Kiss Her Goodbye (24 page)

Instantly reminded of that day on the soccer field, she feels sick to her stomach. Is it some psycho killer stalking her?

Her shoulders tense, she walks a few more steps before she dares to turn her head again.

Whoever it was is gone.

Relax,
Jen tells herself, exhaling in relief.

Is it any wonder she's a nervous wreck? She's been through hell these past few weeks, and now she's about to meet her father. She isn't sure whether she's looking forward to or dreading whatever lies ahead.

When she reaches the boxy three-story house fronted by a concrete porch with half its wrought iron railing missing, Jen double-checks the address against the slip of paper in her hand. This is definitely it . . . unless there was a misprint in the phone book. Which, of course, isn't out of the question.

She gingerly climbs the steps as a car drives by and honks. She turns to see a teenaged boy leaning out the passenger's window of a souped-up heap, ogling her.

He gives a staccato, high-pitched “Ow!” and the car slows. He and the driver make kissing noises at her.

Jen's skin crawls. She turns her back, hoping the car will drive on.

After a few moments, it does, tires screeching down the block.

She shouldn't be here. This has to be the wrong address, the wrong neighborhood altogether.

But there are three doorbells, and a sticker beneath the third one reads
Matteson.

So much for the phone book misprint.

Well, her father is a musician. He's probably sacrificed a lot for his art over the years. Or maybe he's living in this dump because the apartment has good acoustics, or something.

Whatever.

She's here, and she's going to see him. She'll judge for herself whether her mother was right about him being a loser.

She rings the doorbell and waits.

And waits.

No answer.

She rings again.

Waits.

Standing on her tiptoes, she peers through the window on the door. She can see a vestibule, a trio of metal mailboxes, and a stairway leading up.

When she tries the door, the knob turns, to her surprise.

But that doesn't mean she should go in. If he were up there, he'd have answered the buzzer, wouldn't he?

Unless he didn't hear it. Maybe it's not working properly. Would that be surprising, in a place like this?

Suddenly once again aware of the distinct sensation that somebody is behind her, Jen turns to look back at the street.

Nobody is there. At least, nobody she can see. Maybe someone is concealed behind a tree, or watching through a window.

Okay, now she totally has the creeps. She fights the illogical urge to take off running.

Instead, taking a deep breath, she pushes the door open and takes a step inside.

For a moment, she stands there in the silent hallway, wondering what she should do next.

Then, somewhere above, she hears keys rattling, a lock turning, a door banging. Footsteps pound down the stairs before she can react.

What if it's him?

Luckily—or unluckily?—it isn't.

It's a woman—or so she thinks at first glance, judging by the makeup, low-cut top, and short skirt. But as the stranger arrives on the first floor and steps into the glow from the bare bulb overhead, Jen realizes the so-called woman is actually a girl, probably not much older than she is.

“Hey,” she says, stopping at the foot of the stairs to open the middle mailbox.

Not
hey,
as in
what are you doing here,
but
hey,
as in
hello.

“Hi.” Jen doesn't know what to do.

The girl peers into the box and finds it empty, which obviously isn't a good thing, judging by the curse word that explodes from her mouth.

“Sorry,” she says, with a nod at Jen. “But I'm, like, waiting for a check. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Jen agrees, though she has no idea how it is.

The girl walks toward the door, jangling her keys.

As she passes, Jen works up the nerve to say, “Excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, do you know Quint Matteson?”

“You mean the guy who lived upstairs?”

Okay, so he must have moved out. That's a good sign. Maybe he got a record deal or something.

“Yeah, I knew him,” the girl says, peering into Jen's face in the dim light of the hall.

For a moment, Jen expects her to say something like
You're the spitting image of him! Are you the daughter he's been trying to find all these years?

But she doesn't say that.

She says, “Wait, you mean you're looking for him?”

“Yeah. Do you know where he went?”

“You don't?”

Jen fights the urge to retort
Duh, why would I be asking you if I knew?

“No,” she says instead, politely. “Do you? I really need to find him.”

