Restless Souls, Page 3

  Chapter 2

 

 

  That afternoon I picked up my kids at their schools and drove to our new home.

  I faced my son and daughter sitting in the back seat. “Here we are, guys.” I tried to sound upbeat, not that I would cry. My tears had all been shed. The time had come to move on. Buying this house was the first step in that process.

  Benjamin grinned wide and craned his neck to get a good look at the house. Katie, on the other hand, slumped in her seat with a glum expression on her face.

  “What do you think, Katie?”

  “I’m not going into that house. It’s a dump. What will my friends think? God, what were you thinking, Mom?”

  “What do you intend to do? Sit in the car until you’re eighteen?”

  She rolled her eyes until only the whites showed.

  “I think it’s cool,” Benjamin gushed. “Can I go in now?” He opened the door and hopped from the car.

  “See? Your brother likes it.”

  “He likes the town dump and the smell of skunk, too.”

  I gave her that. Benjamin had eccentric tastes. “What’s it going to be, Katie?”

  “Why are you asking me what I want now? You didn’t consult me before you bought the house.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know I needed your permission.” I reached between the seats and patted her hand. “Take time to decide. In the meantime, your brother and I will be in the house.”

  “Screw this.” She gave the floor a solid kick.

  “Feel better now?”

  “No.”

  By the time I reached Benjamin, he was already rifling through the debris of candy wrappers, mud-soaked papers and dirty plastic bags littering the front yard.

  “Look at all these old leaves, Mom. I bet there’s all kinds of bugs and stuff under them.”

  Before I could stop him, he was on his hands and knees digging through the decaying mess. “Don’t you want to see the inside of the house, Benjamin?” Peripherally, I saw Katie slink from the car and slough toward us. I turned to face her. “I’m glad you changed your mind, honey. It’ll be fun fixing up this old place. You’ll see.” From my lips to God’s ears.

  “I want to call Phoebe,” she said.

  She needed service to do that. With everything else going on, I forgot to call the telephone company. I remembered to have the power hooked up, though. “They couldn’t come any earlier than Monday.” Forgive me this lie.

  She looked at me like I just landed on earth from outer space. “That’s four days away. How busy can they be in this rinky-dink little town, for God’s sake?”

  “I don’t know, but — ”

  “God, Mom, why don’t you get with the times and get a cell phone?”

  The need for a cell phone never arose before. I was Suzie the happy homemaker until three months ago. Always at home. Cooking, cleaning, making beds. That sounded so Stepfordwifeish. I would never play that role again.

  “I’ll call and plead with them to come sooner. Okay? I’ll get a cell phone, too.”

  “Okay.” She kicked leaves with the toe of her shoe.

  Score one point for the negligent mother.

  I turned to Benjamin. “Let’s go in.”

  He stood and wiped his filthy hands on his jeans.

  Clasping Benjamin’s hand, I said, “Katie?”

  She grudgingly moved closer. With a child on either side of me, I gazed up at our new home. I felt ashamed. I imagined my children did, too. Well, maybe not my son.

  A man’s voice wafted to us from the evergreen hedge dividing the two properties. “Be mindful of that first step. It’s a leg-buster.”

  I recognized the voice as the nutty man next door who warned me about the house. I so hoped it wouldn’t be like this — nosy neighbors, butting in where they shouldn’t. Didn’t I have enough to contend with? “Come on, children. Get a move on.” I shoved Katie forward and grabbed Benjamin by the shoulder and hauled him along with me.

  “God, Mom, what’s your problem?” Katie asked in that newly adapted condescending way of hers when we landed on the veranda.

  “Problem? No problem. I’m just anxious for you to see the house, that’s all.” What a liar divorce had made me.

  Benjamin looked back. “Wow. That man looks just like Santa, Mom.”

  Uh-huh, a batty ol’ St. Nick. I faced Benjamin forward. “It’s not polite to stare, sweetie.”

  “Did you see him, sis?”

  “No. I was too busy trying not to fall flat on my face. Thanks to Mom.” She jerked out of my clutch.

