replaced an older shot of Crystal with the new one. And then she sensed another pair of eyes on her and realized Dorothy’s stare was fixed directly on the new photo.
“Good girl,” she said in a rusty voice. “Good…daughter.”
According to Dorothy’s physicians and all the reading Lily had done, such clarity was nearly impossible.
“She is good, isn’t she,” Lily said, smiling through tears. “The best there is. She loved her life and all the people in it.”
Dorothy was looking at her, not at the photo of Crystal. Lily approached the bed and patted the older woman’s hand.
“Her husband’s gone?” Sean asked quietly, studying the array of pictures.
“He died when I was eleven,” Cameron said, indicating a photo of a handsome silver-haired man holding up a golf trophy. “Grandpa Frank.”
“Pretty good golfer?”
“He was all right. A twelve handicap.”
“What’s yours these days?” Sean asked him.
“About a three,” Charlie answered for her brother. “I keep track.”
“Not too shabby,” Sean said.
Cameron shuffled his feet in modesty, shedding bits of dried mud. The five of them lingered a few more minutes, until Dorothy drifted off to sleep.
Charlie stood in front of the wall of photographs, her face averted, her narrow shoulders drawn in. Cameron scowled at her. “Come on, don’t start sniveling.”
“I can’t help it,” she said in a broken voice.
“Yes, you can. Just don’t do it.”
“How?” she snapped, whipping her head around, her pigtails flying out. “How do I just stop?”
“Like that, moron,” Cameron said, giving her braid a gentle tug. “Get mad.”
chapter 28
“So that’s your Grandma Dot,” Sean said as they drove away from the nursing home. He felt a curious sense of relief. The visit had been long overdue, and he’d been putting it off until Lily prodded him into going. Now that it was over and had gone reasonably well, he wondered why he’d waited.
“She used to be a lot different,” said Charlie. “She used to be tons of fun.”
“I’ll bet she was.” He checked the rearview mirror and saw that she was back to being her funny little self. Breakdowns and sad spells, like the one she’d had just now, were common, said Dr. Sachs. They were part of the healing process. Sean wasn’t sure being called “moron” by your brother was particularly healing, but he tended to ignore their squabbles because they always subsided on their own. Sometimes, like just now, Cameron gave himself away. Beneath the surface, he was all heart.
The thought gave Sean a rare flash of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this broken family would survive.
“She was always nuts about her grandkids,” Lily reminded them, turning in her seat. “Remember the cedar chest in her basement? It had the most amazing things in it.”
“A fur collar with little fox heads and tails on it,” Charlie said. “Eew.”
“She used to wear it to church,” Lily said. “Did you know that, when I was your age, I sometimes went to church with your mom and her parents?”
“Nope. Why didn’t you go to church with your own family?”
Lily turned back to face front. “They quit going. They…didn’t go.”
From the corner of his eye, Sean could see her throat work painfully as she swallowed. He decided it was time to change the subject. “I had a grandmother who went to church twice a week,” he said.
“Twice?” Charlie asked. “Was she kind of naughty?”
“She was Irish, me father’s mother, and she talked with a fair brogue like this.” He demonstrated as he spoke, grinning as he thought of old Bridget Callahan Maguire for the first time in years. “Every Sunday after church, she used to whack the head off the chicken and serve it for Sunday dinner.”
“Eew. Did you ever see her do the whacking?”
“Every chance I got. I was a ghoulish little kid.” He saw Lily wince. Too bad, he thought.
“What else did you do for fun?” she asked.
“Played golf. Your dad and I learned at church, you know.”
“He never told us that,” said Cameron.
Sean checked the rearview mirror again, glad to see a spark of interest. At the same time, he felt a now-familiar jab of pain. He wondered when that would stop or if it ever would. Grief, he had discovered, was a palpable thing, but that didn’t mean you could understand or control it. It was a sneaky enemy that strangled you in broad daylight sometimes.
“Sure,” he said. “Father Campbell at St. Mary’s was a scratch golfer and we were altar boys. He was the first coach we ever had.”