Maine: A Novel Part 9

Alice wanted to slap her, the way her own father would have if spoken to like that.

aShut the h.e.l.l up,a she said finally.

aSee? Youare doing it now. Why canat you ever apologize for what you did, so we can move forward?a aI have nothing to be sorry for,a Alice said. aYouare the one who should be sorry, Kathleen. You should be thanking me for all Iave done, not tearing me apart for your own problems.a She had always been strict with her girls, but what was the alternative? Look at the sort of mothers they had become, in an effort to be soft, to be supportive, and, in Kathleenas case, to turn her daughter into her best friend. It was pathetic.

The problem with her children and grandchildren was simply that they wanted too terribly to be happy. They were always in search of it, trying to better themselves, improve upon their current situation so that they might feel no pain. They thought every problem on earth could be solved by turning inward.

Alice knew where this came from. It was perhaps her greatest failing as a mother that all of these childrena"her own, and her childrenas children, and probably the great-grandchildren, tooa"were G.o.dless. Patrick and Ann Marie were the only ones who even went to Ma.s.s. Little Daniel had been an altar boy, and his sisters had sung in the choir, but now none of them seemed to have any involvement at all. Clare said she was still a Catholic in her heart and so was Joe, but they couldnat stand by and be part of the Church after what had happened in Boston these past few years. Alice thought this was just an excuse to sleep in on Sundays, nothing more. They certainly didnat stop selling those Catholic artifacts of theirs, so how offended were they, really? The apriest scandal,a as Clare insisted on calling it, was merely a case of a few bad apples. Everyone knew that.

aHow can you believe, when the world is such a horrible place?a Kathleen had asked her once, and that was when she realized that she had somehow failed to teach them about the true meaning of faith.

She felt that the Catholic Church had made a horrendous mistake with Vatican II in the sixties. They had tried to make religion palatable, doing away with Latin Ma.s.s and head coverings and no meat on Fridays. Her grandchildren had grown up calling priests by their first names, as if they were waitersa"Father Jim and Father Bob, and so on. It turned her stomach. The Church had taken the fear and the awe out of the whole equation, so that now her children and grandchildren and millions of others like them felt not even a hint of guilt for going out for breakfast on Sunday mornings instead of to church.

Kathleen called herself spiritual, one of those New Age words that Alice could never quite take seriously. Kathleen had picked it up, along with a whole host of other annoying and ridiculous beliefs, at Alcoholics Anonymous sometime in the late eighties, right after her divorce.

Daniel had made it far too easy for Kathleen to end her marriage. He had advised her to leave Paul as soon as she told them he had cheated. Daniel gave her eight thousand dollars and told her she and the kids could come live with them. When Kathleen said no to that offer, he came up with the plan that she should live in the cottage rent-free for as long as she wanted. No matter that Alice had been planning to have contractors come in and fix the warped floors that spring. No matter that he hadnat even consulted her, for surely she would have insisted that Kathleen get a job, get herself together. It couldnat be good for her to be cooped up in the cottage with the children and her depressive thoughts for months on end.

If Daniel had stayed out of it, Kathleen might have found a way to forgive Paul and move forward. Paul Doyle was an excellent son-in-law: he adored Alice. Maybe thatas what bothered Kathleen most about him. He made a decent father and a good provider, and he was a h.e.l.l of a lot more fun than the AA guys Kathleen brought around later.

The drinking was something else her daughter blamed her for, the most preposterous of all her allegations over the years. Kathleen had become an alcoholic, she said, because of what she had internalized from watching Alice drink.

This made Alice laugh. From the time Kathleen was eleven years old until the day Daniel died thirty-three years later, Alice hadnat had a single sip of alcohol, even in the moments when she wanted one so badly she could have burst, when she felt herself coming undone and thought perhaps it would be worth it to lose Daniel and the kids just for one measly sip of whiskey. In fact, it was quite possible that she had made it through her first decade of motherhood without killing them all thanks only to Canadian Club.

After a church trip to County Kerry when the children were young, Daniel became obsessed with the idea of ancestry and getting back in touch with their roots. Neither his parents nor Aliceas had ever been attached to Irelanda"her mother had once said that her own mother died trying to flee the place, so she didnat see much purpose in ever going back. But sometime in the mid-fifties, couples they knew from St. Agnes and the childrenas school began making noise about returning to the homeland. And so the parish organized a trip, and they all flew to Shannon and helped build a Catholic orphanage and toured the lush countryside in a rented bus. They photographed ruins and streets that were overrun with sheep. They ate boiled dinners and sang old songs in damp, dark pubs.

