Home Again

  Madelaine looked away again, stared at the clock on the wall, then slowly met his gaze. “On the way to Portland,” she said slowly. “Yes. Yes.”

  “Why did you wait all this time to tell me?”

  “Your heart was too fragile.”

  He wanted to say something mean and bitter to that, something about the dead man’s heart in his chest, but he couldn’t. “God, he’s been dead over a week and I didn’t know. Did you have a funeral without telling me, too?”

  “His parishioners wanted a big Catholic funeral. I didn’t tell you because you couldn’t get out of isolation, and they couldn’t wait any longer. We can do a quiet family memorial service when you feel better.”

  He closed his eyes, imagining some church filled with flowers, and a long wooden aisle that led up to the glossy coffin on the altar. Just like Pop’s funeral, only this time it wouldn’t be an old man’s body lying on all that puffy white satin. It would be Francis—Francis lying dead in a wooden box….

  Draped in flowers—they always draped the coffins in flowers, as if the prettiness on the outside could change what lay within. The place would reek with the sickly sweet scent of the lilies, and they’d play that god-awful music, designed to make you cry.

  “No,” he said, feeling the tears creep back into his throat. “I don’t want to remember Francis that way. I’ll say good-bye to him in my own way when I get out of this place.”

  They fell silent again, staring at each other. Angel tried not to think about Francis, but he couldn’t stop. “It’s funny, Mad….” He surprised himself by speaking aloud; he hadn’t meant to. But she was the only person in the world whom he could talk to, the only person who knew Angel and Francis and the old days. “Even all those years I was gone, I always knew Francis was out there. Every time I got my picture on the cover of a magazine or a movie poster, I thought of Francis. I knew he’d pick it up and smile and shake his head. I knew he was waiting for my call, and I kept picking up the phone, but somehow I never dialed. And when he came to see me the other day, there were so many things I meant to say, but we fell into that old routine of Saint Francis and Angel the Screw-up, and the words never got said.” He looked at her, wishing she could grant him absolution for his sins. But it was his brother he should have asked for that, and now it was too late. “I guess I thought we were both immortal.”

  The smile that reached her eyes was sad. “I know what you mean. I … hurt Francis’s feelings just before he left. I did it so easily, so thoughtlessly, and when I realized what I’d done, I thought I could make up for it with the same ease….”

  He saw her pain and it gave him an unexpected strength. “He loved you, Mad. From the first moment he saw you in the hospital room, he loved you.”

  “You remember that day?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. She had every reason to believe he’d forgotten. Once, he thought he had, but now he knew the memories of her were still inside him, protected and cared for through all these years. He gazed at her so long, he felt his tears return. He wanted to open his arms to her, to draw her close so they could take from and give to each other, so that neither of them felt alone.

  But he was afraid that if he touched her right now, if he curled his arms around her and felt her tears spill on his throat, he’d be lost.

  “What are we going to do, Mad?” he whispered.

  She crossed her arms and stared at him, her cheeks glossy with tears. “We’re going to try to live without him.”

  Madelaine stood in front of the rectory, carrying a huge, empty box. To the left the big brick church sparkled with reflected light, but the small, nut-brown house was dark and deserted-looking. Bright orange and gold Thanksgiving decorations—made by the Sunday school class, no doubt—dotted the windows. Pilgrims and cornucopias and turkeys.

  She thought of the dozens of children who’d hunched over tiny desks, cutting and pasting and coloring. Francis had been so proud to tape their creations on his bedroom window….

  Grief rippled through her, one wave after another after another, leaving her shaken and cold. She couldn’t seem to make herself move. She just stood there, seeing a hundred moments pass before her eyes, a dozen times she’d loped up this path, her arms full of pizza or flowers or champagne. Like the time she’d passed her first biochemistry exam … or the day Francis had heard his first confession … Lina’s baptism… Madelaine’s last birthday …

  She shuddered and forced herself to think about other things—Lina and Angel and the days that lay ahead.

