“She’s taking this pretty hard. Oliver and she were…”
“Close.”
He nodded. Stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his pants and looked as if he’d been pacing a hole in the carpet outside the bedroom door. The monotonous tick of the grandfather’s clock in the entry broke the silence. “I called her doctor this morning and ran by the pharmacy for some tranquilizers,” he said. “She’s taken a few, so she’s a little out of it.”
“Where’s everyone else?” She’d half-expected the house to be filled with her brothers, Shea’s wife, maybe even Cynthia or Robert’s kids. As it was, the dark old home seemed tomb-like.
Shea lifted a shoulder. “Aaron called her, said he’d be over later but hasn’t shown up yet. Robert…Shit, who knows with Robert these days? He’s a mess.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He snorted his agreement. “I think I’ll take a break out on the porch,” he said, reaching into his front pocket for his pack of Marlboro Lights. “She”—he hitched his chin toward the open bedroom door—“will probably fall asleep if she already hasn’t.” He shook out a filter tip and jabbed it into the corner of his mouth. “There’s an older lady Mom knows from the church, Mrs. Sinclair, who’s going to come and stay with her for a couple of days. She used to be a nurse. Father Timothy arranged it, and I thought it was a good idea.” Glancing at his watch, the cigarette bobbing between his lips, he said, “She should be here soon.” He started for the stairs.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Shannon said. “I need to talk to you.” Before he could ask any questions, she walked into the darkened bedroom where her mother lay under a thick duvet despite the oppressive heat inside. The draperies were drawn, the only light coming from a table lamp near the bed.
Maureen looked small and pale in the big four-poster she’d shared with her husband for over forty years. A half-drunk glass of water, an empty tea cup and several bottles of pills sat next to a box of tissues, her Bible and her rosary. On the night table, too, was an ashtray with several cigarette butts and a half-empty pack of Salems, the brand Maureen had given up when she’d quit smoking over twenty years earlier.
Shannon’s heart dropped through the floor. Never had she seen her mother like this, so utterly devastated, not even while at her own husband’s funeral.
Maureen’s eyelids were at half-mast and her red hair, always such a source of pride with her, was mussed, unkempt.
“Hi, Mom.” Shannon walked to the bed, stepped around a wastebasket filled with crumpled tissues, sat on the edge of the mattress and took her mother’s hand in her own. “How are you doing?”
Her mother didn’t respond and Shannon’s heart broke.
“I know it’s hard.”
Still nothing.
“Mom?”
Maureen’s eyes turned toward her, but they were unfocused and rimmed with red. A bit of a smile played at the corners of lips devoid of color. “Shannon,” she whispered, her frail-looking fingers clutching hers in a death grip. “Oliver. Sweet, sweet Oliver.”
“I know, Mom, I know.”
“Why?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know. It’s senseless.”
Tears bled from the corners of Maureen’s eyes. “He’s in God’s hands now,” she said and blindly reached for her cigarettes with her free hand.
“Mom, please, you shouldn’t smoke in bed…or smoke anywhere. It won’t help.”
Her mother’s hand fell to her side, lying atop a floral duvet cover, it appeared ridiculously thin. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, her voice thick.
“Of course it does.”
“I’m just so tired,” she said.
“You should rest,” Shannon suggested, then pressed on. She had to know the truth. Even though her mother was grieving, in pain, and groggy from the sedatives. “But…Can you tell me about Dad?”
“Your father?” One eye opened and her pupil, half-dilated, seemed to sharpen.
Shannon took in a deep breath. Her fingers tightened slightly over her mother’s frail hand. “Was he the Stealth Torcher?”
“The what?” She was slipping away again, her eyelids obviously heavy.
“The arsonist?” Shannon waited, but her mother had drifted off. “Mom, why were we named what we are? Why are we…?”