When they arrived back in Boston, Daniel bought a book of Irish names and meanings, and cracked it open over dinner.

aWe are Kellehers,a he said proudly. aAnd that meansa"hold on herea"wait a minute, I know youare all on the edge of your seats.a He flipped to the page, pretending to consult it with amazement until Alice said, aOh Jesus, get on with it.a aKelleher,a he read, ais the Anglicized form of the Gaelic " Cileachair, ason of Cileachair,a a personal name meaning acompanion dear,a i.e., alover of company.a Hey, does that sound like your dad or what?a aDo more!a Clare shouted, for she too was excited by ghosts of the past. aDo Momas maiden name,a she said. aDo Brennan.a Daniel tapped her on the head with the book. aOne step ahead of you, little lady. Iave got it right here. Brennan!a he said loudly, then, reading it over, aOne of Irelandas most common surnames, Brennan derives from one of three Irish personal names: " Braonin, from braon, probably meaning asorrow,a and Mac Branin and " Branin, both from bran, meaning araven.a a aSo Mom is a sorrowful raven?a Clare asked. aA sad bird?a Daniel smiled. aPrecisely,a he said. aMom is my lovely sad bird. What do you think of that, sad bird?a Alice hated him in that moment. She looked at her three children sitting there, staring and demanding morea"more food from the icebox, more time, more lovea"as if they owned her. She added an extra dash of whiskey to her drink and took a long sip.

aItas time for your baths,a she said, to a chorus of groans that made Daniel chuckle.

aYou head upstairs,a she told the kids. aI will be there in a minute.a She went out to the back porch, gla.s.s in hand. She drank down what remained, hoping to soothe her nerves. It wasnat working tonight. Alice sat on the top step and put her fist in her mouth, biting down so hard that a few minutes later, when she bent to shampoo Clareas hair in the bathroom, her daughter balked and said, aMommy, your fingers are bleeding.a Alice wiped them on a pink bath towel hanging from the doork.n.o.b.

aBe quiet and close your eyes,a she said harshly.

She thought of how she had never really liked children, though her friends always said positively everyone fell in love with their own once they had them. She felt as though her body was full of something bigger than itself, pushing against every inch of her, trying to get out. She wanted to say that she was here by some strange accident, that in reality she should be in a Paris apartment right now, painting in solitude.

She wanted to scream, but instead she inhaled deeply and said a quick prayer.

She tried to lighten her voice: aThatas it, darling. You donat want the soap to get in, now do you?a

Maggie.

Maggie got out of bed and went to the cupboard. It was almost ten thirty at night. Shead probably be up until dawn now.

She looked at her cell phone and checked her e-mail, but Gabe had made no contact. It had been eight hours since she left his door. Maggie wished he were here.

She also wished that she had been born the sort of person who lost her appet.i.te when in crisis. She pulled a box of macaroni and cheese from the top shelf and set a pot of water on the stove to boil.

Youare eating for two, she thought, to make herself feel better, though this made her want to start crying all over again. She went and sat down on the couch, turned on the television. Grease was on. It seemed like Grease was always on. Did Grease have its own channel?

Maggie realized that it might really be over. Preposterous how many times she had said that to herself, a sign that it should be over, probably. But the thought of that made her feel ill; each of them going on, living a full life without the other. Or staying together, but without this child. What if that was his final answer: Work on the relationship, but no baby? She couldnat imagine what shead do.

In college, she had taken the bus to Toledo with a roommate who needed an abortion. Monica Randolph was only nineteen and she had gotten pregnant after an ill-advised drunken hookup with a friend.

She told Maggie this in a whisper after they had turned out the lights one night. In the darkness, Maggie couldnat make out the girlas face, and she was reminded of confessiona"stepping into the booth, telling your deepest sins to a priest who was usually a stranger to you. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. The act of it had frightened her as a young girl.

