Kiss Her Goodbye by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

around—
    Stop it!
    Kathleen swallows hard, shoving the macabre thought from her mind as she stares at the grave, toying with the green tissue paper wrapped around the stems of the crimson roses in her hand.
    She always brings red roses. She has ever since she was a little girl. Back then, the parish priest Father Joseph was the one who brought her to the cemetery. Drew never did; not once. Aunt Maggie said he couldn’t face it.
    They came once a month, Father Joseph to visit his mother’s stone, and Kathleen to visit hers. They would stop at the florist shop just outside the gates, and Kathleen would hand over her carefully saved allowance. Back then, she could only afford one rose. Now she brings dozens.
    At the time, she was surprised that Father Joseph took her under his wing the way he did. Most of the kids at Saint Brigid’s were afraid of the no-nonsense priest, who rarely smiled and was known for his fierce, thundering sermons.
    But looking back, remembering the short span of dates on his mother’s tombstone, Kathleen has gained insight. Like her, Father Joseph lost his mother when he was a child. Her predicament must have touched his heart.
    Mollie Gallagher.
    Loving Wife, Devoted Mother.
    With a sob, Kathleen tosses the bouquet aside and sinks to her knees amidst the musty scattering of fallen leaves, tracing with her fingertips the letters etched into the gray slab, mentally adding her own.
    Protective Grandmother.
    The cemetery is deserted on this glorious autumn afternoon. In the distance, she can hear the hum of the groundskeeper’s lawn mower, and tires crunching along a far-off stretch of gravel. But here, there is only the occasional chirp of a bird overhead, and Kathleen’s sniffles as she fumbles in her pocket for a tissue.
    Finding one, she wipes tears that are quickly replaced with a fresh flood, wipes again and again until her tissue is soggy and her eyes are hot; her heart heavy with the grim weight of guilt-tainted memory.
    If only she could turn back time . . .
    No. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing would change; she’d only have to relive every awful moment that led her here.
    Father Joseph used to tell her that all things happened for a reason—both blessings and tragedies. He didn’t just tell her—he preached it from the pulpit, in a booming voice of conviction that terrified Kathleen when she was a little girl reeling from the loss of her mother, and mesmerized her when she was older. Pounding the lectern for emphasis, fiery passion igniting his words, Father Joseph promised that even the most crippling tragedies could open the door to blessings, if you had faith. If you believed in miracles.
    Kathleen chose to believe in miracles.
    Now, she is blessed.
    Blessed. Cursed.
    Cursed to forever live with the almost unbearable burden of a secret so dark it threatens to smother her at times like this.
    Breathe. That’s it. Breathe. Deep breaths, in and out. You’re okay. Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know unless you tell them . . . and you’ll never tell.
    Gradually, Kathleen becomes aware of the scent of damp earth and dying leaves wrapping around her like a shroud, just as it did on that long ago day. It was autumn then, too. Autumn, but the sky hung low and misty, the ground marshy from a recent rain.
    Today, the sky is blue; the sun shines brightly.
    Today, Kathleen is blessed.
    A shrill ringing suddenly pierces the air.
    Her cell phone.
    Standing on shaky legs, she pulls the phone from her pocket and flips it open. As she does she checks the tiny digital clock in one corner of the screen, wondering if time has escaped her as it tends to do whenever she comes here. Is she late picking up the boys? Is a disgruntled scout leader or harried mom calling with an impatient reminder?
    Noting the time, Kathleen feels momentarily reassured, until she remembers Jen. Jen, babysitting. Jen, lying. Jen . . . in trouble?
    She answers with a wary,