  Well, geez, sorrieee. Bludgeon the mother for trying to protect her children.

  I placed the key in the lock. The door opened, it seemed of its own accord. “Everyone make a wish.”

  Katie and Benjamin gawked at me.

  Why did my kids think everything I said was crazy? “If you make a wish when you enter a house for the first time, it’ll come true.” Every child of Irish parents should know that.

  Benjamin closed his eyes and his small hands formed fists at his sides. “I wish there are hidden passages and secret rooms in this house just like in those old, old, castles in England.”

  I wished for that, too. Uh-huh.

  “I wish that when I open my eyes, I’ll wake in my bed and this’ll all be a bad dream.”

  My daughter, the dreamer. She probably wished for her own cell phone, too, with unlimited minutes so she could spend hours telling her friends what a spaz her mother was.

  We stepped into the foyer. Foyer. Such a fancy name. Too fancy for a house in this condition. I looked around, attempting to muster some enthusiasm, but couldn’t. The truth willed out. Our new home was a decrepit, ramshackle configuration of age-old two-by-fours held together by plaster that would probably fall down around our ears at the first arpeggios from Katie’s stereo. I made a mental note to buy her earphones.

  Katie’s high-pitched scream echoed through the house. Much to my chagrin, I agreed with her. What had possessed me? Now if my doctor had prescribed me the drugs I practically begged him for, I could blame my decision to buy the house on that. But I couldn’t. I had to be insane.

  Benjamin’s squeal of delight brought a smile to my face. For some, there was no accounting for taste.

  “Yeow, what’s that stench?” Katie wailed.

  Yes, it was gawdawful. I resisted the urge to pinch my nostrils. “It’s probably just dampness from the basement. Once the house is warmed, it’ll go away.” I hoped the furnace worked.

  “I bet it’s haunted.” Benjamin gave my legs an exuberant hug. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, thank you for buying this house.”

  His blond curly locks brushed my hands. I bent and kissed his cheek, then reached for Katie for a group hug. She lunged out of my reach.

  “Don’t touch me. I hate you. I hate you for wrecking our family. I hate you for selling our house.”

  I recoiled, not knowing how to respond. Perhaps, Katie was right. Maybe I was at fault for everything.

  “Did you know Dad’s girlfriend has an Olympic-size swimming pool?” Katie asked with a perfected uplift of her right lip.

  Yes, and she also had a set of knockers that would smother a cow. “I know.”

  “And why don’t you color that gray in your mousy-brown hair? You know, a little eyeliner and mascara would bring out the blue of your eyes instead of them making you look sick all the time.” She took a step backward. “And have you never heard of lipstick? A little powder would cover up those freakish freckles.”

  The digs disturbed me, but instead of succumbing to the allure of yelling, I took a deep breath and raised a hand to my face. “I like my freckles. You’re probably right about the other things, though. Maybe you can help me with that?” Benjamin tugged on my pant leg. “What is it, honey?”

  “Can I explore?”

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  “Awright.” H
e did that thing where he bent his leg and raised it into the air and his hand yanked an imaginary rope, then bounded up the stairs.

  I turned to Katie, who stood rigid, as though doing so helped her cope. She shouldn’t need to cope. Jonathan and I put that on her. What had we done to our daughter? My throat tightened. “Insulting me is not going to bring your father back.”

  “I hate Daddy, too. I never want to see him again.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. I wanted to dry her eyes, aching with want to wash away what robbed her of her bright outlook on life, but I thought my hand might get bitten.

  Her behavior had worried me. Now that worry magnified. Until her world fell apart, as she’d told me many times over the past three months, she was a well-adjusted, happy and easygoing teenager. My mother’s melodic voice sang in my ears: This, too, shall pass. “Things will get better, you’ll see.”

  Katie cocked a hip. “No, they won’t. Why are you so positive? Why did you have to sell our house?”

