My ma’s special trip turned out to be unnecessary. Eugene arranged for three meals a day to be delivered to the house for me, Kat, and my mother—all of them kosher. Apparently, Kat wasn’t supposed to do any cooking or housework, according to the rules of the shiva thing.
I wasn’t 100 percent certain what made something kosher, but as far as I could tell it involved special preparation and absolutely no bacon.
During these seven days, whenever Ma was home, Kat was babied within an inch of her life. My mother insisted she relax, read a book, sleep, watch a movie, knit, nap some more. Kat didn’t check in at work; again, she wasn’t allowed.
My mother also gave Kat sneak attack hugs and kisses every time they passed in the hall, or on the stairs, or in the kitchen. At first, I thought about pulling Ma to the side and asking her to back off, give Kat some space. After the second day, I dismissed this idea when I spotted Kat’s face as my mom placed a kiss on her cheek and held her in a long embrace.
Kat looked peaceful.
During the day, she seemed relaxed in a way that reignited that familiar tightness in my chest. It ached, and I wished—hoped—one day she’d look that peaceful all the time. Or at least most of the time.
After that, I let my ma do her thing. Clearly, she was the expert.
On the third day, after Kat had gone to bed, I found my ma in the kitchen. She’d just come home from her shift at the hospital and I asked after my sisters. And, for that matter, whether my aunts and uncles, or any of my cousins were going to stop by. The house was eerily quiet, and this house had never been quiet. Growing up, and whenever I’d visited since moving to Chicago, someone was always stopping in, coming or going or staying for dinner. Or hiding from the rest of the family, usually down the cellar where she kept the beer.
“I told them we’re having a Jewish shiva, someone’s staying here who was in deep mourning, and to stay away. I don’t want to overwhelm Kathleen.”
Ah. That made sense. I was just impressed everyone had actually listened. Especially Seamus the shitbag.
“We’ll have a family dinner once the seven days are over,” she replied tartly, giving me a pointed stare. “So don’t you go asking any of those dumbasses up the corner to come over.”
I tilted my head to the side, glaring at my mother. “Ma. Come on. I’m not Seamus. I’m not like that anymore. And I wouldn’t do that to Kat.”
“You better not.” Her tone was so salty, it made me thirsty. “I want her to feel comfortable here, I want her to think of this home as her home.” My mom sighed, glancing at the ceiling. “I just wish there were something more I could do. Maybe I could take a few days off next week.”
I reached across the kitchen counter and covered her hand with mine. “You’ve done a lot. I know she wasn’t expecting it, but I’m sure she appreciates it.”
She huffed a little laugh. “Yeah, I know. She thanks me every time she sees me, like I forgot she just said thank you five minutes ago.” Looking at me, her eyes narrowed, turned sharp. “You did good, Daniel. Your wife is an angel.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“And she loves you.”
Startled, I blinked at my mother, the comment hitting me like a punch to the gut. But I was careful to clear my face of any expression. Instead, taking a drink of my beer and changing the subject to one I knew would distract her.
“Please tell me you’re not inviting Seamus over for the dinner.”
She pulled her hand from mine and glowered. “He’s your brother, Daniel.”
And so we argued—as we did—about my good-for-nothing older brother and all the reasons I needed to forgive him, and all the reasons she needed to write his dumbass off.
Shortly after, I placed a kiss on her cheek and went to bed, the shitty feeling still in my chest, persistent and painful.
She loves you.
No.
It was too early.
Kat wasn’t ready.
She needed time.
First, we needed to wait for the stench of gratitude to wear off.
Second, I still needed to prove myself.
One day I would earn a place in her heart.
One day.
But not yet.
For now, I’d just be the asshole sleeping next to her and waking up before she opened her eyes, because every night since we’d arrived had been agony.
I’d been a witness to Kat falling asleep three times—at the hospital in Chicago, once in my apartment when I’d come back from Australia, and once here, the first night we’d arrived in Boston.
The night in my apartment and the first night here had started out similarly. She’d lain on her side, her legs slightly bent. She’d toss and turn a little, flip from one side to the other. Both times it had been torture, having to feel her toss and turn next to me as she tried to fall asleep, the incidental touches and brushes of her skin against mine.