The girl shrugs, wearing an odd expression. “Wow, like I really don't know how to tell you this, but Quint Matteson's dead.”

 

 

Kathleen hands the clipboard back to Deb Mahalski. “Sorry it took me so long to fill it out,” she says apologetically.

“That's okay. I know these forms can be a pain.” Deb smiles, perhaps having forgiven Kathleen for not remembering her name.

“So, are you in touch with anybody else from the old days at Saint Brigid's?” Kathleen asks casually, needing to make sure her misgivings about the woman's purported role in her past really are just paranoia.

“Oh, sure.” Deb mentions a few names that are vaguely familiar, but that proves nothing.

“How about you?” she asks Kathleen. “Who do you keep in touch with?”

“Do you remember Maeve O'Shea?”

Deb nods. “She married Greg Hudson, didn't she? I always thought they were the cutest couple.”

“Actually, they're divorced now.”

“Well, that's not surprising. He used to cheat on her even back then,” Deb says with a shrug. “Easy come, easy go, right?”

Uncomfortable with the swing the conversation has taken, Kathleen merely nods.

“You know what? I think it would be great if we organized a class reunion, don't you, Katie?”

God, no. She manages a tight smile.

Deb goes on, “I was just telling Father Joseph the other day that I would be willing to form a reunion committee.”

Kathleen's jaw drops. “Father Joseph?”

“Don't tell me you don't remember Father Joseph?”

“No, I remember him,” she murmurs, her heart pounding. “I just . . . I haven't seen him in years. I didn't know he was still . . .”

She trails off, her father's words echoing in her brain.

To think she chalked it up to her father's senility.

“Oh, he's retired from the priesthood, but he's around,” Deb informs her. “I run into him every now and then. He's as grouchy as ever, and more opinionated, too, if that's possible. And he looks exactly the same, but his hair is white. He still wears his robe and collar around town, even though he's retired. You'd think—”

“Do you know where he is?” Kathleen hears herself asking. “I'd love to get in touch with him, just to . . . you know. Just to say hello, after all these years.”

“Sure.” Deb scribbles something on a piece of scrap paper and hands it to Kathleen. “This is the name of the retirement home where he's living now. He just moved a few months ago. It's only a few minutes from Woodsbridge, as a matter of fact. Isn't that a coincidence?”

Kathleen murmurs that it is, indeed, a coincidence.

“So, Kathleen, we really should get together and start planning that reunion. What do you say? I'll give you a ring one day next week so we can talk about it.”

“Great,” she replies absently, clutching the piece of paper in her trembling fingers.

Father Joseph.

She went to him once before, when she had nowhere else to turn.

Now, after all that's happened, he's the last person she wants to face with the truth . . . but, perhaps, once again, the only one she dares to trust.

He waits until Jen is onboard the bus before he dares to emerge from the shelter of a doorway. He climbs onboard just as the folding doors are about to close, and deposits his change into the fare box.

The girl is already huddled in a seat halfway back, staring out the window. He sees her wiping at her cheek and realizes she's crying.

She doesn't even glance in his direction as he passes in the aisle, slipping into an empty seat two rows behind her, on the aisle.

As the bus lurches into motion, he watches her fish in her pocket for a tissue. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, sniffles.

He opens his newspaper, pretending to be absorbed in it, but watching her over the top of the page.

He can see that her whole body is trembling. She's crying.

He wonders again what happened in the few minutes she disappeared inside that building. He didn't dare get any closer than to conceal himself in the shadow of an alleyway a few doors down the street. Not after he saw her turn around as though she sensed she was being followed.

Like mother, like daughter, he finds himself thinking, his lips curling into a smile.

It's warm on the bus. So warm that he unbuttons his long black overcoat. His head is sweating, and so is his neck beneath his collar.

Fifteen minutes later, the bus slows. The Cuttington Road stop is just ahead.

Jen stands up and makes her way up the aisle.

He follows, careful to stay several steps behind her.

