Knock Me Off My Feet (21 page)
Sheila guffawed. "Sounds familiar. That's the method of seduction Michael used, and look where it got me."
Audie saw Jamie Quinn moving toward them, his broad pink face lit up with what could only be described as delight. He was headed right toward her, and she tried to prepare herself for another rib-crusher.
But he got waylaid by one of the clusters of cops and Audie heard herself exhale.
"Now Jamie is even more intense than Trish was." Sheila nodded toward the big man with a heavy cap of salt-and-pepper hair, and Audie followed her gaze.
Jamie Quinn had to be at least six-foot-three and he was solid and wide and loud. She could picture him in the dark blue Chicago Police Department uniform, a billy club hanging from his belt, scaring the bejesus out of anyone.
"Tell me about him," Audie said.
Sheila smiled. "Well, Michael has referred to Jamie's parenting style as 'knock heads first; ask questions later.' Things got pretty wild around here with a house full of boys."
Audie nodded. "A house full of Quinn boys."
"Exactly." Sheila reached over and patted Audie's forearm where it rested on the tablecloth. Sheila had a very soft hand. "But he's a great guy. Opinionated as hell. Very proud of his family and the life he and Trish made here. As long as you don't cross his family or
Ireland
, the Church, or the White Sox, Jamie is a big old softy. If you're stupid enough to go back on your word or hurt one of his boys, God help you."
"Yikes." Audie took a big gulp of her iced tea. "Quinn said his parents moved here in the sixties. Do you know what part of
Ireland
they came from?"
Sheila squeaked with laughter. "Dear God, of course. You don't spend much time with us Irish types, do you?"
"No." Audie shrugged.
"Well, we tend to talk a lot about
Ireland
and being Irish. It's like a hobby. It's what makes us the way we are, I guess. My parents are first-generation Americans. All four of my grandparents were born in
"Oh."
"On the west coast."
"OK."
Sheila smiled at her. "Trish was from a little town called Ballyporeen in
Dublin
. They met at a church dance at St. Cajetan down the street here, and apparently it was love at first sight."
Audie grinned at that, looking over at Jamie, trying to picture him as a nervous suitor at a church social, but not being very successful.
"My God, you should see pictures of the two of them when they were young. Jamie was one studly specimen, let me tell you—wickedly good-looking. And Trish was stunning—she had a very intense and lovely face."
"Kind of like Quinn."
Sheila tried not to giggle at her new friend. "Yes. Like that."
"I think I may have seen their wedding portrait actually. In Quinn's hallway."
"Did you now?" Sheila's eyes shot wide.
"Ladies? May I escort you to the servin' table?" Jamie stood in front of the women, blocking out the late-afternoon sun, his arms crooked out for easy access. "This bein' my house and my rules, I say I get all the pretty girls."
Sheila hopped up, spun Jamie around, and hooked her arm in his. "No argument here, Da." She went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
Audie stood slowly and wound her arm around Jamie's elbow, a little embarrassed by how nice it felt to be on the arm of this man. "I'm honored," she said, smiling up at him, and it surprised her that she meat exactly that. Jamie's attentions made her feel special.
During and after the serve-yourself feast of ribs, hamburgers, chicken, corn, a variety of salads, and lots and lots of beer, Audie talked with nearly everyone at the party. She met the enchanting Commader Connelly, who admitted he was a big fan. With several of the neighbors she discussed the pros and cons of using crumpled newspaper to clean windows and the handiest ways to use old toothbrushes around the house. She'd butted heads with Michael several times, on topics ranging from baseball to "real" barbecue sauce. She somehow ended up talking politics and religion with Pat, yet came away thoughtful and smiling. And she'd been squeezed by Jamie more times than she could count.
Audie was having just about the best day of her life.
She was talking with Aunt Esther about her 1959 steamer ship passage from
Ireland
to
see
Kiley, smiling brightly up at her.
"Hey, kid!" Audie reached down for her hand.
"Wanna
see
my treatment?"
"What?" Audie looked up at Esther, but the older woman shook her head and whispered, "I'll tell you in a second."
Audie looked back down at Kiley. "Sure, honey. Where should I go?"
"The kitchen."
"You go ahead. I'll be right there, OK?"
"OK!"
Audie watched the little girl's legs churn and then carry her up the back steps. The kitchen storm door slammed shut behind her.
She turned back to Esther to see the woman's face lined with sadness. "What?" Audie's pulse quickened. "That's the second time she's mentioned that. What treatment is she talking about?"
"She's a sick child, though you wouldn't know it to look at her." Esther's voice was soft. "She has cystic fibrosis—can't breathe well and has all these problems with digestion and the like."
"What?" Audie nearly yelled.
"I think Jamie told me she's up to six breathing treatments a day now and she has to take three of the enzyme pills at each meal. It's a sad thing to watch. Sheila is a saint, and that's the God's truth."
"I didn't know. I
…"
Audie's eyes went back to the kitchen door and she felt her chest bunch up in knots. "Nobody told me. I'm so sorry."
Esther shrugged. "The family doesn't make a major production of it. We don't want her to feel like she's peculiar—just a regular little girl who needs a bit of help with her breathin'."
"My God." Audie simply stared at Esther. "I told her I'd watch, but I'm sure she doesn't—"
"She likes for people to see. She likes you. If you told her you'd go, I recommend that you do."