  Truthfully, I was not always positive, but needed to appear so for my children. “Our house was paid for, so Daddy gave it to me in lieu of alimony and maintenance for you and your brother. Since I have no job, I have no way, at the moment anyway, to support us. And because this house cost one-fifth of what I sold our old house for, we don’t have to worry about money for a long time.” I smoothed back her hair. “You do realize, don’t you, you got your hair and eye color from me?” I bent my head back and looked up at her. “And your father’s height.”

  It filled my heart with joy to see her smile. It happened so rarely these days. Draping my arm around her shoulders, I said, “Whaddaya say, kiddo? Want the nickel tour?”

  She shrugged.

  Spears of psychedelic light stretched across the hardwood floor from the stained glass octagonal window in the alcove before the staircase.

  I guided her through the hallway, past the newel post and banister I envisioned without the heavy coats of green paint. We approached the doorway leading into a spacious living room.

  Katie took hesitant baby steps. I understood. Unlike me, she couldn’t see past the holes in the plaster, the army green color on the walls, the hideous gray and black wallpaper, or the scuffed and filthy hardwood floor beneath our feet.

  Before my eyes I envisioned almond-colored walls, gleaming hardwood floors, my peach-colored sofa against the wall facing the lovely bay window where my mother’s ivory angels, blessed by Father Tom — God rest his soul — sat on the sill keeping watch over us, our house and the street beyond. In a brass pot that sat in one corner I grew lavender for good luck. It sprouted magnificently. The matching chair and ottoman took its place nicely in the corner to the left and my six-foot fichus looked majestic in the opposite corner. The glass doors with brass trim added just the right touch to the newly painted age-old brick of the fireplace. The peach and gray floral design of the area rug sitting squarely in the center of the room balanced the hexagonal coffee table perfectly. Its glass top sparkled brilliantly in the light from the crystal chandelier overhead.

  For Katie, this house would be a constant reminder of the divorce of her parents, the divorce that destroyed her happy life, and the divorce that took her away from her friends. I wanted so much for her to see it as a fresh start, as a sign of our independence.

  True, the house might remind me of what I’d lost, too, but once I whipped this old mausoleum into shape, the reminder would eventually peter out.

  Strange I would think “mausoleum.”

  “If I were you, I’d find a way to get Dad back,” Katie said smugly.

  Depending on the circumstances, I was either a miracle worker or a buffoon in my daughter’s eyes lately. I understood her feeling of insecurity and sympathized. No child should ever face the uncertainty of a roof over their heads, food on the table or clothes on their back.

  Never once throughout my own childhood had there been cause for me to worry about those things. What my parents gave me — a stable, loving home, a healthy and happy childhood, security — I wanted for my children, too. I could only give them part of that now, thanks to my divorce and Jonathan who considered sex the bigger picture in our marriage.

  “It’ll take some work, but it’s going to make a beautiful home.” Warmth like I'd never experienced swept through my body. The feeling gave me strength. I smiled and looked at my daughter. From somewhere deep inside, I found the strength not to laugh at the expression on her face — a mixture of bewilderment, pity, sadness and anger.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you, Mother, but not even you can make this place beautiful, if it ever was in the first place.”

  “Honey.” I made a move toward her. She stepped away and stomped her feet.

  We performed this dance often, she and I. We were getting good at it.

  “God, Mom, what have you done to us?”

  Not too long ago the veracity of her words would have devastated me. “Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see.” My mantra, these past several weeks.

  She meandered like a zombie ahead of me. I steered her out of the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen where our collective gasps ricocheted off the walls. The room was actually in worse shape than I remembered. Every door of the green painted plywood cabinets hung sloppily from either the top or the bottom hinge. The white porcelain sink was covered in a yellowish substance, its edges rimmed with scum. I stopped myself from wondering if the stove and refrigerator worked by adding packages of rubber gloves to my mental shopping list of cleaning supplies. No amount of cleaning solution, though, would remove the buildup of grease and something else I couldn’t identify caking the surfaces of both appliances. It was moot, anyway. I had new appliances on order. Goodwill could have used them, though.

