Tenley made a quick pit stop, assessed herself in the ladies’ room mirror as she rolled up her skirt’s waistband. Once, twice, patted it into place. Wonder if Brileen knew Lanna? Brileen seemed a little older-but old enough to know Lanna?
Anyway. Dr. Maddux would be happy she was “getting out in the world,” right? Should she text her mom, saying she was meeting a friend for coffee-wouldn’t that be a surprise?-and not to worry, she’d be home? She could just go tell her in person.
Tenley stuck her earrings back in, felt the golden curves slip through the pierces in her ears. She felt like her old self, a feeling she hadn’t had in however long she could remember. There was a Tenley she used to know, the one who laughed and read vampire books, who kind of liked math and computers and puzzles, who listened to music and secretly read movie star blogs. It had all soured, turned worthless, and gross and shallow, after Lanna. Died.
“After Lanna died,” she whispered. She had to face it. And live with it.
She was only eighteen. And she was, she had to admit, kind of tired of feeling sad. Was it being unfaithful to be happy? She would never understand what happened to Lanna. She could never imagine forgiving herself for it. And she would always miss Lanna. Always, always, always.
But that didn’t mean she had to give up her whole life. Lanna would want her to be happy.
She hardly remembered waiting for the elevator, hardly remembered waving to the snoozing security guard at the Congress Street side exit, hardly remembered poking the flat metal button to get the Walk sign. She’d started crossing before it even changed, because how could she wait? Because there was her friend Brileen Finnerty, across the street, sitting on the green bench. Exactly as she’d promised.
It was almost as if Lanna had given her a gift.
17
“My fault? My fault?” Catherine Siskel said it out loud to her empty kitchen, knew if she threw the framed photo of Lanna across the room it would serve only to shatter the glass, thereby destroying another part of their lives. Early this morning, her husband called to inform her that he’d “again” “unexpectedly” been “called” to meet with a client. And he “might be” “very delayed” coming home. So her photo-throwing drama would be wasted. What’s more, she’d have to clean up all that broken glass.
Seemed she was always cleaning up something. The most internecine messes at City Hall were easier to manage than her own life.
It wasn’t just Greg, she had to admit. Often she herself stayed late at the office, an explainable side effect of her job, but recently more an excuse to keep from having to go home to their daughter Lanna’s forever-empty bedroom and her husband’s empty eyes. What was he caring about these last months? Not her.
Now she was by herself, in their empty house. Tenley wasn’t home yet, and if Greg found out, somehow he’d make even that her fault. In this morning’s call, he’d insisted, as always, she make sure their daughter was home that night. Because of Lanna, he always said.
What else was new?
She was always concerned about Tenley. Greg hardly had to remind her of that. But Tenley had to live in the real world. She and her husband could not protect her from imaginary dangers. She’d be home soon.
“The girl is eighteen,” she’d reminded Greg, unnecessarily, this morning. Now she shoved a bottle of sauvignon blanc into the fridge. At least it could be cold, even though she’d have to open it alone. She slammed the stainless steel door. Taking her hostilities out on the fridge. Helpful.
“She has a job at City Hall, a job I managed to finagle for her,” Catherine had said. “Why is it my responsibility to make sure she’s home at some random time you happen to select? No. Just, no. We need to let her have a life.”
Catherine steadied herself against the countertop. Using the toe of her left black patent pump, she pried off the heel of her right shoe, then, with bare toes, slipped off the other. She left both shoes toppled over in the middle of the kitchen floor and paced by them, fuming. Taking off her heels was always such a relief, and the cool tile felt soothing under her feet. But this was no time to relax, she couldn’t relax any part of her.
She replayed more of the morning’s conversation-if you could call it “conversation”-in her head.
“I resent this, Greg,” she’d said. “You go away, you call me from where the hell ever, you expect the world to work just the way you want and demand, and when it doesn’t, it’s everyone’s fault but yours.”
She leaned against the counter, the empty house deafening. She’d tried to be patient with her husband. He was still in mourning, still upset, relentlessly, viciously upset. Catherine knew the most effective way to handle an unhappy constituent was to listen, evaluate, and then design a solution. She did that every day at City Hall.
But finally she couldn’t listen to one more word. “You lost a daughter?” Her scorn had pinged off the shiny windows of her City Hall office, and then against the framed photos on her office wall. “I’ve lost a daughter, too, Greg. We’ve both-I mean-not a day goes by that I-”
The kitchen floor tile no longer felt cool under her tired feet. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes, remembering, searching for new meaning in this impossibly recycled and reprocessed conversation. How many times could they talk about the exact same thing in different ways? How long would the loop of sorrow and guilt continue before it destroyed them both? All three of them, she amended.
How her husband’s brain worked she could no longer fathom. Twenty-seven years ago, was it now? when she was still Kate O’Connor, they’d met and married when they both attended the Kennedy School’s public policy program. They’d cuddled in the common TV room watching the presidential elections and told each other “don’t worry, be happy” every time they had a big paper due. She rebranded herself Catherine, took her husband’s name in a fit of neofeminism, and went into local politics. He went into political consulting. They’d been the happy activist couple, making a difference in people’s lives every day. Now they lived in a nice, but fringey, part of town, the mayor insisting it would prove that every part of the City of Boston welcomed everyone. The mayor lived in the welcome of Beacon Hill. But the woods nearby had been lovely. Until Lanna.
“How about this, Greg,” she’d said, trying to use her calm-the-constituent voice though she knew he’d recognize that and be further annoyed. “How about if you come home tonight? For once?”
“I’ll try,” he’d said. “I will.”
Catherine replayed those words, “I’ll try,” as clear as if her husband-where was he?-had just said them. She’d open that wine now and pretend nothing bad had happened, nothing bad had touched them, and nothing bad would ever touch them again.
She took a step toward the fridge and tripped over one of her shoes, stubbing a toe and almost falling against the drain board. All she needed. All! She paused, feeling her tears. Why did she always have to be the conciliatory one? She was hurting, too, and trying her best to cope. Huh. Maybe she’d even be better off without Greg. Let go of the past. Let go of him. Start over.