At her first penance at age seven, Maggie had grown so terrified that she blanked on her prepared list of sins (she stole some of Chrisas Halloween candy, she talked back to her mother). And so she defaulted to reciting the Ten Commandments, a.s.suming she must have violated most of those: aI coveted my neighboras possessions,a she said slowly to the priest, who was no doubt bored out of his skull at hearing the deepest sins of fifty second-graders in one night. aI didnat honor my mother and father. I committed adultery.a On the other side of the screen, Father Nick jumped up in his seat. aYou what?a Now in her dorm room, which seemed a million miles from there, Maggie switched on the light and said, aOh, Monica, Iam so sorry. What do you want to do?a Monica was lying under a floral bedspread in a She-Ra: Princess of Power T-shirt and a pair of cotton underpants. She looked about ten years old.

aWell, I canat keep it,a she said.

aNo,a Maggie agreed.

aI made an appointment at a clinic in Toledo for Sat.u.r.day,a Monica said. aI was wondering if you would come with me.a Maggie said she would.

aAnd please donat mention it to anyone,a Monica said.

aOf course.a She didnat think much about the thing itself, only that she and Monica werenat really all that close. Monica was on the soccer team and had plenty of friends. But maybe, Maggie reasoned, she had asked her precisely because they werenat so invested in each other.

On the ride to Toledo, they ate fast food. They talked about the latest gossip from their dorm, and about their families back home. It was at this point that Monica said, aI hope you donat think Iam going to h.e.l.l or something.a Maggie was confused. aFor what?a Monica pointed awkwardly at her stomach, then gestured around to the rest of the bus. aYouare Catholic, right?a Non-Catholics Maggie had met at Kenyon seemed to think that all Catholics spent 90 percent of their time decrying abortion, when in fact no one in her family had ever so much as mentioned the word. She a.s.sumed her grandparents and Aunt Ann Marie and Uncle Pat were staunchly pro-life. She wondered then what her mother thought of ita"Kathleen was progressive for a Kelleher, but even she had retained some of her childhood beliefs, and it sometimes surprised Maggie to find out which ones lingered on.

aI think youare doing the best thing,a Maggie said.

aMaybe I should wait and think it over some more,a Monica said. Then, aWell, no. Itas not going to be that bad, right?a aRight,a Maggie said. aIall be with you. Donat worry.a aItas not like weare going to put a crib in our dorm room,a Monica said.

aOnly maybe as a place to store beer bottles,a Maggie said, trying to sound light.

aIam so glad youare here,a Monica said. aYouare really good at taking care of people; Iave noticed that about you.a aThanks,a Maggie said.

They lived together for another six months, but they never discussed Monicaas abortion except once, during a weeklong pro-choice demonstration, when people hung hundreds of coat hangers from the trees in the freshman quad, with personal stories attached.

aI canat bear to look at them,a Monica said. aI know what theyare trying to say, but itas just too raw.a The following year she moved off campus. They never really talked again.

A few minutes earlier, Maggie had feared that shead be up all night. Now she sat on the couch while John Travolta sang aGrease Lightinga in the background, and felt as though she hadnat slept in days. She got back into bed. Was this a pregnancy thing or a depression thing? Possibly both.

Before she drifted off to sleep, she thought of how, if life had turned out differently, Monica would have a thirteen-year-old child today, instead of living with her boyfriend and four c.o.c.ker spaniels in San Francisco, performing in a bluegra.s.s band, as Maggie had read about her in the alumni magazine.

She wondered if she had given the girl the right advice, but back then at Kenyon, an abortion had seemed like a reasonable step for dealing with an unfortunate situation.

Now that she herself was in the same position, it seemed less obvious. She was older, that was part of it. She wasnat some college kid who couldnat afford a child, couldnat somehow figure it out. But she also wasnat ready, the way she thought a mother ought to be: married, stable, living in more than two rooms.

Youare Catholic, right? Monica had asked all those years ago, and Maggie had shrugged the comment off. But maybe that was part of it too. She wasnat religious in any formal way, but she still felt Catholicism coming through her pores so many years later. She still wanted terribly to be good, even if no one was watching. Out of habit, she prayed to Saint Anthony when she lost something, or said a Hail Mary whenever she heard an ambulance siren outside her apartment window. She didnat go to church on Ash Wednesday anymore, but when she saw ashes on the foreheads of strangers in the street, she would realize with a start that Lent was coming and decide to give something up, just for the heck of it. No sugar, gossip, or snooping for forty days.

