One Year (33 page)

S
ince the doctor had confirmed that Alexis was pregnant, life, every little bit of it, from the glass of juice she poured PJ in the morning, to the Japanese snowbell tree blooming in the yard, to the ringing of the bell atop the Episcopal church, felt that much more precious. Everything had taken on a glow of importance. And it was all due to the tiny, nascent bit of life inside her, a life to which she already felt a very strong connection. That tiny bit of life had also opened her to a further compassion for what Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon must have endured when she lost her baby William.

It was clear what she had to do. She had to apologize to PJ's grandmother. She knew that she should have done so long before now—she had promised PJ that she would—and she hoped that her apology would still be worth something.

Alexis found Mary Bernadette in her kitchen, sitting at the table with an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She was impeccably groomed as usual, though Alexis thought she looked tired.

“Mary Bernadette, may I talk to you?” she asked.

It took a long moment before PJ's grandmother looked up at her. “What?” she said. “Oh. Yes. Would you like a cup of tea?”

She made as if to rise.
Always the good hostess,
Alexis thought,
even to those she dislikes.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I just want to say that I'm sorry for quitting the Day in the Life project like I did. I shouldn't have just walked away. You were right. I should have come to you first.”

“Yes. All right.”

“I'm sure there's someone else who wouldn't mind taking it over.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Maybe a photography student at one of the local colleges,” Alexis suggested. “I could make some calls to the art departments if you'd like.”

“No,” Mary Bernadette said. “That's all right.”

“Well, let me know if I can help find a replacement.”

Mary Bernadette picked up her spoon and began to stir the tea. When after a moment she didn't reply, Alexis left the house.

That was a strange encounter,
she thought as she walked to her car. She had never seen Mary Bernadette so distracted. She was usually the most focused person in the room. Her ability to pay close attention to every conversation going on around her—and to interject her own opinion in any one of them—was astounding to witness. Maybe, Alexis thought, as she got behind the wheel, Mary Bernadette wasn't feeling well. She knew she couldn't mention this idea to PJ. Relations between them were so delicate she was afraid that
anything
she said about Mary Bernadette would seem to PJ like an insult. She could, she supposed, call her mother-in-law, but what would she say? She had no proof of Mary Bernadette's being sick. Anyway, Mary Bernadette was probably just worried about the current state of the situation at the OWHA.

But what
was
the current state of the OWHA situation? Alexis realized that she had paid virtually no attention to its doings in the past weeks. She wasn't even sure that PJ was still in the running for that Stoker project. And that was because she hadn't bothered to ask her husband.

It was a painful realization, that her self-absorption had isolated her from the people who were now her family, and for that Alexis felt genuine regret. And she wondered, as she pulled out of the driveway and onto Honeysuckle Lane, just how much of her disaffection had been due to sheer laziness. Loving a person was arduous, day-to-day toil, but it was worth it in the end. Sometimes. Hopefully, most times.

Alexis sighed. There was much for which she had to make amends.

M
ary Bernadette had been cleaning the good china for the past half an hour, something she did once every month though the set was used only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Things could get dusty even stored in a cabinet, and wasn't it more efficient to keep things clean and in order on a regular basis?

Carefully, she wiped each piece with a damp towel and then with a dry one. Dinner plates. Salad plates. Dessert plates. Dessert bowels. Serving bowls and cups and saucers. A gravy boat with a ladle, and a covered butter dish. There were ten settings, well over a hundred pieces of china in all. She finished drying a cup and set it down on the table with the others. But somehow it did not meet the table. Somehow it fell to the floor and shattered into tiny pieces.

“Foolish woman,” Mary Bernadette muttered. “You should be more careful.”

She went to the closet for the broom and dustpan and began to gather up the ruins of the cup. This was the second time in the past two weeks she had been uncharacteristically clumsy. The first was when she had been sweeping the kitchen after breakfast one morning and the broom had simply fallen from her hand. The sudden noise as it hit the floor had caused Banshee to leap to the top of the fridge and Mary Bernadette to flinch.

