Anybody Out There?
Page 68

Now what?
I braced myself to ring Aidan’s parents; Dianne had called while I was out. Somehow—and I’d no idea how it had happened because it was the last thing I wanted—we’d got into a routine where she rang me every weekend. I dialed their number, screwed my eyes up tight, and beseeched, over and over, in my head, Don’t be in, don’t be in, oh, please don’t be in, but—damn—Dianne picked up. She sighed. “Oh, Anna.”
“How are you, Dianne?”
“I’m pretty bad, Anna. I’m pretty low. I was thinking about Thanksgiving.”
“But it’s only July.”
“I don’t want to do it this year. I was thinking of just getting the hell out, going on vacation on my own, to a place where they don’t have Thanksgiving. It’s a time for family. And I can’t bear it.”
She began to sob quietly.
“To lose a child, it’s the most unbearable pain. You’ll meet someone else, Anna, but I’ll never get my baby back.”
This had happened the few times we’d talked. She engaged in competitive grief: Who has more right to be devastated? A mother or a wife?
“I won’t meet someone else,” I said.
“But you could, Anna, that’s my point, you could.”
“How’s Mr. Maddox?” I could never think of him as having a first name.
“Coping in his usual way. Buried in his work. I’d get more emotional support from a three-year-old.” She laughed, in a scary way. “You know what, I’ve kind of had it.”
I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next for Dianne. It was the old, old story. She’d go on a women’s retreat, where they all run around in their pelt, daubed with blue paint, worshiping the female goddess, proud that their knockers reach their belly buttons. When they weren’t dancing in a clearing under a full moon, they’d be making big fun of men, so that when she came back to Boston, she’d stop covering the gray in her hair and making dinners for Mr. Maddox. She might even get a Harley and a crew cut and be part of the Dykes on Bikes contingent of Gay Pride.
“I’d better go, Dianne. You take care. We’ll talk about the ashes some other time.” We still hadn’t sorted that out.
“Yeah,” she said wearily. “Whatever.”
Done for another week! Oh, the relief! Feeling light and free, I rang Mum; I had to check that I had a granddad called Mick. And if I had? Did that make Leisl a real medium? I knew she came through with messages for the others—but she knew all their stories, she knew what they wanted to hear.
However, she knew very little about me. Mind you, how hard would it be to find an Irish family with a man called Mick in it? Lucky guess? But that thing about me never having met him was harder to explain away…Another lucky guess?
Mum answered the phone with a gaspy “Hello.”
“It’s me, Anna.”
“Anna, pet! What’s happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just calling for a chat.”
“A chat?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because everyone knows we watch Midsomer Murders at this time on a Sunday night. No one rings.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know. Okay, I’ll call back later.”
“Ah, sure, go on, stay where you are. We’ve seen this one already.”
“Er, all right. You know Granny Maguire’s husband?”
A pause. “Do you mean my father?”
“Yes! Sorry, Mum, yes. What was his name? Was it Michael? Mick?”
Another pause. “Why do you want to know? What are you up to?”
“Nothing. Mick? Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Said reluctantly.
My scalp crawled. Oh my God. Leisl must have been onto something.
“And I never knew him? He died when I was born?”
“Two months after.”
A wave of tingling flushed right down my body. Surely that was more than just a lucky guess by Leisl. But if she was really talking to the dead, why hadn’t Aidan come forward…?
“What’s going on?” Mum asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“What’s going on?” Louder this time.
“NO-thing!”
51
Via a series of cunning lies—I told Rachel I was going to Teenie’s, I told Teenie I was spending the day with Jacqui, and I told Jacqui I was hanging out with Rachel—I managed to avoid having to attend any holiday rooftop barbecues and firework displays on Monday and had a pleasant enough time, sitting downwind of my air conditioner and watching reruns of The Dukes of Hazzard, Quantum Leap, and M*A*S*H.
I liked—loved—being in our apartment. It’s where I felt closest to him. God knows we’d gone through hell and back to get it. I know it’s a cliché about how hard it is to get a half-decent apartment in Manhattan, but it’s only a cliché because it’s true. “Large, bright, airy apartment” was the holy grail but you paid through the nose for every inch of floorboard and window. “Poky, gloomy kip, miles from the subway” was what most people ended up settling for.
After Aidan and I got engaged, we’d started looking for a place, but it was impossible. After getting nowhere for weeks, we were walking past a realtor’s window one evening when we saw a picture of a “bright and airy loft.” In a neighborhood we liked and—much more importantly—at a rent we could afford.
Gripped with a sense that this was our destiny, we set up a viewing for the very next day. This was it, we thought. Finally, we would have a home! So sure were we that we brought along the first two months’ rent. Who could blame us for thinking we were pretty savvy?
“We’re going to be a normal couple,” I said as we got the subway there. “We’re going to have a nice apartment and have friends over for dinner and go antiquing at the weekends.” (I had only the vaguest idea of what “antiquing” involved but everyone did it.)
However, when we got to the apartment we discovered nine other couples also viewing. The place was so small there was barely room for us all, and as the twenty of us bumped and jostled resentfully, forming queues to peer into closets and examine the shower, the realtor guy watched with an amused smile. Eventually, he clapped his hands together and called for attention. “Everyone had a good look?”