's no telling what will come spilling out.

Stepping into the church, she carefully closes the heavy outer door behind her, abruptly curtailing the wind and street noise. As she tiptoes across the vestibule, she passes the door leading to the crying room, a windowed booth of sorts that allows parents of fussy infants to witness the mass without disturbing the congregation.

That's when it comes back to her—a snippet of the nightmare she had last night.

She stops short, gazing at the door, trying to recall it.

A crying baby . . . that's all she remembers.

But it was unsettling—as unsettling as that phantom telephone call a few weeks ago.

It hasn't happened since. But every time the phone rings, Kathleen's heart stops for a moment.

It doesn't help that the caller ID box broke last week and she hasn't had a chance to replace it. There's something eerie about picking up a phone without being able to anticipate who will be on the other end of the line.

A psychiatrist could probably have a field day with me,
Kathleen tells herself as she shakes her head and moves on toward the double doors leading into the church.

Quietly, she slips inside and dips two fingers into the holy water font, then crosses herself. Organ music and the musty scent of incense wrap around her like a familiar shawl; she slips into a pew halfway up the aisle, sinks onto the kneeler, and exhales gratefully as she realizes she isn't as late as she feared.

Losing herself in the priest's intoned reading, Kathleen isn't immediately aware that somebody is watching her.

Only when the congregation stands to pray does she begin to feel it: the distinct sense that she isn't alone.

But it's something else, something as palpable as the wafting perfume of the old lady in front of her. She can feel a pair of eyes burning into her.

Kathleen turns her head slowly, from one side to the other, trying to catch a peripheral glimpse of whoever might be staring. All she can see are the empty pews directly across from her, on either side of the center aisle. She fights the temptation to swivel further, admonished by a decades-crossing echo of her mother's voice.

Strange how, with the little she is able to recall of her brief years with Mollie Gallagher, that gentle maternal warning always stands out. How many times has Kathleen used it on her own children, reminding them, as they squirm beside her in the pew, to always face forward during mass?

She bows her head obediently now, feigning prayer as the lector reads through the long list of intercessions, calling out names of the parish's sick and dearly departed.

One name jumps out at Kathleen, startling her from her reverie.

April Lukoviak.

Is she dead? Did they find her?

“. . . and ask that you help to guide her safely home, Oh, Lord. We pray . . . ”

“Lord, hear our prayer,” Kathleen murmurs along with the rest of the congregation, wondering how April Lukoviak's mother bears the daily dread of not knowing. Surely that is the worst thing that can happen to a parent.

But is it worse, Kathleen wonders with a sick ache, than knowing with certainty that your precious child is dead? At least April Lukoviak's mother can hold out hope.

The skin on the back of Kathleen's neck continues to prickle with awareness as the mass proceeds. She bows her head, trying to remember who occupied the rear pews as she made her way up the aisle—and wondering why this is troubling her to the extent that she can no longer focus on a thing Father Edward is saying.

So somebody is looking at the back of her head. Who cares? There's no discernible reason for that to bother her. No reason at all.

Yet she can't fight a growing sense of apprehension as the priest moves through the solemn preparations for the communion ceremony. When at last Father Edward takes his place at the head of the center aisle, host in hand, Kathleen is poised for the opportunity to see who's behind her. She'll turn her head and scan the back of the church as she stands to join the shuffling procession toward the altar. Yes, that's what she'll do. She'll catch the eye of whoever is gaping at her and let them know that she finds their silent perusal ill-mannered, if nothing else.

She rises; turns her head . . .

And glimpses only a fleeting shadow of a figure disappearing through the double doors into the vestibule.

Utterly, yet illogically, unnerved, Kathleen clenches her fists at her sides.

It means nothing—not really. People leave during communion all the time. Back in the old days at Saint Brigid's, forthright Father Joseph repeatedly lectured the congregation about the importance of staying through until the end of mass, perpetually frustrated by the defiant parishioners who made a habit of escaping early.

As Kathleen makes her way up the aisle to receive the host, she can't keep a chill from creeping along her spine.

Somehow, she is certain that whoever just left was the same person who was watching her—and just as inexplicably certain that there was something far more sinister than rude about both their gaze and their premature exit.

 

 

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” Jen tells Robby as she stashes her backpack in her locker.

“Yeah, me either.”

