Those We Love Most (4 page)

Maura felt stung by the naked, reflexive accusation of his blame. It wasn’t as if she had pushed James or told him it was safe to cross. But she had been there. She was present as the watchful parent, and she had not been watching. She had been doing something else, entirely unplugged from the present. And this was the part, the awful dark part that she must continue to push back down.

“It just happened, Pete. An accident. I looked away for a second to get juice for Sarah …” But the lie burned, caught like a chicken bone in her throat, and Pete gave her an odd, ambiguous look. During their years together they had come to intuit each other’s body language, to interpret the dead weight of unspoken subjects.

And since then, in the vortex of the eerie silence between them and the wide circumference Pete gave her, she felt something unnamed, steely and cold. A fissure. More than a fissure perhaps, a wide crack in their foundation that she was uncertain could be repaired, and that thought made her very tired. This whole thing—the accident, the circumstances—was a blow that would rock even the most solid marriage, which hers most definitely was not.

But for now, with her son suspended in this portal between life and death, she cared about nothing and no one else. The issues that had plagued her marriage, the stagnation and even the periods of apathy and distraction, were better left unexamined. Everything beyond the four walls of this hospital room was beside the point. All that mattered now was that James live. For this tender mercy, she would do or give anything.

The shrillness of the phone woke Margaret instantly, and Roger was by her side in the bed, struggling up from sleep at first and then immediately awake.

“Hello?” Margaret realized just how coiled she was, how braced for the call in the middle of the night since they had all been blind-sided less than a week earlier.

“Margaret.” It was Pete’s voice, hushed and defeated.

“Pete, we’re here. What’s happened? Is he awake?”

“He’s … James …” His voice choked suddenly, crying, unable to speak.

“Pete?” Roger was listening now, his head up near hers by the receiver, temple to temple.

More silence. Pete struggled to form words.

“James is … gone. He … died,” he said simply and then the strangled sounds of a person in anguish. Margaret was stunned. Her mind scuttled to make sense of the individual words he’d uttered.
Gone
.
Dead
. How was that possible? They’d just been there that day.

Roger rolled back on the bed with a groan. He covered his face with his hands and let out one long breath, and then she felt the bed moving. He was crying hard, shaking the mattress.

“Oh, Pete. No. How is she? Where’s Maura?” she said softly. Silence on the line. “We’ll come over now.”

Pete made another sound, incomprehensible to her, and they both hung up. She should have told him she’d call Stu and Erin, save him from that, but she didn’t want to call him back now. Margaret moved to comfort Roger wordlessly and then rose to dress. They could tend to their own grief later. Right now her family needed her, needed them both.

Three days later it was the faces of the other boys at the funeral, the children from James’s elementary school, that pierced Margaret’s heart. They sat fidgeting in the dark mahogany pews, raising and lowering the kneelers, uncomfortable in small blazers and pressed collared shirts, as if they were perfect young replicas of their someday-older selves. Their lives would move forward, sports teams and report cards, orthodontists’ appointments and growth spurts, first girlfriends and broken hearts. James would be forever nine to all of them. It seemed impossible, incomprehensible, as she sat here, looking between the sea of children and the enlarged photographs of James arranged on the altar, that her grandson would never grow another day older.

Margaret sat quietly as the pews filled behind her and closed her eyes to absorb the calming atmosphere of the church. She marveled at how quickly all of this had happened, like those flash floods in California that cascaded down a dry creek bed and suddenly swept cars and houses and whole families up in the current.

She opened her eyes and gazed upward at the vaulted ceilings, vaguely reassured by the familiar wood beams and the giant gold filigreed cross, which hung from the ceiling at the front of the church, suspended by almost undetectable wires. They had been coming to St. Thomas the Apostle since before her children were born, although she could never have fathomed that they would one day be here for a grandchild’s funeral, such an inconceivably unnatural order of life, Margaret thought. She closed her eyes again, shutting out the noises of people settling themselves. The familiarity of this place, the rituals that had taken place here throughout the years—the baptisms, communions, and weddings—were a small comfort to her.

