She rolled into the driveway. She needed to bump up her mood. She had to be strong. Her time to grieve and question would be much later. Erin was the main thing now.
“Hope you’re in the mood for garlic and more garlic, Er. It smells especially good tonight.” Kristy turned the corner from the front hallway into the great room. Erin was nowhere to be found.
“Erin? Where are you, my little ‘Eating Disorder’?” she called as she put the bags on the counter.
Nothing.
“Erin?” She listened harder. Then much louder walking into the first floor bedroom, “Erin!”
“Down here,” Erin’s muffled voice replied from under the carpet. “Come down to the basement.”
“Are you o.k?” Kristy yelled, slight panic in her voice as she quickly walked to the basement door.
“Yes—just come down here!” exasperated Erin yelled back, more clear now waiting at the bottom of the basement steps with a strange woman.
“Kristy, meet Lydia Knox. She’s from mom’s church and –“ Erin looked to Lydia for the cue.
“Good Grief.” Lydia filled in, walking up the stairs hand extended to Kristy.
Lydia Knox was dressed in form fitting Lucky Jeans, a simple white man-tailored shirt un-tucked, and a brown thigh-length leather jacket that cut in at her waist. Her features were perfect, almost aquiline. Blue eyes against shoulder-length straight black hair, cut to sweep in long layers. Standing two steps below Kristy, she was eye-to-eye with her.
“Nice to meet you,” Kristy shook Lydia’s hand and nodded. “We haven’t even notified the church yet—“
“Oh I know—Nelson called the Pastor—Rocky—just as a courtesy, and they sent me to offer condolences and lend a hand in any way I can.”
“Lydia is a grief counselor.”
“Oh—I see.” But really, Kristy didn’t. It felt almost intrusive. Liz was barely gone and the church has sent a stranger to do what close friends and family are supposed to do? It bugged her. She gave Lydia a cool stare.
“Lydia offered to go through the basement stuff and categorize it for me. I was just showing her where mom stored all the Christmas ornaments. I wanted to go through that personally.” Erin took hold of the railing and began corralling the group back upstairs.
“Kristy, you must be a great friend, coming to help Erin through this, and getting her—wait let me guess—“ Lydia sniffed hard. “Zio’s?”
“Man! You’ve got some nose, Lydia!” Erin chuckled.
“One of my favorites! They always put the right amount of garlic into everything!” Lydia said as she crested the top step behind Erin.
“Well, I am not feeling very hungry, so I can share my Ravioli with you.”
Kristy flattened inside. I need her to eat all of that ravioli. “Absolutely not, Erin. Lydia will love my lasagna more. There is much more of it to go around. You need to eat.”
“Kristy is right, Erin. I understand you probably feel nauseous or satiated, it’s what our body does when we are terribly stressed, but you have to eat through it.” She turned to Kristy, “Kristy, thanks for the offer, but I ate right before I came and I couldn’t eat a bite more.”
Good. I want my entire lasagna anyway.
“Alright. But if you change your mind—“
“At least have some wine, Lydia.” Erin reached for the open bottle next to the refrigerator, and pulled a fresh glass from the rack under the cabinet.
“That I will do.”
They settled into the wooden chairs that Erin had sat in since she was a child. The simple round oak wooden table was tucked into the bay window area that overlooked the backyard. Kristy watched the banter, unable to listen fully. She was distracted.
I don’t know why I am so bugged by her. She seems all right. But—I don’t know … I guess I wanted to be the one to walk Erin though this. Maybe I am just feeling jealous. Is that it? I hope not. It’ll be a replay of fourth grade and Barbara Goodsen. I had to stand by for the first half of the school year while she ran the gamut of attention and disregard. Erin finally saw who she was when I showed her that note I intercepted between Barbara and Lilly. Unkind things about Liz and the fact that Erin had no father.
They’d laughed about it in the years since, but it was painful at the time.
“ … Kristy?”
Kristy shook out of it. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening-what was the question?”
“Your story with Erin—how did you meet?” Lydia, perfectly poised, asked, before taking another sip of wine.
It was hours later when Lydia finally emerged from the basement and left. Kristy busied herself in the guest room, sorting and wondering. If Erin was comforted by Lydia, who was she to interfere? But the uneasiness persisted, despite her logic.
10
Stefan Eberhardt walked briskly from the University of Tulsa law library to his BMW. It was late. He’d stayed too long, studying for the moot court competition. He’d planned to drop by his mother’s apartment again, to see if she’d ever shown up.
Truth was, Stefan was very worried. His mother, Rosa, was a buyer for Miss Jackson’s, an exclusive Tulsa department store. She traveled extensively, selecting merchandise for the store’s eclectic inventory. Stefan didn’t think too much of it when he didn’t hear from her for weeks at a time. This time, though, she’d been gone for more than two months, calling him only sporadically. In her last phone call, she seemed —- well, troubled. Rosa was always busy, always on the run, and always harried. But it seemed a little more than that. He had rehearsed that phone call in his mind a dozen times.
“Stef? It’s your mother,” she had said. Her voice sounded thin, brittle and not relaxed. Stefan could almost see her brushing her black hair away from a face lined with tension. He could hear faint music and voices in the background, with the occasional rattle of dishes. She was in a bar or maybe a restaurant.
“Hi, mom,” he had said. “Where are you?”
“I’m on my way home,” she said, not really answering the question. “I have one more errand. I will fill you in when I get there tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he had said, trying to keep her on the line, searching for a clue. “I’ve been checking on your apartment, and everything’s okay.”
“Thanks, Stef. I’ll be back in touch soon.” She sounded sad, almost defeated. Or was he imagining it?
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine, Stef. I’ll talk to you later.” She started to hang up, and then paused. “Stef …”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I love you, son. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom. Hope you feel the same after you see my mid-term grades,” he had quipped.
And that was the end of the conversation. There was something not quite right about it. Or