  Madelaine couldn’t go on as she had been. It had been a week since Francis’s death, and she’d been stumbling in a fog ever since, speaking only when spoken to, and not always even then. She knew that Lina needed her, needed her desperately, but Madelaine felt as if she had nothing inside her, just a gaping hole where Francis had once been. He’d been her rock, her lifeline, for more than half of her life. Without him, she felt lost.

  She took a deep breath and tilted her chin up. She knew there was no point in putting this off, in pretending she didn’t need to walk up this path, open that door, and pack up his things. His housekeeper had taken care of the household goods, but Madelaine had asked to pack up his personal possessions. She would have put it off forever, but a new priest would be moving in soon.

  She went to the door and opened it wide, letting a swath of sunlight cut through the gloom. Gripping the empty box, she moved woodenly through the common room toward his bedroom.

  When she opened his door and flicked on the light switch, memories hit her so hard that she staggered backward. The cardboard box slid from her fingers and hit the floor with a thud.

  Tears blinded her. With a tiny, gulping sound of grief, she moved numbly around the tiny bedroom, touching things—photographs, books, the favorite baseball cap he wore on Saturdays. The rosary wound neatly on his Bible.

  She saw a picture on the dresser and picked it up, letting her fingers trace the cool surface of the glass. It was her and Francis on the day they’d brought Lina home from the hospital. They were smiling, but there was such worry in their eyes, such grown-up fears on those adolescent faces….

  Heya, Maddy-girl, you’re on the wrong side of town.

  “Oh, Francis …” She pulled his pillow from the bed and smoothed her hands over its rumpled cotton. The Star Wars sheets she’d given him as a joke last Christmas.

  She’d told Angel that they had to learn to live without Francis—but how could she do that? How could you learn to live without the sunshine on your face?

  The tears came again, stinging and hot, and she gave in to them. She sank slowly to her knees, sobbing into the pillow that smelled of her best friend in the world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lina stared out at the glassy surface of Lake Union. A huge black shadow slithered across the flat water. It reminded her of the monster that had lived behind the louvered doors of her closet when she was a little girl. Francis and her mom had told her that the monster existed in her imagination, and mostly she had believed them. But some nights when it was especially dark outside and rain fell like salt in the circle of the streetlamp outside her bedroom window, she’d known that the monster wasn’t only in her mind. She’d heard it moving, scraping, rustling her metal clothes hangers.

  By the time she was twelve, she’d begun to understand that whatever lived in the closet was part of her. She felt it inside her, moving every now and then, rearing its ugly head with a sort of formless, wordless dissatisfaction that colored her perceptions, her dreams, her nightmares. It was a loneliness that no amount of family Monopoly games or Disneyland vacations could fill.

  It had started as a few bad nights in her thirteenth year and graduated to bad weeks by the time she was fifteen. She remembered the beginning so well—it had coincided with her first period, and no matter how many books her mother had showed her, no matter how many photographs of uteruses and ovaries Lina had seen, she knew the truth. The goodness was bleeding
out of her, leaving its brownish stain on her underwear. After she’d started bleeding, the sleepless nights had begun. She’d found herself alternately crying over nothing and throwing temper tantrums that left her shaken by their sudden violence. In her black moods, everything upset her. Especially her mother.

  But it had never been this bad before. The dissatisfaction and unhappiness had always come and gone, moments that set her on a path and then left her standing somewhere she didn’t really want to be.

  Now it wouldn’t leave her. The blackness sat on her chest and filled her mouth with a bitter taste. It wrapped itself around words she’d never had a chance to say—good-bye, I love you, I’m sorry.

  Without Francis, Lina felt lost and alone. So alone that sometimes she woke in the middle of the night unable to breathe, unable even to cry. She would turn her bike toward the rectory, then remember he wasn’t there.