Audie thanked Esther and found herself climbing the back steps. She opened the door to Jamie's kitchen—a symphony of 1970s golds and browns—and found Sheila and Kiley at the table. Kiley was holding a plastic mask over her mouth, but Audie could see her eyes smiling above the rim.
"Hey, Kiley," she said softly. "I'm here to see the treatment you told me about."
Sheila whipped her head around, at first scowling, then letting the tension drop away. She slowly smiled at Audie. "Have a seat. It's a girls-only party."
Audie would not cry. It would not happen. If this little girl could sit there so matter-of-fact, so could she. For some reason, Audie thought she'd read that cystic fibrosis was a fatal disease. But that couldn't be right—Kiley looked so healthy. She acted healthy. She was so bright and happy. It wasn't possible.
Audie suddenly felt a hand reach out for hers and looked up, shocked, to see Sheila smiling at her. "There are wonderful things going on with research right now—great things. It's an exciting time."
Audie nodded like an idiot, feeling the sting of tears she thought she'd talked herself out of. She turned her eyes away and stared at the little machine that seemed to be pushing steam through a tube and into Kiley's lungs, making hissing and clicking noises as it worked.
"She has two kinds of breathing treatments," Sheila went on. "This one is antibiotics to prevent infection. The others are for breaking down the mucus. We alternate during the day."
The kitchen door opened and Michael and Quinn walked in, and Quinn's eyes slammed into Audie's, full of questions and concern.
"Hey! How's my trooper?" Michael leaned over and kissed his daughter on top of her head and reached for her little hand. "Do I get to be the next one to pound on you, squirt?"
Kiley nodded, her eyes smiling at her father.
"About ten more minutes, Mike," Sheila said softly.
"It's a date," he said, leaning down to his wife. Audie watched as he kissed her gently and whispered, "I love you so much, Sheila," before he walked to the refrigerator.
"Dear God in heaven, what are you eating now, Michael?" Sheila called after him.
"Would you get off my back, woman?" Michael huffed. "I'm getting some limes for the guests. You can't have a party without limes." He winked at Sheila on his way out the door and Audie watched a wistful smile spread across Sheila's face.
Quinn was still staring at her.
"I'm going to run to the rest room, OK, Kiley? I'll be right back." Audie felt herself move as if in a trance, rising from the kitchen chair and walking down the hallway. She passed right by the bathroom. She just needed to go stand
in
a corner for a few moments and let the trembling stop.
She found herself at the front door. She opened the door, closed it behind her, and sat down on the stoop. Then she cried like a coward.
She heard the front door click shut behind her and felt Quinn sit close, his hip right up against hers. "Did you bring any of your hankies, Homey?"
She shook her head violently, hiding her face in her hands.
"You're going to have to start remembering to bring them along, all right?"
Quinn held out one of his white handkerchiefs and waited for her to take it. "That was my mistake. I probably should have told you about Kiley, but it never came up. She's a great kid. She's going to be fine."
Audie wiped at her eyes and stared at him, at a loss for words, listening to the waves of backyard laughter roll along the side of the house. Then she looked at all the neat brick homes lined up so close
to
one another in this city neighborhood and thought about all the lives pressed together on just this one street—sickness and happiness and rivalry and regret and love. Families.
Her question came out as a rough whisper. "What did Michael mean when he said he'd 'pound' on her?"
Quinn brushed Audie's hair away from her face and tucked a handful of waves behind her ear, and she saw his green eyes flicker with tenderness.
"They have to percuss her chest—pound on it—a couple times a day. We all went to classes to learn how to do it—Mike and Sheila, Da, Pat, and me. Percussing breaks up all the gunk in her lungs so she can breathe."
She turned her face away from him.
"It's OK, Audie. It's just part of her life. We do what we have to so Kiley's comfortable and happy. Then we just pray a lot."
She turned to stare at him, suddenly very angry. "Pray for what?"
"Well, a breakthrough. The way things stand right now, people with cystic fibrosis are lucky if they live to the age of thirty or so."
Audie's mouth fell open.
"We just try to have faith."
"I can't deal with this." She stood up and began to walk down the sidewalk.
Quinn was behind her. "A walk sounds good," he offered.
She didn't respond, but she didn't resist when Quinn reached for her hand.
"You've got a tender heart, Audie. That's one of the things I like about you. But please don't be sad. Kiley doesn't like it when people are sad for her—it pisses her off, in fact." Quinn started laughing.
"My God!" Audie pulled away her hand. "Do you have any idea how bizarre this whole thing is for me? That your family laughs so much? That they love each other so much? Like the way Michael was with Sheila in there—do you have any idea how strange this all is to me? How overwhelmed I am? How surprised?"
"No. I didn't know." Quinn inclined his head a bit and studied her, his green eyes intense yet warm. The man was so beautiful, Audie's breath hitched.
She started to walk again.
"Hey. Wait."
"How can everyone pretend they're not sad?" She whirled on him. "Aren't your hearts broken?"
"Hell, yes, they are."
She shook her head. "I don't get it."
"Audie." Quinn laid his palm gently against the side of her face. "We're not pretending anything, but if there's a choice between laughing and crying, the Quinns pick laughing every time. It's better for the soul."
She blinked at him, her mind reeling, her heart twisting in big, mysterious knots of emotion—for this man, his niece, the rest of his family, and her own huge, immeasurable emptiness.
"Why did you give me your mother's handkerchiefs?"
Quinn watched as she propped her fists on her hips and jutted out her chin before she continued.
"Stanny-O told me they were Trish's. Why did you give them to me? You hardly know me. I'm nobody to you."