Page 40 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Why are you letting me read this now?” she said. “I thought it’s supposed to be sealed in that beer keg and not be opened for twenty-five years.”

“I lied. It’s not really going into the time capsule,” I said. “It’s the essay for my application to Penn. It lets me show them that I’m a leader in my class, I’m thinking about my future, and I’m passionate about getting into their school.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Admissions people like it when a kid is gung ho. I bet they eat this shit up. What are you doing for the other schools you’re applying to?”

I held up six more copies of the letter—all identical. The only thing I did was change the name of the school I was dying to get into.

“You’re a genius,” Lizzie said. “Any one of these places would be lucky to have you.”

The Saturday morning before Thanksgiving, Lizzie and I were working at the restaurant. Dad was supposed to be there by eleven, but we didn’t hear him roll up until twelve thirty. The two of us walked out into the parking lot to bust his chops about being an hour and a half late.

His bike pulled in, and he took off his helmet. Right behind him came Mom’s Mustang, sparkling clean, top down, Connie Gilchrist behind the wheel with her scarf, her kerchief, and her oversized sunglasses, looking like a poor man’s Audrey Hepburn inRoman Holiday.

“Dad! That’s Mom’s car,” I said.

“Connie’s Volvo is totally shot. The guys at the shop told her it would be cheaper to buy a good used car than to pay to have a twelve-year-old Volvo welded together.”

“So you sold her Mom’s Mustang?”

“No. I lent it to her till she can buy something on her own.”

“It’s been a week since she totaled her old one. How long does it take?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but cars cost money. Her husband may have sold yachts to rich people, but he wasn’t any good with his own finances. He left her with a lot more debt than assets. I told her she could use the Mustang till she gets back on her feet.”

“I thought one of us was going to get it.”

“A teenage girl doesn’t need a flashy car. It’s an asshole magnet. Right now, you and Lizzie are sharing the Acura. When the time comes that you need two cars, I’ll find a good, solid, age-appropriate used one. Now drop the subject. She’s coming.”

Connie had parked the convertible and was walking toward us, smiling and waving. She gave me a hug, then Lizzie, then grabbed my father by the hand, and they walked through the kitchen door of the restaurant together.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “First Mom’s earrings, and now her Mustang?”

“I think we’ve been over this before,” Lizzie said. “Mom’s not using them.”

“That’s not the point. The point is those things all belong to us.”

“No, Maggie, the point is that live women wear dead women’s earrings, they drive dead women’s cars, and they shack up with dead women’s husbands. Deal with it.” She walked through the kitchen door, leaving me standing there alone in the parking lot.

I lowered myself to the ground and buried my head in my hands. Nothing made sense. Connie Gilchrist was slowly destroying our family. Not only was she ransacking my mother’s treasures; she was driving a wedge between me and my sister.

Genghis Connie.

TWENTY-FOUR

Thanksgiving is the biggest day of the year at McCormick’s. We serve a five-course, prix fixe, good old-fashioned traditional American Turkey Day dinner, but Grandpa Mike and Dad love to shake things up by offering some of their signature Irish classics, like colcannon instead of green bean casserole, or Bailey’s Irish Cream mudslide cake in addition to pumpkin pie.

There are three seatings—noon, two thirty, and five o’clock—and we are always booked solid at least a month in advance. Then at seven thirty, when the last of our customers waddles out in a food coma, we lock the front door, and about a hundred of us—cooks, waitresses, bartenders, busboys, dishwashers, and their families—have our own Thanksgiving feast.

Johnny Rollo couldn’t believe it. “You’re feeding all these people for free?” he said.

“They work hard all year. This is one of the things my mother and father do to...”

Out of nowhere, the wave of sadness flooded over me, and my voice caught. I tried to fight it. “It’s what they do to show their...” Again the words stuck in my throat, and this time tears spilled onto my cheeks.

“I get it,” Johnny said, putting his arm around me and walking me to a quiet corner of the room. “You miss your mom. It’s okay. Cry it out.”

I pressed my face to his chest and sobbed into the soft warm fabric of the sweater I had just given him so he’d feel dressed for the occasion.

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