  She was falling apart. Nothing satisfied her or made her happy, and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the simplest thing. All she felt was guilt and more guilt for how she’d treated Francis. She wanted to talk to her mother about it, but she couldn’t find the words. And what was the point, anyway? Mom was as much the walking wounded as Lina was. They drifted side by side in that big old house that didn’t feel like home, saying nothing, never smiling.

  And now, into all that pain, her mother had produced the father.

  Lina winced and drew her legs into her chest, staring sightlessly at the flat silver surface of Lake Union. The big, rusted pipes that gave Gasworks Park its name were a huge hulking shadow to her left.

  A light rain started to fall, pattering the lake, pinging off the metal structure.

  Just thinking about the day of the funeral made her blood boil. She couldn’t believe her mom had picked that moment to give her the big news about her mysterious father.

  She curled into a tight little ball and rolled onto her side. Tiny shoots of dead grass poked her cheek and rain splattered the sides of her face, falling in icy streaks down her collar.

  She wanted to hate her mother for bringing it up, and a part of her did, but there was so much more inside her right now. Hate and anger and, worst of all, that niggling hope that wouldn’t grow and yet couldn’t quite die.

  She lay there until her clothes were soaked and her hair was plastered to her face. She needed Francis to make everything all right.

  But Francis was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

  Who would help her now that he was gone? Who would be her rock to lean on when the black moods came, who would throw his door open and grin and say, Come on in, Lina-ballerina …?

  Daddy.

  She thought of the phantom that was her father, the man she’d dreamed of for years, waited for, prayed to, and believed in. She needed him now more than she’d ever needed him.

  I want him to love you, Lina. I want him to want you, but I’m afraid … I’m afraid he’ll break your heart.

  When she’d heard the words, Lina had known it was the truth. Her mother was afraid he’d break her heart. And maybe he would. It was impossible to keep hold of all her little-girl fantasies of a perfect father anymore. Since Francis’s death, she understood how dark and frightening the world could be.

  Lina sniffed and wiped a flannel-sleeved arm across her dripping nose. This man who was her father could hurt her. She understood that now and knew her mother’s fear was real.

  But maybe he could save her, too.

  She wanted that to be true, wanted it so badly, she felt bruised by her need. She was so achingly lonely, and her mother’s love didn’t seem to help. She needed her father to open his arms to her and take her into his house, to ask about her life and listen. Oh, God, just listen …

  She’d lost Francis, and all she had left was her daddy.

  She would make him love her. She wouldn’t take him for granted, as she’d done with Francis. With her daddy, she’d be perfect and witty and lovable. So lovable he’d cry for the years he’d lost.

  It had to be possible.

  Because if it wasn’t—if he truly didn’t want her—she didn’t think she could survive.

  Angel dreamed he was walking in the meadow again. It was winter this time. A thick blanket of sparkling white snow covered everything, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue.

  Like Francis’s eyes …

  And suddenly he was in an empty church. He blinked and looked around. Sunlight streamed through a huge stained-glass window, sending shards of multicolored light across the hardwood floor. A huge statue of the Virgin Mary, carved of white marble, stared down at him, her arms folded protectively around a swaddled bundle.

  Angel turned slowly and saw a group of children huddled at the open doorway. When he turned back around, the church was full of people—parents poised with cameras, craning their necks to see the kids.

  One by one the children walked into the church. They were dressed alike—girls in ruffly white dresses, boys in creased black pants and pressed white shirts, their hair slicked back in unnatural stiffness. Angel felt a smile start. It was a day he remembered so clearly….

  Francis appeared first, a gangly nine-year-old with overly starched black pants that made a tiny whick-whick sound when he walked. Angel followed his big brother so closely that when Francis stopped suddenly, Angel rammed into him. Angel heard his laughter trill through the quiet church before he could stop it.

  “Shh,” Francis hissed, turning around.