As he reaches the front of the bus, the driver brakes and he's forced to grab a pole to steady himself. He loses his grip on his newspaper and it falls to the floor.

The doors are open. Jen is climbing off.

He bends to pick up the paper, but the woman in the front seat has already retrieved it for him.

He offers her a pleasant smile. “Thank you. That was nice of you.”

“You're welcome,” she says, and returns the smile as he climbs down the steps. “Have a good day, Father.”

He gives a pleasant wave. “God bless you.”

By Friday, Kathleen still hasn't heard from Father Joseph. She left two messages with the receptionist at the retirement home, using her maiden name and her cell phone number.

She left the phone on around the clock, nearly jumping out of her skin the one time it did ring. But it was only Maeve, wanting to meet for coffee.

Kathleen felt guilty turning down the invitation, especially after Maeve was so wonderful about showing up to surprise Jen with that expensive sweater on her birthday. Still, her instincts are telling her to keep her distance for a while. As much as she needed to confide in somebody, she shouldn't have told Maeve about Jen's birth and Quint Matteson.

Maeve might have once been her closest friend in the world—and all right, technically, she is again—but in some ways, Maeve Hudson might as well be a total stranger. When you come right down to it, Kathleen doesn't entirely trust her. She never could keep a secret. For all she knows, Maeve could mentioned that Matt isn't Jen's father to Erin and it could be all over school by now.

And if Kathleen spilled one secret, there's no guarantee that she won't accidentally slip about the other. Especially when it's weighing more heavily on her conscience with every passing day.

That's why she needs Father Joseph so desperately.

Yet the past forty-eight hours have been uneventful. At first unnervingly, but now, reassuringly, so. There have been no strange phone calls or cries in the night, no sightings of lurking strangers.

If it weren't for the pair of pink baby bootees tucked into Kathleen's top drawer, she might almost be able to stop looking over her shoulder and relax.

But the fact remains that somebody gift wrapped that bootee and left it on her daughter's bed. Somebody got into the house when they weren't here.

Unwilling, unable, to tell Matt, Kathleen had the locks changed yesterday while he was at work. She paid the locksmith in cash; Matt will never even have to know.

She simply opened the door for her husband when he arrived home last night, before he could insert his key in the lock. Then, when he was safely snoring in their bed, she crept downstairs and replaced the old house key on his ring with the new one, which looks exactly like it. She had already done the same thing with the keys they keep inside the deadbolt locks.

She feels safer now. She's even managed to catch a few hours of sleep these last two nights: a deep sleep undisturbed by nightmares or the cries of a phantom baby.

But something tells her this peaceful interlude won't last forever.

 

 

“Jen?”

Alone at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria, she looks up from her ham sandwich, startled by the familiar voice—a voice that hasn't spoken to her in weeks.

“Hi, Erin.”

“Is anyone sitting here?” Erin gestures at the empty seats on either side of Jen, who shakes her head incredulously.

Erin suddenly wants to eat lunch with her? Why? She didn't say two words to Jen the other night at her birthday party. It was obvious she was only there because her mother dragged her along.

“Listen, Jen,” Erin sets down her tray, which contains only an apple and a diet Snapple, then slips into a chair, “I need to talk to you. It's kind of . . . well, I don't know if you know this, but . . .”

“Know what?”

“About Robby?”

At the mere mention of his name, the already sodden bread and ham in Jen's mouth threatens to choke her. She grabs her bottle of water, takes a gulp, asks, “What about him?”

Erin bites her lower lip. “Oh, God, Jen, I thought you might know.”

“What is it, Erin?” Jen sets down the water bottle, her heart pounding.

“The cops came to the school this morning. I guess Robby's father reported him missing yesterday and, um—”

“What?”

A long pause. And then . . .

“They found his body early this morning,” Erin blurts.

Jen gasps, pressing a hand to her lips. “No . . .”

“I know. I know.” Erin shakes her head and shudders. “I can't believe it.”

“What—what happened to him?” Her eyes are teary, but she can't cry. Not in front of Erin.