She tightened her grip on the broom now, finished sweeping up the remains of the cup, and dumped the shards and slivers into the trash receptacle under the sink. Then she sat at the table where a large portion of the china was still waiting to be cleaned. And now that she was off her feet, she realized that she was tired. She stifled a yawn, as if to give in to it would indicate a loss of moral fiber. Naps were for the very young and the very old. She had always held by that.

Mary Bernadette comforted herself now with the thought that there had been no witness to her clumsy behavior. She was especially glad that her daughter-in-law hadn't been visiting. She hadn't spoken to or seen Megan since the morning after she had “attacked” her. That word was not the one she would have chosen, but her son seemed to think it appropriate. In the past few days she had become aware of a small sense of remorse. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so—adamant—in expressing her opinions about David's care and religious upbringing. But what was done was done, and there was little if any purpose in bringing up past incidents and reopening old wounds, even for the sake of an apology. Take, for example, the time when Pat was little and had hid in the linen closet just as the family was about to leave for Sunday mass. She had never apologized to him for her angry reaction to his misbehavior, and she highly doubted he had any recollection of the incident at this late date. So many things were better left unsaid and undisturbed.

Of course, there were times when a belated apology was welcome. It had been decent of Alexis to apologize for her conduct regarding the OWHA, but it was probably PJ who had encouraged her to do so. Mary Bernadette doubted Alexis cared for anything but her own interests, whatever they were. If only PJ had come to her for advice before proposing to Alexis, she might have convinced him of his folly in choosing someone from such a different background. Again, what was done was done.

Like Pat's decision to reject a role in the family business. Like Grace's decision to work far from Oliver's Well. Like William's having died so terribly young. There was nothing she could do about any of it.

Mary Bernadette thought of the shards of china now in the trash can among the remains of meals and plastic bags of dirty cat litter and empty rolls of toilet paper. It was just a broken cup, and yet she experienced now a terrible pang of loss, as if the cup had value far beyond its practical purpose as a drinking vessel. She put her elbow on the table and her head in her hand. If her son were to walk into the kitchen right then, he would scold her for breaking her own rule. How many times had she punished her children for the offense of an elbow on the table and so many more like it? Too many to count, she thought. And what did any of it matter now? What had any of it ever mattered?

T
he first time Alexis had been at Maureen Kline's house she had been too distressed to notice much of the décor. Now she took the time to survey the living room. On a long credenza, framed photographs stood in a perfectly straight line. Alexis recognized Jeannette and Danny, and she assumed that the other people in the pictures were Maureen's sisters, brothers-in-law, and their children. There was a couch with a taupe-colored slipcover slightly too small for it. The coffee table was a glass top on a chrome base, a very 1970s-looking piece. There was a standing lamp similar to one Alexis remembered seeing in the house of a friend's great-grandmother. The two armchairs had the distinct look of having been bought at a resale shop.

On the whole, there was very little sense of coherent style. Maybe “things”—beautiful furniture and thick carpets and good art hanging on the wall—just didn't rate high on Maureen's list of what was important in life. Or maybe, Alexis thought, she just didn't have the money to spend on high-quality furnishings.

Maureen had set out two cups of steaming tea and a plate of store-bought cookies on the coffee table.

“Thanks for having me over,” Alexis said.

“I like having company,” Maureen explained. “Not that I have anyone over all that often. And I like you, Alexis. I know I'm old enough to be your mother, but I'd like to think of us as friends.”

Alexis smiled. “I'm not sure what I have to offer. It seems I'm always coming to you with a crisis.”

“I don't mind. Anyway, by this time in my life I should have accumulated a store of practical knowledge worth sharing. Note I didn't say that I actually
have
accumulated such a store. So, tell me what's going on. Why did you want to see me?”