  Staring down at the jagged pieces of broken linoleum floor, I wondered if a hardwood floor lay beneath, but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to look.

  Turning my attention to Katie, I watched her eyes grow larger and larger to the point where I thought they might pop from their sockets. She spun in a slow circle, hands outstretched at her sides, palms upturned. “My God, this is bad. No, this is beyond bad. This is ... this is ....”

  “Pretty bad?”

  “Mom, this house needs a lot of work, and you don’t know anything about doing any of this stuff.”

  The slump of her shoulders yanked at my heart. “I’ll learn. I’ll read books. I’ll ask for advice from the people at the building supply store.” Katie had worries and concerns she shouldn’t have at her age. “I can . . . I will do this. Watch and see.”

  She snorted. “Like I have a choice?”

  Despite her attitude and lack of confidence in me, excitement overcame me. From the morning after Jonathan told me he wanted a divorce, it was a trial rolling out of bed every day. Now I had something to look forward to, something to do that would make me feel like something other than useless, something more than a man’s castoff.

  “I can paint. I can clean. I can mix plaster. I even think I’ll be able to redo the floors. How hard can it be? If a man can do it, a woman can do it better, right?”

  Judging by the skeptical expression on her face, she considered me incapable of looking after them, let alone refurbishing a house. I walked over to the kitchen window and ran a finger along the peeling paint on the sill.

  “I wonder what happened in this house?” Katie asked.

  The question took me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, didn’t you say people lived here up until they died?”

  I nodded. That was my understanding. “So?”

  “So, don’t you wonder how they could live in all this dirt?”

  “They were old. Very old. Maybe their vision was impaired.”

  She snorted again. “They had to have been blind.”

  “I can turn this house into a home, a home that will make you and your brother proud, the kind of house you won’t be ashamed of.” How
many times did I have to say those words for me to believe them?

  “And if you can’t?”

  Katie sounded like she’d take pleasure in seeing me fail. “I will. You’ll see.”

  I watched with amusement when she sniffed the air.

  “Mom, is it my imagination or is the stench getting stronger?”

  The odor was stronger. I'd noticed it too, but hadn't said anything, hoping that Katie wouldn't notice. I should have known better. Little escaped my daughter's attention. The burdens of the last few months crashed against me in waves then and as much as I tried to prevent it, my eyes watered. One tear, followed by another and yet another, fell from eyes and trickled down my cheeks. Seconds later, I lost control and sobbed. I never wanted my children to see my vulnerability, to see their mother was not the warhorse they thought, to see I harbored doubts about how we would survive without their father or that I sometimes questioned my own sanity.

  I turned my back to my daughter and attempted to regain my composure. I couldn't. My body convulsed. My throat constricted and I gasped for breath. Just when I thought my daughter cared nothing for me and couldn't empathize the turmoil I suffered, a hand caressed my shoulder. Briefly. Lightly. Lovingly. The gesture – the gentle touch of my daughter’s hand – demolished what little remained of my stalwart resolve. My sobs became wails. My unexpected collapse into self-pity shattered my façade, destroyed the inroads I managed to forge toward picking up the pieces of our shattered lives. I cried because of that, too.

  After a moment, I pulled myself together and peeked out the cracks between my fingers. Katie stood with her back to me on the other side of the room, staring into the half-bath. What? How did she get from here to there so quickly? Before I could ask, Benjamin barreled down the stairs. His short legs ran ahead of him a few feet before his running shoes came to a screeching halt.

  “Mom, this house is so cool. The bedrooms are twice the size of the ones in our old house and I can walk into the closets, they’re so big. And in the bathroom there’s this big, big…” he spread his arms wide at his sides, “bathtub that has these big claw feet holding it up. Come see, come see.”

  The doorbell ding-donged. Probably the only thing in the house that worked properly, though I couldn’t say the sound was welcoming. “That must be the movers. We’ll have beds to sleep in tonight after all.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mist whirling upward in a spiral. What in hell was that? It floated through the doorway. I chased after it.