One Year (31 page)

“H
i,” Megan said when her sister-in-law's smiling face appeared on her computer screen. “You're looking cheery.”

“I just heard some good news,” Grace explained. “One of the women who's been living at the Angela House got accepted to our community college. And she's been awarded enough of a scholarship so that she can actually
go
. It's a huge step in the right direction for her.”

“How wonderful.”

“It'll be tough going, no doubt. But she's got a support system in place for pretty much the first time in her life so . . .”

Megan smiled. “Do you ever stop to realize just how lucky you are and how supremely good you have it in this cruel world?”

“Every minute. So, what's up with you?”

“Well,” Megan said, “there's this.” And she related what had happened in Mary Bernadette's kitchen the last time she and Pat had visited. She had debated the benefit of telling her sister-in-law, and in the end she had decided that the very ferocity of the attack merited some attention and perhaps another point of view.

“I'd never felt such vitriol coming from another human being,” she told Grace. “And having it directed at me, well, it's not something I'll soon forget. Nor will Pat.”

Grace raised her eyebrows and whistled. “Oh boy. Meg, I'm so sorry. There's no excuse for my mother's bad behavior. She's in her right mind, isn't she?”

“Actually, I'm not so sure,” Megan admitted. “I can't help but wonder if she isn't having a mental breakdown. She's always been a firecracker, but lately she goes off at the slightest provocation.”

“It
could
all come down to the stress she's under because of Meadows's antics. Still, to turn on her family is not the answer.”

“No, it isn't. And to make matters worse, Pat wants nothing to do with her. He thinks we should just cut ties, but I can't walk away that easily. I mean, the last thing I want is a rift between factions of Fitzgibbons. PJ dotes on his grandmother, for better or worse, and Paddy—well, I imagine it's been hard on him at times, being Mr. Mary Bernadette, but he's devoted to her. I have to respect that.”

Grace laughed. “And
I'm
the Bride of Christ! Meg, you put me to shame. Anyway, I wish Dad had some degree of control over her. Even a bit of influence would do.”

“Well, if he ever did, he doesn't have it now. Not that I can see.”

“Poor Dad.”

“And then there's PJ and Alexis.”

“What's going on there?” Grace asked.

“I don't really know,” Megan admitted. “They seem to have lost their way. Alexis won't talk to me at all, and I've had one fairly disastrous conversation with PJ, who was being a bit of an obtuse jerk. Not knowing all the details or what's at the root of the problem makes it very difficult to help in any real way.”

“It's up to PJ and Alexis to ask for help,” Grace pointed out. “No one accepts help until they're ready for it.”

“Of course you're right. It's just so sad. They had so much potential as a couple. They were so
glad
to be with each other.”

“How much do you think Mom's got to do with their marital woes?” Grace asked.

“I'm pretty sure she's part and parcel, which is another reason I want to avoid a big, definitive split in the family. It will only make PJ cling even more tightly to his grandmother, and there's no way that would be good for his marriage.”

“Good point. Look, Meg, have you been praying lately?”

“Does repeating the Prayer of St. Francis a few times a day count?”

Grace laughed. “Well, you know there are ways of praying without just parroting old words. They might be helpful just now.”

“I guess you're right. But good old Saint Francis works for me.”

“Then stick to him. You know, a colleague of mine is fond of saying that an everyday saint is someone who willingly spends time with the sad and the ill. Someone who looks for the kernel of good in the disagreeable.”

Megan laughed. “Well, that leaves me out!”

“No. I think it describes you quite accurately.
You
should be the one in the habit.”

“I think Pat would have something to say about that!”

“Yes,” Grace said. “I think he might.”

A
lexis fiddled with her bracelet. She was nervous. PJ would
have
to listen to her. She would have to
make
him listen, because the last time she had been alone with Morgan Shelby she had teetered dangerously on the brink of undeniable betrayal. That sort of thing must never happen again. She knew that. She loved her husband. But she was deeply unhappy. She knew that, too.

PJ was leaning against the kitchen counter, staring down at the screen of his iPhone.

“PJ?” she said.

“Hmm,” he replied, without looking up.

“Can we talk? It's important.”

“Sure.”

He looked at her now, his expression wary. For all they had apologized to each other, she no longer felt comfortable with PJ. Why should he feel comfortable with her?

“I'd like us to see a therapist,” she said.

“A therapist?” PJ laughed. “You've got to be kidding!”