“Who knows? He was dealing. He probably got himself into some kind of trouble.”

“You mean . . . he was
murdered?”
Jen asks in disbelief.

“I guess. Or maybe he just OD'd.”

OD'd. Like Quint Matteson. The lump in Jen's throat tightens.

“I don't know the details,” Erin goes on. “I just heard from Cammie Lenhart. Her father's a cop. When was the last time you saw him?”

Feeling as though she's in a daze, she says, “Robby? I haven't heard from him in a few days, ever since . . . well, you know.”

Of course Erin knows. Everybody knows that Jen got caught skipping school with Robby. Everybody knows she has detention and he was suspended. It's only a matter of time before everybody finds out about his death.

It isn't surprising, really. She knew he was wild. But there was something decent about him. Something . . .

“Are you okay?” Erin asks, touching her arm.

Jen nods, clenching her jaw to keep it from trembling, unwilling to betray her emotion.

“He didn't mention anything to you about being in any kind of trouble, did he, Jen?”

Is that why she's sitting here? Hoping to sniff out gossip to share with Rachel and the others?

With Erin, it's hard to tell. Her expression of concern seems genuine, but you never know.

“No,” Jen admits, “he didn't say a word.”

To her horror, she feels the tears in her eyes starting to spill over.

“Are you okay, Jen?” Erin asks again.

“I'm fine.” But she isn't. Her throat aches with the painful effort of swallowing her grief. She can't let Erin see her cry; she can't let anyone at school see her cry. She's come this far without giving in to her emotions . . . all she has to do is get through today, and then she'll have the weekend to regroup.

“You don't look fine,” Erin says, watching her closely. “What's up with you, Jen? Not just the Robby thing. I know we haven't talked lately, but you've seemed . . . I mean, you're definitely not yourself.”

There was a time when she would have jumped at the opportunity to confide in Erin. But so much has changed in a few short weeks—and now, again, in a few short days.

Jen has never felt more alone in her life.

Her eyelids flutter involuntarily and another gush of tears is released to roll down her cheeks. She sweeps at them with her napkin, horrified that she's sitting here crying in the middle of the cafeteria. Thank God she's facing the wall; hopefully nobody will notice.

But of course Erin has noticed. Jen steals a glance at her and sees that she doesn't seem to know quite what to do. It's as though she's trying really hard to keep Jen at arm's length, but she looks like she wants to hug her or something.

“I'm fine,” Jen says again, sniffling.

“No, you aren't.'

“Okay, I'm not.”

Erin hands her a folded napkin from her tray. “Here. You need to blow your nose.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, Jen, you know Robby was trouble. You said it yourself. It's not like the two of you were a couple. At least, not for that long.”

Jen nods, wiping her nose with the napkin, wishing she could tell Erin that it isn't just about Robby.

“He could be really mean, Jen,” Erin goes on matter-of-factly, taking a bite of her apple. Jen notices that her fingernails are perfect ovals, polished a pearly pink. She's suddenly aware of her own unpolished nails, bitten into ragged nubs in the stress of the last few days.

Jen makes a futile attempt to banish a fresh flood of tears.

“Come on, Jen.” Erin almost looks alarmed. “You can't fall apart over this. You have to pull yourself together.”

“I'm not crying about Robby.” Jen buries her face in the napkin.

“Then what the heck are you crying about? Jesus, Jen, you're a mess.”

She lifts her head miserably, shoulders still heaving with sobs. “I know. It's . . . my father's dead.”

The moment the words have left her mouth and the expression of alarm crosses Erin's face, she knows she's made a huge mistake.

But it's too late to take them back.

 

 

“Aaah! You scared me!”

Stella stops short in the doorway of her daughters' bedroom as her cleaning lady spins around, vacuum cleaner in hand. Sissy's dark, overly made-up eyes are wide and frightened.

“I'm sorry, Sissy. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I was calling from downstairs to tell you I'm home early but you were running the vacuum.”

“It's okay.” Sissy turns off the power and presses a hand against her heart. “I guess I just didn't hear you, Mrs. Gattinski.”