It was a hot, bright day outside, but the partial stone interior of the sanctuary was cool and removed from the world outside. Thick white candles flickered on long iron stands, and there was a profusion of flowers around the closed casket, the distinct waft of lilies, the flowers of death. Maura had been adamant about not having an open casket, and Margaret had been amazed by the clarity her daughter displayed during the funeral preparations and planning. She wanted to be involved in every single detail, choosing his clothes and the photographs, the songs, and even the catered dishes afterward. Her eyes had burned with the brightness that one sometimes associated with madness, but Margaret knew that such combustible energy, that superhuman overdrive, would not last. She was braced to catch her daughter when she crashed.

Margaret scanned the front pew containing the members of her family, all dressed in varying somber shades of clothing. She took in Roger’s patrician profile next to her, his slightly hooked nose and round lips. At sixty-five, the almost full head of hair he proudly possessed was gray largely at the temples, his secret vanity. Their daughter Erin and her husband, Brad, sat to Roger’s right, next to their two children, and beyond them was her son, Stu, and his wife, Jen, who had left their baby daughter at the house with a sitter. Next to them were Pete’s parents, June and Stan, staring grimly ahead. They were good people, Margaret thought. June had been at the house or hospital almost as much as she had since the accident. On Margaret’s opposite side, closest to the aisle, Maura sat stiffly as Ryan fidgeted uncomfortably between her and Pete on the faded red velvet seat cushion. Did her grandson even understand, at six, that his brother was gone forever? Little Sarah would only know of James through stories. That thought abruptly sucked the air out of her, and she blinked back tears. The truly difficult days were yet to come, Margaret realized. The hardest part was being home after the rituals were complete, sitting angrily with grief and learning to accept it.

The organ music began mournfully, and the altar boys finished their preparations, heads respectfully bowed. Illuminated by the perfect projection of the summer sun, the elaborate jewel-toned stained-glass window at the front of the church glowed, each tiny fragment uniting into an image of Mary and the baby Jesus. The priest adjusted his vestments on the side of the altar, shifting his Bible to the other hand as he strode toward the center of the chancel. Margaret looked down the row at her family again. Underneath the current of grief, she felt pride in the way they had all pulled together. Stu and Erin had their own responsibilities, their own full lives. They had all simply stopped in the tracks of their respective days after that first phone call and manned the house, gently navigating well-meaning neighbors who wanted to linger off the front porch and stonewalling those who seemed bent on gleaning tidbits of information. In the days after the accident, they stood steadfastly in the doorframe of the Corrigan household with their own aching hearts, accepting the chicken casseroles and pans of lasagna with one foot protectively propping the screen, bracing against well-intentioned intrusion.

People always came out of the woodwork at a time like this, for good and bad. There was some need in human nature to insert yourself immediately, to take action, even if you knew the person only tangentially. The proximity to tragedy and sorrow caused an immediate evaluation of your own relative good fortune. The people who really understood, though, would hang back until the right moment, knowing that the real work began when all of the cars had left the driveway.

She and Roger had had little time for serious conversation since the accident and his sudden return from Florida. He was in shock, they all were, and he felt frustrated at how helpless he was to assist their child. The tragedy had seemed to turn him inward, sinking him further into his own thoughts and private grief. Yet there was a part of her, as she sat stiffly in the pew, that was hopeful. Perhaps their shared mourning might bring them closer, open channels between them that seemed to have been narrowing slowly over the years, like arteries.

