Chapter 8
I knocked on the Helmstetters’ front door. Rynwood on a Sunday afternoon in November was never an active time, but this portion of this particular neighborhood was quieter than any neighborhood should be. There were no cars driving down the street and not a single kid was riding her bike in the semiwarm sunshine. Not a single home owner was out raking leaves.
Eerie.
I turned away from the sight. It was creeping me out. I knocked again and harbored a shameful hope that Rachel had forgotten I was coming over.
Just then the dead bolt slid back, the knob turned, and the door creaked open.
A young girl stared up at me, thick blond hair frizzed in all directions. “Hi,” she said. “Are you Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Yes, I am. Are you Mia?”
She nodded solemnly. “My brother Blake is in his room and won’t come out, so Mommy said I should answer the door.”
The urge to flee grew strong enough to overpower social obligations. “I’ll come back later.” Or not. Not would be excellent. “Can you tell your mom—”
“Mommy said to sit in the living room.” Mia abandoned the doorway and I was left with the choices of trailing in her wake, stay standing at the front door, or turning tail and rushing home to the comforts of hot chocolate and a good book. I sighed and went after Mia.
The house was a simple two-story: living room, kitchen, and family room on the main level, bedrooms upstairs. It had probably started as a plain builder box (“All neutral colors, folks!”), but the Helmstetters had created a cozy atmosphere with a judicious use of color, textures, patterns, and accessories. An antique quilt hung on a large expanse of wall, and a lamp was decorated with seashells. In the far corner, an upright piano had a bright red ceramic cat perched on top and Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag” on its music rack.
When I turned to face Mia, I spied a set of bifold doors next to the entrance, doors that could only be a closet. In there would be the answers to my questions about Sam’s scarf-wearing habits. If I peeked in there, I’d know at a glance if Sam always wore scarves. If I opened those closet doors I’d see the coats of this girl’s father . . . and so would she.
I looked down at Mia and my investigative urge vanished. There was no way I’d push more hurt on this child. Her vacant face was telling me too much about her pain, about her bewilderment, and about the problems she’d be facing for much too long.
“You can sit down here, I guess.” Mia stood in front of a tweedy brown sofa, the best possible color for hiding kid dirt.
“Thank you.” I smoothed the back of my skirt and sat down. “Would you like to sit with me?”
“Um . . .” Mia reached up for a tendril of hair. “Mommy said I should make sure you’re comfortable.” The word was a hard one for her and it stretched out into more syllables than it normally had.
“I’d be better if I had some company.” I patted the seat beside me.
Mia continued to pull and twist her hair, and I continued to sit. After a long silence I asked, “Do you play the piano?”
“Sometimes Blake does. Mommy tries, but she gets mad and hits the keys.” Mia released her hair and held her hands out, making crashing motions. “The piano makes a big noise and sometimes”—she lowered her voice —“sometimes she says a bad word. Once it was a
“She probably felt sorry afterward,” I said.
“Maybe.” Mia looked doubtful. “Daddy came in and asked what key that was in and she started laughing. Then he sat down and they both started playing some song about a colored boat.”
“Submarine.”
I looked up. Rachel was standing at the bottom of the stairway, wearing a sad, sad smile. “Yellow?” I asked.
“The very one.” She came down the last two stairs, her left hand white-knuckled on the railing. “Mia, honey, your brother is on my bed watching a movie. Do you want to watch it with him?”
Mia, still fiddling with her hair, walked to the stairway. Her mother dropped a kiss on top of her head. “I’ll bring up some snacks in a little bit.”
“Okay.” Up the stairs the girl went, one slow tread at a time.
Rachel sighed. “At least she’s talking. She didn’t say a word for two days afterward.”
“How’s Blake?”
She shook her head and came into the living room. Two large armchairs flanked the sofa, and she sat in the closer one, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her. “I have an appointment with the new school psychologist tomorrow. Have you met her?”
“I didn’t know they’d made a final selection.” Clearly, the PTA was the last to know.
“Last week,” she said. “Or was it the week before?” She rubbed her forehead. “It’s been hard to keep track.”
Rachel was a few years younger than my forty-one, but today she looked a decade older. Grief tugged at the lines of her face and she’d moved with the stiffness of old age. Our circles of friends didn’t overlap much; we knew each other only through PTA. I’d often wanted to ask her to lunch, but the busy-busy of my days kept me from reaching out. What was it someone had once said, that what we most often regretted wasn’t the things we did do, but the things we didn’t.
Smart lady, whoever came up with that one.
“It’s hard enough,” I said, “to keep track of days normally, let alone after what you’ve gone through. I am so sorry, Rachel.”
Her gaze drifted to the piano. “My minister says someday it’ll get easier, and I’m sure he’s right, but I almost don’t want it to, because that’ll mean I’m forgetting Sam.”
“Not forgetting,” I said gently. “You’ll never do that.”
“How do you know? Your husband wasn’t murdered.” Her words were harsh, and as soon as she’d said them she looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize. Please.”
She put her knuckles to her mouth. “It’s so hard. Every day, it’s so hard. To have Sam dead is bad enough, but murdered? Mia is scared the bad guy is coming after her next.” Her attempt at a laugh turned into a weak sob. “I keep telling the kids they’re fine, they’re safe, but how do I know?”
Her eyes beseeched me for help, and I had no idea what to do.
Tears trickled down onto Rachel’s fist. I got up, sat on the arm of Rachel’s chair, and took her free hand between mine. Her bones felt so brittle beneath the skin that I didn’t dare squeeze, so I simply sat and stroked the back of her hand as she wept for her dead husband.
The sobs that wracked her body traveled down her arm and into me. I imagined her sorrow as a gray river, and, as I caressed her hand, I prayed that the griefswollen water would lose its power and ease to a thread of a creek, then dry up from drought. I stroked, praying for her, wishing there was something else I could do, and knowing there wasn’t.
Finally, she squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Beth,” she said in a voice colored raw and red.
“You’re welcome.” I hesitated, then gave her shoulders a quick hug.
“I needed to cry.” Still hanging on to me, she rubbed at her face with her tear-soaked hand. “I hadn’t yet, can you believe it? Mom stayed until this morning, and every time I started crying she’d give me the stiff-upper-lip talk. You know, be strong for the kids, they can’t see you crying, they need to know you’re strong.”
It seemed to me they also needed to see their mom grieving for their father. “Anytime you want to cry, just let me know.”
She half smiled, and I gave her another hug. “Studies have shown,” I said, “that crying releases all sorts of endorphins and toxins and antioxidants and who knows what else, so right now there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
