boxes of odds and ends, and other detritus had once made it impossible to move without the danger of injury, the simplest of hickory cabinets, white-tiled countertops and stainless-steel appliances had been installed. A row of glass jars filled with rice, pasta and beans was the only item on the counter. A couple of antique signs advertising long-vanished brands of ice cream hung on the wall over the breakfast nook. The cozy little corner held a small wooden table and two chairs Carly had found and refurbished for her. Lace curtains on the east-facing windows let the sunshine in every morning, brightening the whole room.
Maureen pointed to the hardwood floor that gleamed a dark honey color. “Was this underneath that nasty old green tile?”
“Yes, quarter-sawn maple.”
“Unbelievable.” Maureen shook her head, moved into the small dining room and marveled at the polished mahogany table and chairs. “I’ve never seen the top of that table in my life.”
“Me, neither. I grew up thinking the natural color of the wood was nasty gray. Turns out that it was grime all along.”
Maureen answered with a pained look. “I remember. It’s beautiful now.”
“My friend Carly Joslin refinished it for me.”
And so it went throughout the remainder of the house—living room, three bedrooms and two bathrooms. As they moved through the house, Lisa cast surreptitious glances at Maureen, who now carried her coat over her arm. She thought her mother looked thinner than she had when in Chicago, and fragile, as if she’d been sick. But for all she knew, Maureen’s skin always had that paleness. Lisa doubted that she’d always worn such baggy clothes, though.
They ended up back in the living room. The floors had been stripped and refinished so that the wood gleamed. The walls had been painted a restful shade of soft cream and the built-in bookcases on each side of the fireplace had new, unbroken glass in the doors. Best of all, there were only a few cherished items on the shelves and on the mantel over the fireplace, including the one good photograph she had of Lily and Wesley Thomas. It had been taken in the sixties, when they were newly married and anything seemed possible.
Maureen stopped and turned to her, tears filling her eyes, her lips trembling.
“What did you do with it all?” she asked. She waved a hand. “The junk, the garbage, the years of crud that was more important to them than—” Her head slumped forward and she lifted a hand to her eyes. She hunched her spine as if weighed down by crippling sorrow.
Taken aback and filled with pity at Maureen’s distress, Lisa’s natural instinct was to draw her mother into a hug, but the defensiveness of her shoulders made her stop. Instead she stammered out the same thing she’d said before. “Sold it, tossed it...a bunch of people helped me and—”
“How long did it take?” The words seemed to be wrenched from Maureen.
“Six months and then another two to renovate the house. I’d had an apartment of my own until they got sick and I moved back in to care for them, but when we started the cleanup, I lived with my friend Carly until it was done.” She fell silent. Maureen couldn’t possibly be interested in her living arrangements while Rich Richmond’s construction firm had finished the renovations. Nor would she be interested in hearing of the emotional support she’d needed after losing the ones who had raised her within weeks of each other, and when she’d sorted through mountains and hills and piles of the worthless junk they had spent more than fifty years collecting.
A wave of nausea rose in her throat and she had to say, “Excuse me,” and hurry to her en suite bathroom where she couldn’t be heard. She threw up, rinsed her mouth and once again stood looking at her devastated face and stunned expression in the mirror.
This had been a day of shocks, and she had the horrible feeling they weren’t over yet.
“The hits just keep coming,” she murmured, rubbing her sore hip.
Her thoughts went to Ben and the shock he must have felt when she’d told him about the baby. The surprise of having Maureen show up made her a little more sympathetic about Ben’s reaction. But not much, she thought, pushing away from the sink and returning to the room where Maureen waited.
The older woman looked as though she had pulled herself together. She glanced up from where she’d seated herself on the sofa. “Are you all right?” she asked, her gaze swiftly taking in Lisa’s appearance from head to toe.
“Yes. I’m fine.” Lisa provided the automatic reassurance, although she didn’t feel fine. She took a chair opposite the sofa.
Maureen looked around, her face still dazed. “It’s so clean and beautiful. I can’t believe all you’ve accomplished.” She paused and then she met Lisa’s gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I—” She shook her head again. “Honestly, it didn’t occur to me that you still lived here. When I drove up, I thought I was in the wrong place. I didn’t have to drive through head-high dead weeds or dodge a row of engine parts and a dozen old transmissions.”
“And a pile of wheels and axles,” Lisa added. “Grandpa started moving those to the front of the house in the year before he died. Not sure why he didn’t display that particular collection sooner.”
“It’s impossible to know how his mind worked.” Maureen’s lips tightened and she looked away, her attention going to a small brass statue of a pair of praying hands that stood on the end table. Reaching out, she ran her hand over it. Lisa had found it in the bottom of a box of papers, its surface unmarked from having been buried for half a century. The words Lily and Violet had been scratched on the bottom in childish carving, so it must have belonged to one of them as a child. “There was so much of it...everywhere, strangling everything.”
Lisa couldn’t tell if she was experiencing grief, sorrow, disgust or some other emotion. She didn’t know her mother well enough to read her expressions, know her thoughts. Sadness, fueled by her tiredness and expectant-mother hormones, had tears springing into her eyes. She quickly wiped them away and stood to go to the kitchen. Forcing normalcy into her voice she said, “I’ve got to get something to eat. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, please.” Maureen sounded surprised at the invitation. “Do you need some help?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.” Lisa waved a hand. “Look around some more if you want to.”
Happy to escape and collect her thoughts, she went into the kitchen and pulled out a chicken stew she’d made on Sunday. She poured it into a pan and, while it heated, made a salad. The whole time her mind was frantically racing, trying to figure out why her mother was there. Maureen had only visited a handful of times since she’d left at the age of sixteen. She had never spent the night.
Lisa paused in her preparations, staring down at her hands. Did Maureen expect to stay the night? Or longer? If so, why?
She set the table and called Maureen in.
“Oh, this smells wonderful,” her mother said as she sat. “Did Mom teach you how to cook?”
“A few things. Mostly I taught myself.”
Maureen gave her a thoughtful look. “Forgive me, Lisa, but I have to ask. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. After they...died, why did you stay here? Fix it up? You could have simply walked away.” She gave a laugh. “Or set a match to the whole thing.”
Lisa’s
