The Last Hour (19 page)

Four days later, I woke up in my parents townhouse in San Francisco to the sound of a door slamming closed with a loud crash, followed by the thump thump thump of combat boots moving up the stairs to the fourth floor.

I let out a small groan and rolled over, my eyes opening. It was Christmas morning, and I had hoped for a reprieve from the twins’ fighting. But it sounded like things were going to be business as usual. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I thought maybe I’d talk to them, early, and see if they might call a truce. Things were tense enough around here.

For just a second my mind wandered back to the strange, disturbing note I’d found on my Facebook page the night before. Nikki, who I’d friended in an odd moment of charity, posted, “I know what you did to earn your doctorate. Don’t think it won’t catch up with you.” Underneath the text was a photo of Bill and me in an embrace, his lips on my cheek.
 

I recoiled when I saw the message on my phone, and as soon as I got to my computer, I deleted it and blocked her. For two years I’d put up with her childish and sometimes outlandish accusations. I was done dealing with Nikki.

It was going to be an unusually quiet Christmas in the Thompson home. Julia and her husband had been on a grueling South Asian tour, with the last show scheduled Christmas Eve in Melbourne. They’d elected to take several days off before flying to New York. That in itself wasn’t very unusual, because they’d alternated Christmases for the last decade between San Francisco and Boston. What was unusual was that neither Alexandra nor Andrea were coming home either. Alexandra was getting married to Dylan in a few months and had never met his mother, so they both flew to Atlanta to spend Christmas there, a decision which likely sent my mother into an anxiety-driven fit. And Andrea? Well ... she hadn’t been home in a couple of years. Which was heartbreaking, because I loved her, and because I had no idea why she left. Alexandra or the twins might—they were much closer with her. But if so, no one was talking.

As a result, this year, instead of a house packed with people, it was going to be very quiet. My parents, the twins, and me.

On second thought, with the twins at war, it might not be quiet at all.

My phone chirped on the bed beside me. I smiled and reached for it. Had to be Ray ... I couldn’t think of anyone else who would call me this early on Christmas morning.
 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I replied.

He let out a low chuckle. “How was your Christmas Eve?” he asked.
 

“Tense,” I replied. “We went to midnight mass, which wasn’t bad, but before that, Jessica and Sarah were fighting all night.” I didn’t mention Nikki’s posting on my Facebook page. It had been so disturbing, I don’t think I’d processed it yet.

“Again? That’s gotta be tiring.”

“You have no idea.” I paused for a few seconds. “I wish I was with you.”

“God, babe, I do too. Only a couple more days.”

“So what have you been up to?”

He made a disgusted sound. “Mostly dodging questions from my dad about why the FBI and Army have been questioning me.”

I closed my eyes. “Has it been bad?”

He sighed. “I can’t say it’s been great. They’ve shown up several times. It’s ... it’s like reliving it all. I want to chew my arm off, to be honest. And my mom and dad are hurt I won’t talk about it, but ... for God’s sake, you can only say so much, and to so many people.”

We were silent for a few quiet moments. Then I asked, “Ray, what do you think’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know, babe. I suspect they’ll file charges. And I’ll have to testify. It’s going to be ugly, whatever happens. I just wish ... I just wish it was all over. I want to be with you.”

“Well, you can. Have you heard from Georgetown yet? Or American University?”

“Nah, I think it’s going to be a while.”

“Come to Washington anyway.”

He chuckled. “I just might. Until I’m back in school, I feel kind of shiftless. I’m not suited for lounging around all day.”

“I’m serious, Ray. I know we haven’t known each other that long. But ... I know what I want.”

His voice dropped about an octave, and he whispered, “Can you spell it out for me?”

“How about I do that in person when I get to New York?”

“Deal.”

I stretched and sighed. “I should probably go face the morning now. I’m afraid of what kind of disaster I’m going to find when I leave my room. Sarah and Jessica woke me up slamming doors and stomping up stairs.”

He chuckled. “I always thought twins were like ... totally in sync. Telepathic.”