Maggie had been baptized as an infant, and she had made her First Communion. There were presents, mostly of a religious nature, and a few checks and twenty-dollar bills as well. There was a chocolate cake with rich b.u.t.tercream frosting and pink sugar flowers in the shape of a cross. It was one of those nights when all the adultsa"her parents, Aunt Clare (not yet married then), Uncle Patrick and Aunt Ann Marie, and all the neighborsa"got drunk and sang Irish songs, almost forgetting that the children existed, so that she and her cousin Patty got to stay up until midnight eating cake and honeyed ham with their fingers, playing Barbies on the sunporch.

As a kid, Maggie had been forced to go to church most Sundays, but after the divorce, after AA and an all-out war on tradition on her motheras part, they never went anymore, except maybe on Christmas and Easter with her grandparents. The Catholic Church, like the family itself, was a strange blend of resentments and confusion and contradictions and love and comfort to her, even now. She was an atheist, and yet the one or two times a year she went to Ma.s.s, a familiar song would begin to play and she would find herself singing, caught up in its beauty: Lamb of G.o.d, you take away the sins of the world, Have mercy on us, grant us peace.

The previous Christmas, her cousin Pattyas kids had brought the gifts up to the altar, the crystal goblet of wine shaking in poor Fosteras hands. Maggie had a vague memory of being in that exact position at her great-grandmotheras funeral, the feeling of all eyes on you, and what sort of terrible fate might befall you if you spilled Jesusa blood on your good white shoes.

When the priest blessed the bread and wine, half the congregants genuflected, including Kathleen and Maggie and the other Kellehers. The rest of them stood, and Alice whispered in a superior tone, aThose people donat go to church.a The family knew her to be lapsed, but that night Maggie had felt moved to take Communion, and so she followed her cousins to the altar, remembering precisely how to cup her hands, removing the host from the palm of the right with the fingers of the left, instinctively performing the sign of the cross before she headed back to her seat, and then feeling a bit silly about it. She could only imagine what Ann Marie must be thinking.

Later, she remembered why she had stopped taking Communion in the first placea"when she was twelve, she had asked her mother why she didnat rise for Communion like everyone else, and Kathleen had explained that divorces were forbidden from doing so. After that, Maggie had stayed seated next to her mother in the pew on holidays, in a defiant show of solidarity.

It was pouring when she woke up around seven the next morning. Rain came through the window screens and puddled under the radiators. Somewhere outside, something was burninga"tires, maybe. The smell made her stomach turn.

aGreat,a Maggie said out loud.

She looked instinctively at her cell phone. He still hadnat called. But there was a missed call from the house in Maine. Her grandmother hadnat left a message, never did. When Alice and Daniel had gotten their first answering machine, sometime in the eighties, Daniel recorded the outgoing message, saying, aYouave reached the Kellehers. Please leave your name, address, and phone number at the tone.a Everyone made fun of him, and he changed it to a simpler greeting, which was even funnier, because after he said, in his most professional voice, aYouave reached Daniel and Alice; please leave a message,a there was the fainter sound of him saying nervously, aWas that good? Okay,a before the beep sounded. Alice had never changed the message, and it was sad and somewhat sweet to hear his voice whenever Maggie called her grandmother all these years after his death.

She closed the windows. Outside, people in suits rushed toward the High Street subway stop, a sea of black umbrellas. It was a Monday, and all of New York was heading into work, everyone but her.

Maggie went to the kitchen for a gla.s.s of water. She felt dried out, husklike, from all the crying. And then, like a shove from behind, she saw it: the burner she had lit the night before for her macaroni, still on. The pot of water she had set there was now empty and burning all along the bottom. Black metal flakes dusted the stovetop. That smell, the tires.

Childishly, she let herself imagine him receiving the news: aShe died in a fire a few hours after leaving your place, Gabe. She was carrying your baby.a Head crumble to the ground, screaming, aNo, no!a Head never love again.

She took a pot holder from a hook on the wall and put the pan in the sink to cool off. She pushed the just-closed windows open and let the rain come in.

Smoke detector needs batteries, she thought. Brain needs transplant.

She retrieved The New York Times from its spot on her doormat and slipped it out of its blue plastic wrapping. Maggie sat on the couch and glanced at the front page: the CIA had sent an innocent man to Morocco to be tortured; a thirteen-year-old girl in Brownsville had been killed the night before, the victim of a stray gang memberas bullet, while she was eating cake on the front stoop, celebrating her motheras college graduation.