Alexis sighed. She had been afraid of this reaction. What had her mother and Maureen said about PJ? That he was immature. “Why would I be kidding?” she asked. “I've given it a lot of thought and I really don't think we're equipped to handle this—problem—on our own. We don't have the skills.”

“Jargon,” PJ muttered.

With some effort, Alexis kept her temper. “There are a few couples therapists in Westminster and in Smithstown. I've checked them out online and—”

“No. Alexis. That's not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“We don't need ‘skills' to take care of our problems. And we don't need outsiders butting into our personal business.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we'?” Alexis asked. “You and me or the Fitzgibbons?”

PJ didn't answer.

“My God, you're such a throwback!” Alexis cried, all effort to curb her emotions fled. “Going to therapy doesn't come with a social stigma anymore, you know.”

“I'm sorry, Alexis, but no therapy. It's a waste of time and money.”

“Money's more important than our marriage?”

PJ rolled his eyes. “I didn't say that.”

Alexis turned abruptly away from her husband. She spotted her crystal rosary beads heaped on a shelf of the bookcase. A
LEXIS
F
ITZGIBBON
was engraved upon the back of the cross. Mary Bernadette and Paddy had given it to her on her wedding day. Alexis remembered showing it to her mother. “What an artifact,” she had commented. “I can't see you actually
using
it. And I still don't know why you gave up your own name.” Then her mother had smiled. “I hope I recognize you at this time next year. But I fear you're becoming a stranger.”

A stranger to my own self,
she thought now. Was she no longer her own person?
Had
becoming a Fitzgibbon erased all that was unique and special about her, all that could be cherished and admired as purely her own? All the resolutions and promises she had made, all the prayers she had offered, now seemed pointless in the face of this fresh wave of despair.

Alexis continued to stare at the string of rosary beads. Once it had seemed a symbol of the loving bond between her and the other Fitzgibbons. Now it seemed a heavy, painful, punishing chain, binding her in servitude to people who felt no genuine love for her as a unique and individual person. It had to go. Alexis stalked over to the bookcase and snatched up the string of rosary beads. And in one smooth move she turned and threw it at her husband.

“Alexis!” The rosary hit him in the stomach and fell to the floor in a glittering pile.

“Why don't we just get a divorce and end this nightmare!” she shouted.

Even as the words were coming out of her mouth Alexis knew that a divorce wasn't what she wanted, but her desperation was so great, the feeling of being trapped and unknown was so strong, she just didn't know what salvation she might hope for.

PJ picked up the rosary beads and held them in his fist. His face was a mask of horror and disbelief. Alexis thought that it probably mirrored her own.

“No one in my family gets divorced,” he said coldly. “It's simply not done.”

“Even if they're miserable?”

PJ didn't respond.

Alexis laughed even as she felt tears stream from her eyes. “Well, maybe you'll be the first, the trailblazer, the innovator!”

“No! We absolutely cannot get a divorce. My grandmother would be devastated!”

“I don't care about your grandmother! How would
you
feel if I left you?”

“I'd feel . . .” PJ's voice suddenly became almost pleading in tone. “Alexis, the thought of divorce never crossed my mind. Things are tough right now, but they'll get better. I promise.”

“Will they?” Alexis shook her head. “PJ, sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself. I feel like I'm turning into, I don't know, some alien being. I can't even remember what I was like before we got married, before I met you and your family.”

“That's ridiculous, Ali. Listen to what you're saying!”

Alexis took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I never wanted things to be this way.”

PJ took a step closer to her. “You knew what my family was like when you married me,” he said. “I
told
you how close we were.”

“Yes. You did. But I had no idea they could be so . . . so overbearing. So suffocating. Not all of them. Not your grandfather. Not your parents.”

“So you're blaming my grandmother again!”

“No. Not entirely.”
I'm blaming you,
she thought.
And I'm blaming myself, too. But I don't want to say that out loud. I can't, not yet.

“You can't ask me to abandon my family, Alexis. I simply won't do it.”

Alexis looked at the man she had promised to love and cherish until death parted them. “Not even for me?” she asked.

PJ had no reply.

“Then maybe we
should
get a divorce,” she said sadly. “Maybe I'm not the right wife for you. Next time, you should let your grandmother choose the woman you marry.”

PJ looked down at the string of rosary beads still clenched in his hand as if it were a foreign, somehow poisonous object. And then he tossed it onto the couch and stalked to the front door.

“PJ, wait!” Alexis cried.