Alexis took a deep breath. “I'm pregnant,” she said. “And yes, the baby is PJ's. There's no doubt of that.”

“Thank God. Still, I know this must be so difficult.”

Alexis laughed unhappily. “That's putting it mildly.”

“Are you going to go through with the pregnancy?” Maureen asked gently.

“Yes, no matter what. My parents would help me if PJ and I—if we break up.”

“Let's not even consider that possibility right now.”

“But why not?” Alexis challenged. “Sometimes I feel so—defeated. The future looks so bleak. I'm trying to imagine
something
changing for the better, but I can't. And I've always considered myself a creative person. So much for that.”

“Well, there
are
options other than divorce.”

Alexis forced a smile.

“Look,” Maureen said, “my divorce pretty much had to happen unless I wanted to live the rest of my life as the pitied, neglected wife of a rampant cheater. And I didn't. Still, divorce is not something I would wish on my most hated enemy, supposing I had one. And even when divorce does seem necessary, I'd still advise anyone who asked to try every other solution before it.”

“Like therapy?” Alexis said. “No good. PJ refuses to go.”

“Stubborn Irishman, that's what he is.”

“He's afraid his grandmother will find out.”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “That one!”

“Anyway, we're keeping the pregnancy a secret for now, but I just had to tell someone or go mad. Because in spite of what I just said about feeling defeated, I'm happy to be pregnant. I really am.”

“I'm glad for you, Alexis. I . . . I never had children, as I'm sure you know by now. But I'm always happy for those who do.”

“Did you want children?” Alexis asked.

“Yes.” Maureen's reply was prompt. “But it didn't happen in my marriage, and after that . . . Let's just say I'm not cut out to be a single mom. Well, I'll revise that. It's not in me to
seek
to become a single parent.”

“I'm sorry, Maureen. Why is nothing ever simple? Why does it always seem there's trouble around every bend?”

Maureen laughed. “I'm not equipped to have a coherent conversation about existentialism, if that's the name for the sort of questions you're posing. Have another cookie.”

Alexis did. “I know this doesn't have anything to do with my being pregnant,” she ventured after a moment, “and maybe I have no right to bring it up, but . . . but I heard that you and PJ's father used to date.”

Maureen took a sip of her tea before answering. “Are people still talking about that ancient history?”

“No. It was just PJ who mentioned it to me once.”

“Yes, well, our relationship came before Pat met Megan. And it didn't last very long. Pat never considered us serious. But I did. At least, I hoped that things would get serious. I was disappointed when the relationship fizzled out. I think I almost would have preferred a bang to the whimper that marked the end.”

Was Pat Fitzgibbon the love of Maureen's life,
Alexis wondered. If so, how terribly sad. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

Maureen shrugged. “And then I met the charming Barry and married him. Not the greatest decision I ever made.”

“Do you hate him?” she asked. “I mean, Pat.”

“God, no! Pat's a great guy. We just weren't meant to be. I think he saw me more as one of the family than as someone he might marry. There was no mystery about me for him, you see. I was just little Maureen Kline, the girl next door.” Maureen frowned down at her teacup. “In fact,” she went on, “sometimes it feels like that's the way the entire town sees me. The girl next door, nothing remarkable. Then again, that's what I get for sticking around Oliver's Well my whole life.”

“Couldn't you leave? Couldn't you start over somewhere else?”

Maureen shook her head. “Too late. I missed whatever chance I might have had after the divorce, when I was feeling so awfully humiliated. But I was too—too shattered to make a move then. Now the duty to my family takes precedence over my own wants. I don't know why I'm telling you these depressing things. Sorry.”

Alexis recalled the wistfulness she had detected in Maureen's voice the first time they had run into each other at the bakery. What might have been for her, she wondered, if things had been different. If she had been lucky in love. “I wish you
were
part of the family,” Alexis said, with a strong rush of emotion.

“Then we might hate each other,” Maureen said briskly. “I'll make us some more tea.”