She looks up at him, wondering where his enthusiasm went. Last night, when they discussed this plan on the phone, he seemed so into it. In fact, it was his idea. Now he seems almost . . . nervous?

His eyes are darting from side to side as she slips her jacket off the hook in her locker, as though he's suddenly afraid of getting caught. He, who assured her just yesterday that he could care less about the threat of detention.

“So you sit around for an extra hour after school,” he told her with a shrug. “What's the big deal? Have you got something better to do?”

The truth is, unless it's a Wednesday—her day to babysit the Gattinski twins—she doesn't. Not anymore.

When she's not babysitting, Jen's sitting idly at home in the pink-and-white second-floor prison she resents more each day.

Mom, in a ridiculously feeble and transparent effort to bribe Jen out of her sullen state, has been offering to redecorate her room. “Whatever you want, Jen . . . you can even paint the walls orange, if you like Erin's.”

That she once coveted her friend's room is almost ludicrous now that she's not only coveted—but won—her friend's boyfriend.

Erin isn't speaking to her these days, now that Robby has dropped her in favor of Jen.

Funny how things can change so drastically in just a few weeks. Funny how you can go so quickly from thinking cigarettes and beer are vile to frequently craving both; from never having been kissed to wondering how long you can possibly cling to your virginity, and why you're even bothering.

Jen slams her locker door shut and turns to face Robby. “Okay, I'm set.”

“Shh.” Again, he shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Put your jacket back in your locker.”

“But it's freezing outside.”

“So? It's like a red flag that you're outa here if anybody sees us.”

“Oh.” She twirls the combination lock, feeling a little ridiculous for the nagging thought that if she goes out into the November wind without a jacket, she might catch a cold.

Robby's response to that would undoubtedly be derisive laughter.
You're afraid of a runny nose, Jen? Come on.

I'm not afraid of a runny nose,
she tells him silently as she shoves her jacket back inside the locker. These days, she isn't afraid of much. After what she's been through at home, there are very few things that could throw her, and the common cold isn't one of them.

That was Robby's response when she unburdened herself on him a few days into their relationship.

He said it matter-of-factly, but there was something vulnerable in his black eyes—something that touched Jen in the most profound way. If she had been hesitant about getting involved with the likes of Robby, it evaporated in that moment.

“Where are we going?” she asks him now, as she matches his purposeful stride through the locker-lined corridor, past book-laden students rushing to fourth period.

“I told you . . . it's a surprise.”

“I know, but can't you at least give me a hint?” she asks playfully, disappointed when his reply is a terse
no.

Why is he suddenly so uptight? You'd think somebody who cuts class every day of his life would take it in stride. Maybe it's because Jen is with him, and it's her first time. Maybe she's making it too obvious.

She does her best to adopt a bored expression as they saunter closer to the exit that leads to the parking lot where Robby's car is waiting.
Ho-hum, another uneventful day of classes. No, sir, we're not up to anything.

Yet as they approach the double glass doors, Jen's heart is racing with anticipation. All those years of following the rules—God, she had no idea what she was missing. Being with Robby has opened up a whole new world to her.

She reaches for his hand, is relieved when he squeezes hers back.

Looking up at him, she sees that he seems more relaxed now, as though he's done this a million times and it's no big deal.

“I can't wait to get out of here,” she says with a grin.

A shadow seems to flit across his face before his lips quirk upward. “Yeah,” he says, “it'll be great.”

But again, she senses that his response is less than wholehearted. Maybe he's feeling guilty about corrupting her. She squeezes his hand again, to reassure him that she's as into this as he is.

Again, he squeezes back . . . tightly, this time. So tightly that Jen fingers ache as he opens the door and the icy wind hits her full force, along with a tidal wave of foreboding.

But there's no turning back now.

 

 

Looking into the mirror above the bathroom sink, Lucy cringes.

Holy Day of Obligation or not, church is out of the question this morning. She can't leave the house looking like this.

She's certain God will forgive her for missing mass.

She isn't so certain God will forgive Henry, though. She hopes not. Her husband can rot in hell, for all she cares.

She leans closer to the mirror. The swelling around her nose has gone down considerably in the past week or so, and she's fairly certain it wasn't actually broken. But the angry black and purple bruises that rim both eyes are still too dark to be concealed by makeup.

How did he find out where she was that day?

He claimed he found an anonymous note on his windshield, telling him that she had met her former lover at the coffee shop.