Dad told us to keep going without him, to flag someone down from the church instead. Mrs. Norton was piling the leftovers of her mini rhubarb pies into the backseat of her car when she saw us. She threw out some excuse about Mr. Norton before handing us each a cold dessert and speeding off as fast as she could in a snowstorm. I chucked my serving into the icy street, but Pam downed hers and even managed a couple of hits at my sleeve before we reached the empty parking lot. So, we trudged back over the banks and by the time we reached the pub, I wasn’t sure whether or not my limbs were still attached to me. Even though the stockings gave my skin a tanned hue I knew that once I took them off, my legs would look like Mommy’s blueberry pie—they’d have to slice through them, too, if it came to that. But I’d have taken frostbite any day over that look Dad would give us. It wasn’t anger or frustration. He didn’t yell at us to go wait outside or anything. It was more like he had forgotten about us, just for a wondrous, whiskey-soaked moment, and we had the unfortunate job of bringing him back to reality. The bartender nudged him and pointed to the two minors who stood warily by the jukebox. He simply glanced back at us, downed the last of his drink, and grabbed his coat. He didn’t say a word on the drive back, but we never went back to that church again. As if Catholicism had been to blame.
Just because we were suddenly Irish Protestants didn’t mean that much changed. Mom wouldn’t let us into the living room when Dad was home, and it’s not like there was an incentive. You could try and make your way to the record player, but the smell of rubber from Dad’s clothes would force you out before Dean Martin could even get to the chorus. He would drink, and Mom would cook, and Pam would talk to Dennis for hours upon (no) end. I found my place beside Tommy, his hair as red as the marinara sauce his Sicilian grandmother would cook when I came over. It only takes nine months spent in an unfamiliar room with other unwed girls your age to make you realize how much you miss meals other than bread and oatmeal. Tommy’s parents never told him, and I never got the chance. Mom hadn’t visited me once. Dad was never sober enough to.
They visited Lisa, though. It wasn’t much of a surprise who her parents were, judging by the locks that matched the shade of her cheeks, a violent rouge beneath a bounty of freckles. Then I met John, fifteen years my senior. He had a spare room and part-time job as a conman. What more could I have asked for? Two more followed before the divorce—Lenny first, then Lorraine a couple years later. John was the more talkative one. He’d let them babble on and on about nothing for all five years he was actually there. I’d sit on the sun porch, reading stories about how wronged women let hell rain down on those who had brought her torment for all those years. Once Lorraine grew up, she’d invite her friends over just to have me read Carrie to them. It became a weekly thing once Lisa and Lennie left the house. I didn’t know where they were, and I didn’t care much.
David loved me, at least for a couple of years. But he would sit and watch TV and not say a word to me until I brought out a TV dinner for him. I would go downtown alone on weekends, stock my bathroom cabinets full of Maybelline and CoverGirl before David even realized the money was gone. Then, like Mom and Dad a couple years before, David was gone, too. They rotted themselves from the inside out.
I took a trip up to Salem with a friend after David passed. Bought a deck of tarot cards from a lady in a black cloak, tempting me closer with promises of unmasking the shadowy mystique of fate, with a senior discount to boot. I flipped the cards over and over, admiring the intricate art more than the secrets they supposedly held.
My grandkids caught sight of the cards years later, practically begging for a reading. I sat them down at the dining room table, warning them not to touch the cabinet of glassware behind them. I made sure Lorraine was in another room, then shuffled the deck, pulling out the top card and placing it before my granddaughter.
“Does that mean I’m gonna die?” she asked, looking down at the painted skeletal face.
“Not unless you help set the table later,” I said.
Lorraine didn’t find it as funny. She hinted towards my jewelry collection as a better, less mortally haunting alternative for familial bonding. I conceded and led the girls to my room, though we later snuck into the kitchen and stole a couple spoonful’s of vanilla ice cream before dinner while Lorraine was setting the table.
They all left as soon as Lorraine had finished her plate, leaving the cleanup for me. I found the death card hidden under one of the placemats, staring back up at me. I didn’t know if Lorraine had placed it there for me to find, or if it was David’s ghost trying to play one last trick on me. Maybe my ancestors had united despite the bounds of differing religions to send me a message. Regardless, I flipped it back over and set it on top of the pile, ready to draw for the next grandchild that dared to gaze towards it.
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