“I don’t know any other twins, but these two are definitely
not
in sync.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I love you.”

“Love you, Doctor Babe.”

We hung up with a laugh, and I started getting myself sorted out and ready for the morning. Somehow I had the feeling that it was going to be a long, stressful day.

Showered and mostly recovered from a night of restless sleep, I made my way down the stairs. In the living room, quiet Christmas music was playing. The tree was lit, but no one was in sight. It was only seven o’clock, and given the behavior of the twins of late, we wouldn’t be seeing them for a little while. I could smell coffee brewing, so I made my way through the dining room and into the kitchen.

Mother was at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her. Her face was downcast, and unusually for my mother, her hair was in disarray.
 

“Good morning,” I said as I walked straight to the coffee pot. “Merry Christmas.”

Mother looked up at me as I was pouring my coffee, and I was horrified to see that her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d been sitting here crying?

“Merry Christmas,” she said. Her voice was rough.

I finished making my coffee, then slipped into the seat across from her. “What’s wrong?”

She burst out, “Was I that terrible a mother to you girls? I only wanted you to have a good life.”

I took a breath. I really didn’t know how to answer that. Yes, she loved us. Yes, she did everything she could to give us a decent life. But she’d also been ... spiteful. Angry. Driven by anxiety and fears that had nothing to with us, but colored our childhood in ways I couldn’t even begin to describe.
 

I looked at the table and said, “You’ve mellowed out a lot over the years.” Which wasn’t the answer she was looking for, and just seemed to distress her a lot more.

“Then why won’t Julia come home for Christmas? Or Alexandra?”

“Mother, you know Crank had a concert last night. And ... Alexandra’s getting married in a few months. Sometimes ... we do get older.”

Why, I wondered, did she only mention Julia and Alexandra? Andrea wasn’t here either, but no mention of that. What had I missed? I stared at her and thought about it, but I wasn’t coming up with any answers. Finally, I just asked, “Mother, why don’t you ask about Andrea?”

She closed her eyes and answered with a final tone that was chilling. “Andrea doesn’t want to come home.”

“Why not?” I whispered.

She shook her head. “Don’t pry into this, Carrie. I know you’ve always watched out for your sisters, you’ve always tried to fix things for them. And I’m grateful for that ... especially ... during those times when I couldn’t be a good mother. You were a mother to them.”
 

She leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “I mean it, Carrie. Don’t even think I’m not grateful that my daughters had someone to look out for them. But you don’t want to get into this.”

I sat there, and I could feel my face flush with heat. I knew that she’d gone through something. The anxiety meds, the anti-depressants ... all of them made it clear that my mother was dealing with some heavy emotional issues. But I had no idea what they were. And I certainly didn’t know that she’d recognized the role I’d somehow taken in our family, as protector to my sisters. It made me feel ... embarrassed. Like I’d been caught out in a lie, sneaking behind her back. Which of course, I had. I’d covered for my sisters to the point where it became second nature. I’d taken their punishments as my own. I’d been their confidante and sounding board and helper, even after I left home.
 

Now she just looked tired. Red-rimmed eyes, and somehow, in the ten years since I’d left home, deep bags had formed under them, along with deepening wrinkles on either side of her mouth. Mother was a severe woman. Unhappy. But I’d never thought of her as
old.

“I don’t see how I can leave that alone,” I said.

“Your sister will be happier if you do. There’s nothing but grief there.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. “Fine,” I said. “For now, anyway. But don’t think I’ll leave it alone forever.”

She released my hands. “I suppose I have to accept that. For now, anyway.”

It felt like she was mocking me.

I took a long drink from my coffee and said, “Where’s Dad?”

“He fled to his office when the twins started fighting.”

I closed my eyes. Typical, I suppose. It’s not that my father was a coward, but avoiding confrontation? That was his style. “Why don’t I see if I can drag the girls downstairs peacefully, and you work on Dad? It
is
Christmas morning.”