What right did Maggie have to feel like s.h.i.t about her own life when people were being extradited by the government for no good reason, and a child innocently eating cake in a party dress could be killed only a few miles from here? But still, she felt sorry for herself. She had just (narrowly? No, not really) escaped death. She missed Gabe. Right now she should be waking up in his bed, going to the market on East Eighth Street for snacks they could take along on the ride. She should be walking through the rain in her vacation bubble, impervious to weather and gang violence and bad hair, umbrella be d.a.m.ned.

She knew it was wrong to think oneas own problems were the most dire in the world, but that didnat stop her from feeling like it anyway. She was pregnant and alone. She wasnat sure she could do this.

Her phone rang. She reached for it, but it was just her friend Allegra. Maggie let it ring through.

The last time she and Gabe had had a big fight, Allegra had told her to leave him.

aCome on,a she had said. aYou canat tell me that deep down this really feels right, can you? I went through the same s.h.i.t with Mike. And believe me, now with Jeff, itas likea"when itas right, itas right.a Maggie hated when people said that, as if ultimate rightness between two human beings were as easy to recognize as a plastic thermometer popping up from out of a turkeyas bottom: perfect temperature achieved, you have now completed your mission, go forth and live in bliss. She was slightly suspicious that such certainty happened only to fairly simple people, nonthinkers.

Allegra was the last person she wanted to speak to right now.

Her stomach felt as though it were expanding outward, moving up toward her chest. She went into the bathroom and threw up.

Between the hours of eight and ten, Maggie took a shower, paid her cell phone and cable bills online, and scrubbed her already clean kitchen cabinets, all in the interest of keeping her hands in constant motion so she wouldnat call Gabe. There was only one thing she could say to get his attention now, before he had had a chance to cool off, and she needed to be sure of him before she broke the news, if they stood any chance at all.

She checked her e-mail. He should be on the way to his morning photo shoot by now. In fact, he probably hadnat even gone. There was nothing from him, only a short note from her brother (Hey, isnat Motheras Day coming up? Are we doing something, or a Motheras Day had been two weeks earlier. She had sent nice flowers with both their names on the card, and now she wrote Chris back to tell him so.) There was a message from her boss, Mindy, with the subject line a.s.sIGNMENTS FOR THIS WEEK.

Maggie signed out. She wished she hadnat cleaned her apartment so thoroughly in advance of the trip to Maine, so that she might have some dishes to wash, or a bathroom floor that needed scouring. She kept her place spotless. Her shrink had once asked whether she thought this was a reaction to her motheras choices, and Maggie laughed, because what behavior on earth wasnat a reaction to some motheras choice?

Even after her parentsa divorce, after her mother got sober, Kathleen still could never manage to vacuum the carpets or take out the trash like all other mothers seemed to be able to do. Dishes lay grimy in the sink and on the countertop for days. A thick layer of dust and dog hair covered the bookshelves and tables and windowsills. Piles of magazines and cardboard boxes that Kathleen intended to recycle someday were stacked in the back hall. She was forever writing down phone numbers on sc.r.a.ps of paper and then losing them hours later. She kept doing this, even after Maggie bought her one of those whiteboards you could attach to the refrigerator door with magnets.

The farmhouse in California was even messier than the home Maggie had grown up in, with fruit flies buzzing all around the kitchen, landing in your tea or your breakfast cereal. Kathleen never changed the sheets in the guest room. Maggie might go there and not return for nine months, but the sheets would stay put. She didnat enjoy visiting, especially with Gabe, who had never hidden his feelings about the place. And she wondered about Arloa"had he too lived in his own filth for years, so that the situation seemed completely normal?

Maggie dialed her shrinkas number at ten oaclock, the exact time she knew Dr. Rosen got to the office. She was always saying that Maggie should feel free to call and talk between sessions if she needed to, but Maggie had never thought of taking her up on the offer until now. It seemed like an option for suicide cases and manic-depressives, not women like her, suffering from a mix of romantic turmoil and white-girl blues.

