inquired, "didn't you leave it there?"_
_"It goes with the kitchen," he sniffed. "Fifties Americana, Marek."_
True enough. The chrome monstrosity, so popular in the '50s, did fit in well with the red-and-black
asphalt tile on the floor and the white Youngstown cabinets. Even the slightly listing chrome chairs, with
their seats and backs of red vinyl, looked as though they might well have been the missing relatives of the
battered old table.
_"I grew up with furniture like this," he told her. "It's comforting."_
Everything in his home had been comforting to Conor Nolan, she thought with a pang. He'd taken
great pride in the place and although not all that expert at keeping his sink dish-free, he'd been almost
anal about the rest of the house, keeping it dust free and clutter free, polished, mopped, and swept clean.
Everything had a place and everything was always in that place. To have it so was… well, comforting to
Conor.
Getting up wearily from the table, Rhianna decided she liked the red-and-white chrome table very
much. All it needed was a wicker bowl of artificial fruit adorning it to make it look like the table from her
youth.
The bedroom had an odd smell about it and it took her a moment to realize what the odor was; it had
been a long time since she'd experienced that musty smell. When she finally placed it, her brow furrowed
and a slender thread of shock flitted through her. Close on the heels of the shock came disappointment.
The cloying odor of spent semen was very strong and very unacceptable here. She wondered why Joey
and Sonia hadn't noticed it and done something about it.
Her gaze settled on the bed and once more her throat closed with tears.
But this is where he had slept, she chastised the jealousy in her heart. _And this is where he used to lie
when he'd call me late at night_. _This was his analyst's couch, this bed, and I had been his Mother
Confessor_. This was the altar upon which he'd poured out all his troubles. It was his confessional when
he was unable to sleep because of something he'd heard or seen or felt. His sounding board when he was
unable to get some debilitating memory of his childhood out of his head. His psychiatrist when he was
unable to accept the savagery of their job, the uselessness of it at times. Here, his bitterness and anger
and hurt because of something Caitlin had done was expelled. In this room, when worry and confusion
overwhelmed him after coming back from seeing his mother, he could exorcise his demons.
The thought of Maeve Nolan left a bitter taste in Rhianna's mouth and her eyes narrowed with anger.
"She didn't even know me, Rhee," he'd once complained bitterly to her. "Her only son and she doesn't
even know who the hell I am!" His arms had tightened so painfully around Rhianna's waist, she'd
flinched_. _
"It's part of the illness, baby," she'd tried to reassure him. "You know what the doctor's told you."
But Rhianna suspected it had been more than Maeve's illness that had driven her from her son. If the
things Conor had hinted at from his childhood were true, if his perceptions were valid, then his mother
had stopped knowing, or caring, who he was long before the Alzheimer's had claimed her mind.
His mother's slow sinking into a world of her own making, a world that could not and would never
admit him, caused Conor great pain.
Rhianna wondered if Caitlin had tried to tell the old woman her son was listed among the missing.
Letting out a long, grieving breath, she left his bedroom behind, closing the door as gently on the
memories as on her building sorrow.
There were two bedrooms in the bungalow, with a small white and pink ceramic-tiled bathroom
separating them. Conor had turned the large hallway, a space once big enough to house a bulky fuel oil
furnace and which connected the two bedrooms, into a mini-office with a roll top desk, chair and four
drawer steel filing cabinet. After a cursory look at the neatly stacked papers
_"It goes with the kitchen," he sniffed. "Fifties Americana, Marek."_
True enough. The chrome monstrosity, so popular in the '50s, did fit in well with the red-and-black
asphalt tile on the floor and the white Youngstown cabinets. Even the slightly listing chrome chairs, with
their seats and backs of red vinyl, looked as though they might well have been the missing relatives of the
battered old table.
_"I grew up with furniture like this," he told her. "It's comforting."_
Everything in his home had been comforting to Conor Nolan, she thought with a pang. He'd taken
great pride in the place and although not all that expert at keeping his sink dish-free, he'd been almost
anal about the rest of the house, keeping it dust free and clutter free, polished, mopped, and swept clean.
Everything had a place and everything was always in that place. To have it so was… well, comforting to
Conor.
Getting up wearily from the table, Rhianna decided she liked the red-and-white chrome table very
much. All it needed was a wicker bowl of artificial fruit adorning it to make it look like the table from her
youth.
The bedroom had an odd smell about it and it took her a moment to realize what the odor was; it had
been a long time since she'd experienced that musty smell. When she finally placed it, her brow furrowed
and a slender thread of shock flitted through her. Close on the heels of the shock came disappointment.
The cloying odor of spent semen was very strong and very unacceptable here. She wondered why Joey
and Sonia hadn't noticed it and done something about it.
Her gaze settled on the bed and once more her throat closed with tears.
But this is where he had slept, she chastised the jealousy in her heart. _And this is where he used to lie
when he'd call me late at night_. _This was his analyst's couch, this bed, and I had been his Mother
Confessor_. This was the altar upon which he'd poured out all his troubles. It was his confessional when
he was unable to sleep because of something he'd heard or seen or felt. His sounding board when he was
unable to get some debilitating memory of his childhood out of his head. His psychiatrist when he was
unable to accept the savagery of their job, the uselessness of it at times. Here, his bitterness and anger
and hurt because of something Caitlin had done was expelled. In this room, when worry and confusion
overwhelmed him after coming back from seeing his mother, he could exorcise his demons.
The thought of Maeve Nolan left a bitter taste in Rhianna's mouth and her eyes narrowed with anger.
"She didn't even know me, Rhee," he'd once complained bitterly to her. "Her only son and she doesn't
even know who the hell I am!" His arms had tightened so painfully around Rhianna's waist, she'd
flinched_. _
"It's part of the illness, baby," she'd tried to reassure him. "You know what the doctor's told you."
But Rhianna suspected it had been more than Maeve's illness that had driven her from her son. If the
things Conor had hinted at from his childhood were true, if his perceptions were valid, then his mother
had stopped knowing, or caring, who he was long before the Alzheimer's had claimed her mind.
His mother's slow sinking into a world of her own making, a world that could not and would never
admit him, caused Conor great pain.
Rhianna wondered if Caitlin had tried to tell the old woman her son was listed among the missing.
Letting out a long, grieving breath, she left his bedroom behind, closing the door as gently on the
memories as on her building sorrow.
There were two bedrooms in the bungalow, with a small white and pink ceramic-tiled bathroom
separating them. Conor had turned the large hallway, a space once big enough to house a bulky fuel oil
furnace and which connected the two bedrooms, into a mini-office with a roll top desk, chair and four
drawer steel filing cabinet. After a cursory look at the neatly stacked papers
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