“Yes. I agree,” she said, as I stood up. I wasn’t actually ready to go yet. I wanted two or three more cups of coffee before even considering dealing with my sisters. But the conversation with Mother had made me so uncomfortable that I needed to get out of there.
 

“Carrie?” she said, as I started to back away from the table.
 

“Yes, Mother?”

“Even though I’ve never been very good at showing it, especially with you older girls ... you do know I love you?”

I felt my mouth twitch to the side, and I didn’t know what to say. I should lie, and say, ‘Of course I know.’ I should tell her that her
episodes
when I was a teen didn’t matter. I should tell her that the hideous way she’d treated Julia didn’t matter. I should try to build a bridge. I wasn’t sure I knew how. I was getting close to thirty years old, and I couldn’t even talk with my mother without lying.

“Of course I know,” I said, with a sinking feeling, the lie stark, sitting in my chest like a wound that would never heal.

I turned away before she could sense the lie and started up the stairs. As I climbed the four flights of stairs to the top floor and Julia’s old room, now Sarah’s, I wondered for the thousandth time how Julia had reconciled herself, even made peace with our mother. Was it like it was with me—just a pretense to keep the peace? We still had two sisters at home ... three, if you counted Andrea, though it seemed unlikely she’d ever live in this house again. Sending our mother into another tailspin of depression wouldn’t do them any good at all.

Finally on the fourth floor, I rapped on Sarah’s door. The door had a hand-lettered sign on it reading “Keep out.”

“What do you want?”

“Why don’t we start with common courtesy?” I replied.

For a second, I thought she was going to ignore me. But after a few moments, I heard what sounded like a wood board slide back, and the door opened. “Come in,” she said.

My mouth dropped open when I walked into the room. For one thing, Sarah had roughly nailed a sliding bar to the doorframe so she could bar the door from inside. Which I couldn’t ever imagine was necessary in our house. My mother might freak out occasionally, but I don’t think my father had ever raised his voice in his life. He was such a stereotypically uptight WASP I don’t think he’d yell if the zombie apocalypse were taking place in his living room.
 

But that was the least of it. This room had been sterile as long as I could remember it. It was, in theory, Julia’s room. But by the time Dad retired and we moved back to his family home in San Francisco, Julia was already in college. She’d never actually lived here, though she’d stayed in the room a few times. Devoid of decoration or personal touches of any kind, it could have been a barely used guest room.
 

Sarah had painted the walls and ceiling black. Posters for bands like Disturbed and Morbid Obesity were on the walls. And in the corner, something I’d never seen: a gleaming, highly polished black guitar. It had mother of pearl inlay on the fret board. Three of the four dials on the face were yellowing with age. The fourth had been replaced with what looked like the round wooden hub from an Erector Set.

Looking closely at the walls, I could just make out dark red lettering against the black. Sarah just stood there watching me as I furrowed my brows and walked to the wall above her bed, scanning the words. It was dim in here, and they were difficult to read, because the only illumination came from a string of Christmas lights hung along the top of one wall.

It was poetry.

I blinked, and turned and looked at her.

“This ... isn’t what I expected.”

She smirked. “What did you expect? Flowers?”

I smiled at her. “I don’t know what I expected. But I like it. It’s ... uniquely you.”

That evoked the biggest smile I’d seen from her since I’d come home.

“You think?” she said.

I nodded. “Can I ask you ... when this started?”

She shrugged. “When I was three?”

I laughed. “If you say so. Why do I have the feeling that Mother and Dad blame Crank for this?”

She rolled her eyes. “Crank is old school. And kind of lame.”

That I didn’t buy. Sarah had been crushing on Crank since she was old enough to notice boys.

“What’s next? Piercings?”

Now she really did smirk, a kind of endearing grin, and she pulled up her shirt to show me the ring that Mother had called “self mutilation.” It wasn’t bad ... understated really, just a small stud in her belly button.

“Nice,” I said. “So, can we talk for a few minutes?”

“Did Mother send you up here?”

“Not for this. This is me talking. Your big sister.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. She looked down at the floor as she said it.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, and I took a seat next to her.