Now she said, aHi, itas Maggie Doyle. Do you have a minute?a She told Dr. Rosen about Gabe, their fight. She did not mention the baby.

aWe were supposed to be heading to Maine today, and Iam feeling sort of adrift.a aHave you thought of going by yourself?a aI donat know,a Maggie said. aI took the days off from work, and I really need to focus on writing my book. And maybe it would be good for me. But then I think about the spotty cell phone service and having no one around but my grandmother.a The cottage was an isolated place, which could be cozy or smothering, depending. She had experienced it both ways over the years. She wished her mother could come along. It struck her then, as it often did, that Kathleen was no longer in Boston. She had moved across the country, and though Maggie still saw her almost as often as she had when they were both on the East Coast, there was something sad and lonely about this. She couldnat just run home to her mom, a three-hour train ride away, even if she wanted to.

aIt might feel really good to go alone,a Rosen went on. aEmpowering! Time to work on your book, a change of scenery.a aWe were going to take Gabeas car, and I donat know how to drive, soa"a aTake a bus, gosh,a Rosen said. aAt least think about it. Time off from Gabe seems advisable.a Maggieas heart sank. She tried to think of some way of mentioning the other part, without actually saying the words.

aYou can always call me again if you need to,a Dr. Rosen said, apparently her way of ending the call. The woman who had taught Maggie about boundaries had a hyperawareness of them herself: she knew all about Maggie, while Maggie couldnat ask her a simple personal question. aWhere are you going on vacation?a was met with an uncomfortable smile and a rea.s.suring, aDonat worry, weall pick right up again the week after next,a as if Maggie had intended to trail her to the Berkshires and have a breakdown, when she had only been making conversation.

Maggie resented her for a split second, then resented herself for being completely incapable of having a fully functional and honest relationship with anyone, including a paid mental health professional.

aThanks for everything,a she said politely.

They hung up. She glanced over at her suitcase, still packed. Maybe she should go alone. It might be good for her. If only Alice werenat such a wild card, her behavior fluctuating from amiable to nightmarish in a flash.

Maggie had an embarra.s.sing desire for Aliceas affection, which made her act strangely around her. She actually drank more in Aliceas presence in an attempt to win her grandmotheras approval. Dr. Rosen had had a field day with that one. Still, her real allegiance was always to Kathleen, and when she thought of what Alice had put her mother through, she almost wanted to break all ties with her grandmother.

It wasnat just Kathleena"they had all been the recipients of Aliceas wrath at one time or another. She was strange: effervescent and charming, her presence taking up so much s.p.a.ce. Yet she sometimes slipped into venomous moods without warning. Alice could say the cruelest thing, a comment you would carry with you for the rest of your life, and then a minute later, shead be smiling, wondering why on earth you had to be so sensitive. A week before Maggieas prom, she had been over at her grandparentsa house for dinner, and Alice and Daniel had her laughing all night, as they danced across the living room, teaching her the Charleston and the two-step. She had loved them deeply in that moment, vowed to visit more often. But then, on prom night, in front of her date and his parents, Alice had said, aOh, Maggie, you couldnat have laid off the ice cream for this? Darling, you are positively fat!a Maggie knew her grandmotheras aversion to her branch of the family had to do with jealousy over how much her grandfather had loved them, especially Kathleen. Which was strange, really. Wouldnat you want your husband to be devoted to his children and grandchildren? But that wasnat the way Alice worked.

Right after her grandfather died, Maggie had made a real effort to call Alice two or three times a week. (She hid this fact from her mother, who had vowed never to speak to Alice again after what happened at the funeral.) But Alice didnat want to talk. She always cut the call short, saying, aShouldnat you be working on your writing instead of jabbering on the phone with me?a or citing long-distance charges as if it were 1952. Maggie didnat call much anymore. She occasionally thought to write a long letter, but she could never think of what to say. Alice didnat call her very often either, and when she did, it was usually with some odd request. Would Maggie please go to St. Patrickas Cathedral and light a candle for her cousin Ryan, who had an audition coming up, or for Fiona, who was serving the Lord through her Peace Corps work so far away? Maggie would always say yes, intending to follow through, but then she would forget, or reason her way out of ita"the cathedral was all the way uptown, and did the G.o.d she didnat believe in really care that much more about a five-dollar candle, lit among tourists drinking Starbucks coffee in the pews, than he did about a solemn prayer delivered in the diminutive chapel on Cranberry Street, right by her apartment?

