CHAPTER 8

Tamsin had already made herself comfortable on the blow-up mattress they had brought with them from Boston. Tamsin was one of those people who could curl up in the most uncomfortable, hard plastic chair or the most saggy, unforgiving couch and be asleep within minutes.

“Hi, Mom,” she said.

“Hey.” Gincy dropped down onto the narrow bed on which she had slept for most of the first seventeen years of her life. And yes, the bed—along with the dresser with a few missing knobs and the small desk with matching chair—was still here. It always had been, in spite of what she had told her good friends Clare and Danielle all those years ago—that her mother had cleared out the room the moment her daughter had left for college, dumped all of her possessions in the basement where they were left to deteriorate, and installed her sewing machine and other personal belongings in their place.

Why had she lied? Who knew? She had enjoyed being perverse. She had needed to exaggerate the unpleasantness of her home life for some odd, childish reason she no longer wanted to identify. Gincy sighed and tossed her socks into the corner where she had spent her childhood tossing dirty clothes. Well, the sewing machine was now here in the room; that much was true. Though if the thick layer of dust covering it was any indication, it hadn’t been used in some time.

“Mom?” Tamsin said from under her favorite fleece blanket. It was bright pink. She had brought one of her favorite teddy bears with her, too. This one was the color of caramel and named, appropriately enough, Theodore.

“Yes, Tamsin.”

“Did you really see the Rolling Stones?”

“Yeah,” she said. “What made you ask that?”

“I found a ticket stub in the drawer of the desk.”

“I must have left it there on one of my quick visits home during college. What else did you find while you were snooping?”

“Not much. Nothing interesting, anyway.”

Gincy laughed. “Thanks.”

“Uncle Tommy didn’t have a coat,” Tamsin said. “Who doesn’t wear a coat in December? Unless you live in Florida or something.”

Gincy lay back on the mattress. It was hard and flat. It must never have been replaced after she had moved out. The sheets she had found balled up in the hall closet were familiar, too. The fitted sheet had a tear. “He said it was dirty.”

“Oh. But isn’t it better to wear a dirty coat than no coat at all?”

“One would think.”

“Mom, why is Uncle Tommy the way he is? Was he always so . . .”

“So much of a loser?” Gincy said.

“I don’t like using that word about family,” Tamsin replied stoutly. “I was going to say, was he always so lost. I mean, at Grandpa’s funeral he looked pretty awful, seriously upset, but now it’s like, I don’t know, now it’s like he’s a ghost. Do you know what I mean? It’s like part of him isn’t here anymore.”

“I do know what you mean,” Gincy said. “And I’m sorry I used the word loser. What I should have said was that, yes, Tommy was always unsuccessful. He was a poor student. Frankly, I think he might have a learning disability, but as far as I know it was never identified and certainly not addressed. And he never took to sports. He never had much of an interest in anything, really. He never had a hobby, and he never joined a club at school. After a while he was too busy drinking and smoking dope to get involved.”

Tamsin sighed. “That’s so sad.”

Yes, Gincy thought. It was sad. She felt an unfamiliar stab of pity for her brother. The fact was she used to think that Tommy was fairly bright and just lazy and self-concerned, and she had despised him for it. But over time she had come to realize—if slowly and with resistance—that Tommy wasn’t bright at all and that laziness and self-interest had nothing to do with his inability to live a productive adult life. Not much, anyway. At least the mean streak he had exhibited early on seemed to have run itself out. And as far as Gincy knew, he hadn’t been arrested since his early twenties. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t committing crimes punishable by law; it might only mean that he was smarter now about not getting caught. Whatever the case, neither she nor her mother was being asked for bail money, and that was something for which to be grateful.

“I know I’ve got a nasty, suspicious mind,” she said then, “but I can’t help but wonder if Grandma’s depressed mood is really just a bid for attention. She does have a flair for the dramatic, and she can be passive-aggressive, believe me.”

Tamsin shook her head. “No way. You know how she loves to eat. Do you really think she’d starve herself just to get our attention? And you know how fanatical she’s always been about cleaning. Do you really think she’d stop dusting and vacuuming just so we’d notice? Mom, this is not about you or me or anyone else. It’s about Grandma being really, genuinely sad. It’s about her missing Grandpa.”

“I know,” Gincy said. “You’re right. Like I said, I can have a nasty, suspicious mind.”

“Mom. Don’t exaggerate.”

I just wish it weren’t happening this way, Gincy thought, staring up at the ceiling. It was peeling in spots, she noted. It should be repaired and painted.

But the ceiling—as long as it wasn’t leaking—wasn’t a priority at the moment. Her mother—and yes, her brother, too—were the priorities. Seeing her mother depressed was a challenge against her long-held belief that Ellen Gannon was basically heartless and untouched by stronger emotions. It made her uncomfortable, this challenge. It made her feel deeply unsure. If she had been so wrong about her mother—and about her brother—what else had she misread or misinterpreted? Who else had she ignored or unintentionally hurt?

Gincy sighed. Rick was wonderfully wise when it came to emotional matters, but at that moment she wished she could ask her father for advice about how to handle her mother and brother going forward. She wished she could ask him for the truth about his relationship with her mother. For the truth about Tommy.

She wished she could ask him for the truth about herself and why she felt that her mother seemed not to like her all that much.

“Good night, Mom,” Tamsin said, with a yawn.

“Good night, Tamsin.”

Within moments Tamsin was sleeping the sleep of the just, Theodore tucked under her arm.

But it was a long time before Gincy could find any rest.