  Angel gave his brother a wide grin. “Sorry,” he whispered, trying to straighten up. He tugged on the worn white shirt and retucked it into his small black pants.

  Then the line was moving again. They marched past the pews and took their stations alongside the organ. There was a moment of hushed silence before the song began. Parents grinned and leaned forward; cameras came up.

  Angel inched toward his brother. Francis stood in the center of the row—the tallest boy in the CCD class—with his back stiff and his eyes straight ahead. He sang the song in the clear, pure voice of a true believer.

  Angel reached slowly into his pocket. His fingers curled around the baby tree frog, feeling the slick, rounded surface of his back. Inch by inch he eased the frog out of his pocket and then set it, gently, gently, on Francis’s shoulder.

  In the middle of Francis’s solo, the frog let out a loud ribbit and jumped onto Mary Ann McCallister’s head. After that, all hell broke loose.

  Girls screamed and clapped and ran away from each other. The boys pounced and dove after the frog. And Father just stared at Angel, shaking his head.

  Angel laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. After a long minute, Francis joined in, and the two of them stood there, laughing amidst the pandemonium. And finally Francis wiped the tears from his face and handed Angel his first Communion rosary. “Here, Angel,” he said, grinning. “You’re definitely going to need two.”

  Francis’s words echoed as the vision of the church shifted and began to disappear.

  Suddenly Angel found himself in the meadow again, standing knee-deep in a freezing snow. The sky overhead was as black as a crow’s wing, and snow fell in a blinding fury, landing on his cheeks in tiny spots of fire. He stood there alone, not knowing what to say, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Then Francis was coming toward him, floating, reaching out.

  Angel took his brother’s hand and clung to it. “I’m sorry, Franco,” he whispered, feeling himself start to cry. “I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry….”

  “Shh,” Francis said with a smile, a slow, easy smile that crinkled his eyes into slits. “I know.” He squeezed Angel’s hand. “Just hang on, brother. I’m with you.”

  And Angel woke up crying.

  Madelaine stood in the open doorway of OR 8, wondering what she was going to do about Angel. Allenford and his surgical nurse were huddled around the bed, preparing Angel for his first post-op biopsy. Even from here, Madelaine heard Angel’s angry voice.

  His mood swings were uncontroll
able. One minute he was compliant and charming, and the next—wham! He threw the kind of temper tantrums that became legend almost before they were over. Nurses had started drawing straws to see who would have to check his vitals and adjust his meds. He’d become the six-hundred-pound gorilla in Intensive Care.

  Physically, things were going well. He’d been weaned off all intravenous drugs, including dopamine and Isuprel. He was progressing in leaps and bounds, and had been able to leave isolation earlier than most patients. The physical therapist had already visited him twice and reported that he was up and walking at least forty minutes a day. The blood cultures were negative.

  Yes, physically he was doing great. Mentally he was a mess. He seemed unable to come to terms with the new lifestyle. Every pill or shot or blood test drove him crazy. He couldn’t stand the swelling in his cheeks or the weight he’d lost while he was sick.

  In short, most of the time he was a pain in the ass.

  But he wouldn’t be one for long.

  Soon Angel would be discharged from the hospital and he’d be on his own. No one to take care of him but him.

  And if something didn’t change quickly, she was afraid he wouldn’t take it seriously enough. Hadn’t that always been Angel’s problem—that he took nothing seriously?

  His meds schedule wasn’t something he could ignore. He had to follow the rules, for once in his life. If he didn’t…

  She pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. Angel had Francis’s heart—all that was left of her laughing, blue-eyed priest—and she’d be damned if she’d let him throw the miracle away.

  He was lost right now. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the fleeting softness of his touch. And whenever Angel got scared, he got angry; she knew that, had always known it.

  The question was, what was she going to do about it?

  She walked over to his bedside, taking his hand in hers. “Hey, Mad,” he said in a drowsy voice, “guess you wanted to see old Allenford stick it to me again.”