Maggie always thought that family gatherings would be fun, great, loving times, but usually they were either boring or tense. The truly enjoyable get-togethers had gotten fewer and farther between since her grandfather died, but the memory of them kept the Kellehers coming back together, trying to re-create the magic. She knew all this, and yet she still craved it.

She especially missed childhood summers when the whole family would go up to Maine together. Alice was the hostess in those days, organizing group dinners and long car rides to new beaches, or instructing her husband to take all the grandkids out digging for clams in Kittery at low tide. They piled into his old Buick. At the sh.o.r.e, they stood in shallow water for hours, thrusting their rakes and their bare feet down deep into the oozing sand, screaming with delight and fear when they hit a clamsh.e.l.l. They filled buckets with the creatures, and by the time the sun set, Daniel would say, aOkay, letas bring these fellas home so Grandma can cook them up.a Then Maggie and Fiona and Patty would yell out aNo!a and the boys would yell aYes!a while their grandfather stood there laughing. They always returned to the cottage without a single clam.

Every year since her uncle Patrick had created the cottage schedule, Maggie had gone to Cape Nedd.i.c.k for a few days in June, usually with Allegra or a couple of friends from high school, but it wasnat the same. Her grandmother rarely invited them over or seemed to want to spend time together. She acted like she was entirely too busy, though doing what, Maggie could never be sure. Besides the awkward h.e.l.lo and good-bye, and one or two rushed dinners, she hardly ever spoke to Alice on those trips. Alice seemed content to be shut up alone in the house next door.

But when she brought Gabe to Maine the previous summer, her grandmother suddenly brightened. The fun they had reminded Maggie of the old days. Alice played the piano in the cottage after dinner one night, and Gabe sang along, belting out show tunes, unbearably off-key. Maggie was shocked and touched that he knew the words. He asked Alice about her favorite books, her funniest memories of Maggie as a kid.

aYouare amazing,a he told her over and over, to Maggieas slight agitation, for she had told Gabe of Aliceas unkindness toward her mother, and she almost wished his affections would be harder for Alice to win.

In a night, he somehow pulled from Alice what Maggie was always aiming fora"real conversation, tales of the past that would die with her unless she told them now. Alice was in the middle of some story about babysitting for Maggie and Chris when they were kids, and how they had hidden from her at the zoo as a prank, throwing Chrisas baseball cap into the monkey cage. Gabe laughed, and Maggie did, too, though she was positive the story was made up.

She asked then, aSo, Grandma, what was your childhood like? Tell us about that.a Aliceas eyes changed quickly. aI was talking about something else,a she said. aYou interrupted me. Anyway, I should be getting on with my evening. Iall see you kids tomorrow.a That night in bed, Maggie said, aWhat did I tell you? The woman hates my guts.a aYou know, she really does seem to,a Gabe said with a smile. Then he wrapped her up in his arms and said, aBut I love your guts. I think you have the s.e.xiest guts on the planet.a aHonestly, though,a Maggie said. aI wish she liked me half as much as she likes you.a aYou two are family, itas different,a he said. aI donat understand why you need her approval so badly. Youare nothing alike.a Now she tried to imagine what she and Alice would say to each other if they were forced to spend two weeks together. She couldnat quite picture it, but she wanted to. She thought of Alice, alone up at the beach house. She was slipping a bit mentally, maybe; she seemed confused sometimes. Kathleen always said Alice was as healthy as a horse, but how many good summers did she have left?

Maggie thought of the cottage itself, and how much she loved the place. Dr. Rosen was righta"how hard was it to take a bus? The ocean would restore her. And if she was having a miserable time, she could always turn around and come home.

She would go alone.

But shead give it a day, in case Gabe changed his mind and decided to come too.

Around noon, Maggie dialed the number of her grandparentsa house in Maine. Alice answered after four rings, sounding sort of tipsy. Maggie had never seen her grandmother drink until after her grandfather died. But since then, it was rare to see Alice without a gla.s.s in her hand, even at this time of day.

aGrandma, itas Maggie,a she said.

aHold on, let me stick a thingamajig into my book to save the page,a Alice said. She came back onto the line a moment later. aHow are you, darling?a aGood. You?a aMarvelous. I called you earlier.a aI know, thatas why Iam calling.a aHow on earth do you know? I didnat leave a message.a Her words were soaked in suspicion, as if Maggie were either lying or working for the CIA.

aWhatas going on there?a Maggie asked.