A moment later she heard his truck tear out of the driveway. What had happened to the mild-mannered man she had fallen in love with and married? She prayed that he wouldn't do something stupid. If he got hurt it would be her fault, and in spite of her anger she didn't know how she would live with the crushing guilt.

Alexis dropped to her knees. She felt utterly hopeless. She was afraid of what she might do. She was afraid of what she might fail to do. “Oh, God,” she whispered to the empty room. “Help me. Please, help me.”

M
ary Bernadette was alone in the kitchen when it happened. Her vision blurred. And then, her vision went away. And then, her vision came back again.

The event had taken place in less than a second. Well, perhaps it had been more like thirty seconds, but it had passed and her vision was once again perfect. No harm had been done. Nothing at all was the matter. Mary Bernadette closed her eyes and opened them again.
You see? There is nothing wrong
.

Still. What if it happened again while she was behind the wheel of her car or crossing Main Street during a busy time of the afternoon? What if it happened while she was receiving Communion at mass, with the entire congregation a witness to her debility?

Don't be silly,
Mary Bernadette scolded, slapping her palm against the counter for emphasis.
No one would have to know that you had gone blind for a moment. Not even Father Robert
.
Didn't Paddy always say you could have gone onto the stage?

But could she really act her way out of sudden blindness?
All right,
she thought.
I am frightened. What of it?
Nothing would ever induce her to worry anyone in her family by telling them what had happened—or to go to a doctor. It had been a momentary aberration, a glitch in her otherwise hardy system. Maybe she was dehydrated. Jeannette had often suggested that she drink more water.
Fine, then,
Mary Bernadette thought, going over to the sink.
I'll have a glass of water
.

She brought the glass to the table and took a seat. Banshee, with her usual emotional acumen, appeared from nowhere and jumped in Mary Bernadette's lap. “Your mother is getting silly in her old age,” she told the purring cat. “Thinking that she had gone blind.”

There came a knock on the front door. It was Jeannette's signature knock, three short raps followed by two. With some reluctance Mary Bernadette asked Banshee to get down. She was not in the mood for company, especially that of her oldest friend. Old friends were the ones who recognized you through even your best, most distorting of disguises.

“Are you all right, Mary?” Jeannette asked at once when Mary Bernadette had opened the door. “You look troubled.”

“I'm perfectly fine.”

“Well, I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you like.”

Mary Bernadette led her into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Don't go to the trouble, Mary.”

“It's no trouble whatever.” Mary Bernadette set about preparing the tea, putting the kettle on to boil, fetching the milk from the fridge and the sugar bowl from its place on a shelf. She put out a plate of cookies and measured loose tea into the pot. Then she brought the teapot to the table and sat across from her friend.

Jeannette gave her a searching glance. “Mary,” she said, “I've been thinking. Maybe it would be best if PJ dropped out of the running for the Stoker project. After all, the bids just came in, thanks to Mr. Meadows's delaying, and they haven't even been considered yet, and you know as well as I do that Mr. Meadows is not going to cast his vote for Fitzgibbon Landscaping. And he'll strong-arm others to vote against PJ, too.”

“No.” Mary Bernadette shook her head and wished that she hadn't as it resulted in a sharp pain at the very top of her head. “That's a terrible idea,” she went on. “For PJ to give up now would be to admit wrongdoing, and he's done nothing wrong. And neither has any member of the Fitzgibbon family.”

“I know you're entirely innocent, Mary, you and Paddy and PJ. But sometimes it's best to turn the other cheek.”

“No,” Mary Bernadette said. “Not in this instance.”

“Well, I hope you know best. I don't like what this is doing to you, Mary, not one bit. And I don't mind telling you.”

Mary Bernadette didn't reply.

Jeannette sighed. “I'll let myself out,” she said. “Thank you for the tea.”

When Jeannette had gone, Mary Bernadette sat very still. She wondered how many other members of the OWHA thought she should instruct PJ to relinquish the disputed contract. The thought of facing a delegation of her peers requesting PJ's withdrawal from the competition filled her with dread. How would she ever show her face in Oliver's Well after such a humiliation? All that she had worked for, all the sacrifices she had made . . . would it all be for naught because some wicked man from D.C. had taken a violent dislike to her?

Banshee appeared again, gave an uncharacteristically soft mew, and jumped into her mistress's lap. Mary Bernadette laid her hand on the cat's back and realized that her hand was trembling.