“It's Stella,” she reminds her, for perhaps the tenth time since the girl started cleaning here. It's getting frustrating to keep correcting her.

It's not that she isn't used to being called Mrs. Gattinski on a daily basis, being a teacher. But Sissy's got to be close to thirty, too old to defer to her elders. She's probably accustomed to using formal titles out of respect for her employers, but Stella still isn't entirely comfortable with that, either. In fact, it took her a long time not to feel like she should be pitching in vacuuming and scrubbing alongside the cleaning lady.

“I'm sorry,
Stella,”
Sissy echoes, her expression as awkward as the name sounds on her lips.

“It's okay. Well, I just wanted to let you know I was here. We had a half day today. I'm going to go get changed before I pick up the girls from day care.”

“All right. Oh, the phone rang a little while ago. I think it was Mr. Gattinski. I didn't pick it up, though. He left a message.”

“Thanks.” Maybe he's decided to skip the banquet after all, Stella thinks hopefully.

Sissy is about to switch the vacuum on again.

“Oh, one more thing. . . .” Stella pauses in the doorway. “Did you find the note I left you this morning?”

“About not putting your jeans into the dryer? I found it, and I made sure I didn't. They're on the drying rack downstairs.”

“Thanks.” Stella can't help feeling a embarrassed. But she already has two pairs of jeans she can no longer squeeze into. Even with the few pounds she lost courtesy of the flu this week, she can't afford to have any more waistbands shrunk in the laundry.

Envious of Sissy's slender build beneath the baggy sweats she wears to clean in, Stella says, “I also left a note stuck to the fridge, next to the monthly planner. Did you see that one?”

“Oh, no . . . I'm sorry.”

“It just said that there are tons of apples in the crisper so help yourself. Oh, and there was tuna salad in there for you to have for your lunch, if you felt like it. Did you find it?”

“I brought my own sandwich, but thank you anyway. Oops, I'm so sorry!” Sissy blurts as the vacuum cleaner attachment in her hand clatters loudly to the hardwood floor.

“It's all right.” Stella bends to retrieve it and hands it to her, then looks at her more closely. The girl appears agitated, fumbling with the attachment as she tries to replace it on the end of the hose.

“What's wrong, Sissy?” Stella asks. “Is everything okay?”

Sissy hesitates. “I'm sorry, Mrs.—I mean, Stella. I'm just a little jittery today, I guess. I thought I . . .” She trails off, shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“You thought you what?”

“I just thought I heard something earlier, that's all. But I'm sure it was my imagination.”

“What did you think you heard?”

“Footsteps.”

“Footsteps?”

“Coming from downstairs. It was probably nothing.”

“Oh, it must have been me. I got home almost five minutes ago and I checked my phone messages before I—”

“No, no, not just now. This was much earlier this afternoon. When I was washing the floor in the master bathroom, I could have sworn I heard somebody down here. I thought it must be you or your husband, so I called out, but nobody answered. And when I heard it again after a few minutes and I started to come down to look . . .”

“What?” Stella prods, her pulse racing. She hasn't forgotten the wet tire treads in the garage the other day. “What happened?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Gattinski. I didn't mean to scare you. It was probably—”

“I'm not scared,” Stella protests, not bothering to correct the
Mrs. Gattinski
this time.

“Are you sure? Because you seem a little scared and I didn't mean to—”

“I'm just concerned, that's all. What happened when you started to come down to look?” she repeats, unable to temper her impatience.

“I just thought I heard the footsteps again . . .” Poor Sissy suddenly looks as though she wishes she hadn't brought it up at all. “And then I, uh, I thought I heard a door slamming. That's all.”

Stella's mouth has gone dry. Somebody was here again, during the day?

Kurt, she thinks, her blood beginning to boil. It had to be him. Who else would be sneaking around the house in the middle of the day? He probably forgot the cleaning lady would be here. Or maybe that's why he called—to make sure she was. And when she didn't pick up, he thought the coast was clear, so he—