The patterns and paths of their life together, especially in the past decade, had become more and more divergent. She had her set schedule: gardening, bridge, exercise, and the occasional lunch with friends. Being a devoted grandmother, a role of which she was immensely proud, also took up large portions of her time. She was a regular babysitter for Maura and Erin, especially when Roger traveled for work. But Roger still spent far too much time in the office at his stage in life, in her opinion. Some of their friends had begun to announce retirement plans, and although Roger pretended to find that idea attractive, she wondered how he would occupy himself without work. He was not a man given to introspection, not a reader or a crossword puzzle devotee, but a self-professed people person who brightened visibly in the company of others. She worried, privately, that retirement might shrink him, drain him of some of his vitality.

The priest gestured for them all to rise for a hymn, and the organ music swelled. Roger guided her up, cupping her elbow and leaving his arm entwined in the crook of hers. When they sat back down he suddenly clutched her hand, enclosing it in his palms, and brought it to his lap. Margaret raised her eyebrows gently in surprise and smoothed her black linen skirt with her free hand. She smiled inwardly despite herself and the circumstances. It was such a small act, but his spontaneity and their uncharacteristic display of physical affection pleased her. They would get through this together.

Maura stared straight ahead as the priest finished speaking. The pills her sister had forced her to take before the funeral had produced a floating sensation, as if she were a helium balloon above the pews. She looked down at her clasped hands, marveling that her body could sit so still while on the inside she was poised to scream. Next to her, sweating in his suit and tie, Pete grasped her hand so tightly that the slim bones curled toward one another. This discomfort was the only thing tethering her to the hard-backed bench, she thought. She would need to summon the energy to greet people after the funeral and then make it through the catered meal afterward at her parents’ home. They would follow the hearse to the cemetery, but she couldn’t think about that part right now. That would be unbearable, the physical letting go. Her eyes flicked to the small casket down in front of the altar and then back to Father Durkee’s face.

Maura wondered suddenly if the neighbor boy, Alex Hulburd, the one who had hit James, had the nerve to come to the service. Her mother had told her that his parents would be there, but she could not look back behind her. They had stopped by the house the day after James had died, while Erin was manning the door, and enquired about their son visiting. Alex wanted to come meet with them, to apologize, they had explained. Her sister had told them firmly that it was not the right time.

There had been so much for Maura to focus on, first with the hospital routine and then with the funeral preparations, that the teenager who had killed her son had remained largely in the background. It was outrageous, though, to think that he imagined he could simply stop by and say, “Sorry.” What could possibly come of that? His recklessness had brought them all to this place, she thought bitterly, but she would not contemplate that bitterness now. This was James’s service, a tribute to his beautiful, too short life. Maura turned her head to the sides of the altar where vibrant enlarged photographs of her son in various poses were positioned—running on the beach as a toddler, grinning in his baseball uniform, his rounded baby face poking over the top of his crib. She recalled, suddenly, the way his baby fist had clutched and bunched the fabric of her shirt when he nursed, his eyes locked on hers in a way that fixed her at the center of his universe. A sob erupted in her throat, and her head lurched forward slightly. Maura brought her hand to her mouth. Her entire world had drained through a sieve and she could not imagine how it could be reconstituted.

“You OK?” Pete asked softly, leaning into her and then releasing her hand, smoothing it in her lap tenderly. She nodded slowly as he swiped his nose with his free hand, and Maura saw tears prick his eyes. There was a trace of alcohol on his breath, smothered by a breath mint and his heavy aftershave, but in Maura’s strange, floating condition she felt neither the familiar reaction of disgust nor dismay.

Ryan was fidgeting in his seat, but she looked away, incapable of producing the desire to admonish him, and she noticed with gratitude that her mother was intervening, reaching across her father to put a hand on her son’s arm. Sarah was in the back of the church with a babysitter. Thank God. She could not have dealt with that distraction during the service.

The disembodied, peaceful sensation created by the pills was pleasant, and when the priest signaled to their family that it was time to rise and walk up the aisle, she panicked for a moment. Her feet felt weighted like cinder blocks as she fought the overwhelming desire to stay exactly where she was, gazing at the images of her son’s magnified face on the easels until darkness fell.