Read Online All the Way Home by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
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and her sister used to wage over clothes, record albums, books.
She used to sneak into Carleen’s room to borrow things, and would promptly put them back in perfect condition, yet, somehow, Carleen always knew. Sometimes, she would let Rory slide, only later making a catty comment like “I hope you enjoyed wearing my jean jacket last weekend.” But most of the time, Carleen would throw a fit.
As if she never borrowed my black velvet headband or my one perfect pink frost lipstick that didn’t clash with my hair .
Rory realizes that she’s thinking like a fifteen-year-old again. That, in her mind, Carleen will be forever seventeen.
We never got the chance to get past all that sibling rivalry stuff, she thinks with a pang of loss. We never got the chance to grow past it, to become friends .
She glances over her shoulder and sees her mother just sitting at the table, her hands cupped around the half-empty mug of tea in front of her, a faraway expression in her eyes.
“I thought I’d take a ride over to Saratoga Springs one of these days,” Rory says, after more uncomfortable silence.
There’s no reply.
“Would you like to come with me, Mom? We could go to lunch at Hattie’s Chicken Shack, and maybe do some shopping. There are some nice stores on Broadway and I’d like to get—”
“I can’t.”
That’s all Maura says, in a clipped tone. Just I can’t . No reason. No excuse.
Why can’t you? Rory wants to ask. But she doesn’t dare. She knows the reason. Which reminds her . . .
“So, Mom,” she says conversationally, “what’s up with Sister Theodosia these days?”
Her mother blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Is she still in Buffalo? What church was she at? Wasn’t it Our Lady of . . . something-or-other?”
“No. No, it was St. Lucretia’s.”
“Is she still there?”
Her mother nods.
“Do you see her often?”
“Not often.”
When was the last time? And does she realize you’ve gone crazy?
Rory dips her brush and slaps more paint onto the woodwork; too much. It spatters and starts to run down and she quickly catches the drips with her brush, smoothing the excess paint over the edge of the frame. She concentrates on getting it into the cracks at the corner, making sure there are no bare patches.
“It would be nice to talk to Sister Theodosia after all these years,” she says after a few minutes, when the painting is under control again.
Will her mother know she’s lying? Of course she will. Surely Maura can’t think Rory was actually fond of the dour-faced nun. But then, Carleen was the only one brazen enough to vocalize her dislike for Sister Theodosia.
“Mom?”
Rory turns to see that the chair at the table is vacant; even the mug of tea is gone.
She hears footsteps slowly ascending the creaky hall stairs.
With a sigh, she dips the brush into the paint again.
“N o, Ozzie, on the paper. On the paper! ” Michelle grabs her son’s chubby hand, which is dripping with red goo, just as it’s about to come down on the top of the picnic table. She guides it to the shiny white paper, already covered in smears of green and blue.
“That’s right, sweetie,” she says, watching him spread streaks of red over the page. “See? Isn’t finger painting fun?”
“Fun,” agrees Ozzie. “More paint.”
She catches his hand before he can tip over the shallow foil dish of red paint, and helps him coat his fingers with more.
With a sigh, she watches him go to work again, an expression of pure bliss on his chubby features. After a moment, she grabs a blank sheet of paper for herself and dabs her forefinger into the red paint.
“Mommy paint, too?” Ozzie asks, delighted.
“Sure, why not?” She drags her finger over the page, creating intricate swirls of red.
Gee, haven’t you come a long way? she asks herself sardonically, thinking about the long-ago summer she spent in Paris, seated before an easel on the Seine. It was ten years ago this year, she realizes.
She used to sneak into Carleen’s room to borrow things, and would promptly put them back in perfect condition, yet, somehow, Carleen always knew. Sometimes, she would let Rory slide, only later making a catty comment like “I hope you enjoyed wearing my jean jacket last weekend.” But most of the time, Carleen would throw a fit.
As if she never borrowed my black velvet headband or my one perfect pink frost lipstick that didn’t clash with my hair .
Rory realizes that she’s thinking like a fifteen-year-old again. That, in her mind, Carleen will be forever seventeen.
We never got the chance to get past all that sibling rivalry stuff, she thinks with a pang of loss. We never got the chance to grow past it, to become friends .
She glances over her shoulder and sees her mother just sitting at the table, her hands cupped around the half-empty mug of tea in front of her, a faraway expression in her eyes.
“I thought I’d take a ride over to Saratoga Springs one of these days,” Rory says, after more uncomfortable silence.
There’s no reply.
“Would you like to come with me, Mom? We could go to lunch at Hattie’s Chicken Shack, and maybe do some shopping. There are some nice stores on Broadway and I’d like to get—”
“I can’t.”
That’s all Maura says, in a clipped tone. Just I can’t . No reason. No excuse.
Why can’t you? Rory wants to ask. But she doesn’t dare. She knows the reason. Which reminds her . . .
“So, Mom,” she says conversationally, “what’s up with Sister Theodosia these days?”
Her mother blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Is she still in Buffalo? What church was she at? Wasn’t it Our Lady of . . . something-or-other?”
“No. No, it was St. Lucretia’s.”
“Is she still there?”
Her mother nods.
“Do you see her often?”
“Not often.”
When was the last time? And does she realize you’ve gone crazy?
Rory dips her brush and slaps more paint onto the woodwork; too much. It spatters and starts to run down and she quickly catches the drips with her brush, smoothing the excess paint over the edge of the frame. She concentrates on getting it into the cracks at the corner, making sure there are no bare patches.
“It would be nice to talk to Sister Theodosia after all these years,” she says after a few minutes, when the painting is under control again.
Will her mother know she’s lying? Of course she will. Surely Maura can’t think Rory was actually fond of the dour-faced nun. But then, Carleen was the only one brazen enough to vocalize her dislike for Sister Theodosia.
“Mom?”
Rory turns to see that the chair at the table is vacant; even the mug of tea is gone.
She hears footsteps slowly ascending the creaky hall stairs.
With a sigh, she dips the brush into the paint again.
“N o, Ozzie, on the paper. On the paper! ” Michelle grabs her son’s chubby hand, which is dripping with red goo, just as it’s about to come down on the top of the picnic table. She guides it to the shiny white paper, already covered in smears of green and blue.
“That’s right, sweetie,” she says, watching him spread streaks of red over the page. “See? Isn’t finger painting fun?”
“Fun,” agrees Ozzie. “More paint.”
She catches his hand before he can tip over the shallow foil dish of red paint, and helps him coat his fingers with more.
With a sigh, she watches him go to work again, an expression of pure bliss on his chubby features. After a moment, she grabs a blank sheet of paper for herself and dabs her forefinger into the red paint.
“Mommy paint, too?” Ozzie asks, delighted.
“Sure, why not?” She drags her finger over the page, creating intricate swirls of red.
Gee, haven’t you come a long way? she asks herself sardonically, thinking about the long-ago summer she spent in Paris, seated before an easel on the Seine. It was ten years ago this year, she realizes.
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