Addicted to Love

By Kathleen Murray

Debut author Kathleen Murray delivers a compelling, realistic portrait of the confusion and pain generated by an imbedded family system of dysfunction thriving during an American period of upheaval, the 1970s. Filled with rich characters and memorable references to a bygone era, the story is presented from the perspective of the central character Sally Smithfield, who lives in perceived safety of Chicago’s North Shore.
Fighting to survive the after-effects of childhood trauma, Sally Smithfield attempts to escape her closed-off world in the arms of her high school’s football star with disastrous results. The reader first meets the protagonist as a young child struggling to reconcile her Catholic grade school’s teachings of God’s love and forgiveness to the daily turbulence of her home. Sally’s unplanned pregnancy shatters her world even as it divides those she loves; eventually changing all their lives forever. The birth of the baby ignites a cascade of events which culminates in the violent death of her boyfriend. Following her father's conviction for the murder, Sally and her mother flee across the county to build a new life. But their refuge is shattered by the mother’s collapse and the revelation of a final family secret. Sally realizes that she can never truly escape her past. This engaging story of courage and determination follows Sally’s travels from the familiar Chicago northern suburbs across the US to St. Louis, MO and later to Scottsdale, AZ. Thoughtfully written and emotionally complex, Addicted to Love is an intensely moving account concerning family secrets, love, and loss. It appeals to readers who seek a gripping story of forgiveness and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483561165

Kathleen Murray

Kathleen Murray was born in Carlow and educated at Trinity College Dublin. She was first published in The Stinging Fly and since then has published work in The Moth, Dublin Review, Prairie Schooner and various anthologies. In 2007 she was the first Irish winner of the Fish Short Story prize. Her story, Storm Glass, was a finalist for the 2011 Davy Byrne Short story Award. This is her first novel.

Book preview

forever.

Chapter One

Suffocated with the weight of their collective judgment, Sally yearned to leave. She couldn’t bear it any longer. This wasn’t fair, all of them looking at us, looking at me. What exactly gave them the right?

All rise, the Honorable Warren Jeffers presiding. The portly judge emerged from his chambers through a hidden door that seamlessly blended into the wall. His robes whispered a conflicting dialogue of innocent or guilty as he took his place behind the bench.

All eyes focused on the judge atop his perch as he, squinting through a black-rimmed, thick lens eyeglass shield, surveyed the room. He fingered the microphone before him as he cleared his throat and then declared, Please take your seats. We are here for case number 167293, State versus Smithfield. Are all parties present?

We are your honor. Attorneys for each competing side of the case took turns responding.

Is the state ready to present its case against Mr. Smithfield?

We are.

Then call your first witness.

The state wishes to call . . .

The walls leaned in, threatening to lock them in. Sally stifled a scream as she sat in the mildewed courtroom watching her father’s accusers testify. To her right, her mother presented a stiff, immovable posture as she stared straight ahead, empty eyes revealing nothing. Sally couldn’t bring herself to look at her older siblings on her left. Blanketed by guilt, she knew she had orchestrated the preceding events that had dragged her family into the shame displayed for all to see this December 1978.

Born in 1961, Sally grew up in Northfield, one of Chicago’s North Shore suburbs. It was a town of two-lane streets lined with custom suburban homes on generous land plots, which supported majestic oak, maple, and ash trees straining in tandem as they formed a multilayered canopy protecting the whole of the enclave from the rest of the world. Every weekday morning the mass exodus occurred with a precision usually only associated with the military. Men dressed in identical business suits poured out of stately homes marching together, driven by a singular ambitious purpose. Many swarmed onto the trains bound for the city, replacing the black women on board, domestic workers who poured off the locomotive with grim acceptance, as the white male executives hurried to claim the vacated seats. Once seated, the men snapped open morning papers as if under the guidance of an unseen conductor. No one looked up or spoke until the train arrived in Chicago. The remaining and more successful breadwinners frequently chose, instead, another temporary respite before their official work day began: they made isolated commutes into downtown more tolerable in lavish, daily rides in their Lincoln Town Cars, Cadillac DeVilles, or Mercedes–Benz sedans. It troubled few that this daily drive was unremembered upon arrival to their office. Equally as imprisoned as their spouses by society’s prescription of duty and expectation, the women remained behind trapped within their homes.

Richard Smithfield, Sally’s father, avoided the daily exodus as years earlier he had founded his own local plumbing company. He had married Maureen Bailey after the two met while attending college. By the time Sally was born he had taken on a partner and the company, Smithfield Plumbing, boasted ten employees. The company was headquartered off of Willow Road in downtown Northfield. His partner, Bill Redmond, was Sally’s father’s first cousin and about the same age, in his early forties. A confirmed bachelor, he was the type of person everyone liked. Bill had charisma. He commanded any room he entered. With no family of his own, he lingered at the Smithfield house often. He laughed easily and loved to talk sports with his nephews and often stopped in for lunch.

Sally was the youngest of four children in what could be called the epitome of a perfectly balanced family with two boys sandwiched between an older and a younger sister. The girls reflected their father’s easygoing nature and had his thin frame and dimples. The boys more resembled their mother, inheriting her perfectionism, curly brown hair, and stocky build. All possessed their mother’s brown eyes except Sally who owned deep blue eyes tempered by small brown flecks. Lily, the oldest, was ten years Sally’s senior. Pretty, smart, and popular, she represented an older sister that was difficult to follow. Next in line was John, six years older. He typified the sports star and charming son. Robert, at just three years older than Sally, embodied the handsome rebel who regularly challenged authority—with mixed results. In Sally’s case, her parents assumed she would persist in achieving good grades and staying out of trouble with the predictability of the daily rising sun. As far as her family was concerned, she was much like a shadow, a steady presence felt, rather than experienced.

The Smithfield house on Avon Street sat within a block of well-manicured lawns. Mother managed the house, shopped for the family, and fulfilled standard suburban social obligations, including participating in the school’s parent group, book club, and bridge get-togethers. Sally’s siblings embraced expected extracurricular activities such as piano for Lily and after-school sports for her brothers.

Sally’s grade school days were spent at St. Catherine’s Catholic grade school in Northfield where most of the children of the parish attended kindergarten through eighth grade. The local children nicknamed the school St. Cats. The school, which sat approximately one hundred yards from the church, was a two-story, brick building with large windows assigned to each classroom.

First grade arrived and Sally loved having a real desk, actual textbooks, and traditional subjects to study. She felt very grown-up. One day a new girl arrived. A wrinkled white shirttail hung outside her blue uniform skirt until the teacher, Mrs. Mooney, made her tuck it in. Sally was shocked that this girl wore sneakers. She was asked to wear appropriate footwear of either Mary Janes or penny loafers by the following day. Sally didn’t know whether to like or fear her.

It was recess. Sally waited patiently in line for her turn on the wooden teeter-totter. The new kid was supposed to get off so Sally could go next. In a blatant disregard for proper playground etiquette, she refused, forcing Sally to wait for an additional three minutes until the child at the opposite end dismounted. Sally secured the seat opposite the new girl.

"You’re rude. It was supposed to be my turn," Sally complained.

M.Y.O.B.! retorted the new girl, thinking, Who is this girl? She should mind her own business!

You M.Y.O.B.

Oh, shut up.

I’m gonna tell Mrs. Mooney what you said.

So?

It’s not fair. You’re supposed to get off!

OK, make me.

Fine.

The competition was on. Sally did her best to shake the stubborn rival off her post as she forced the teeter-totter up and down at a rapid pace. Nothing rattled her committed opponent. Hoping to shake the stubborn adversary, Sally threw her legs down to stop the ride before it hit the ground. No luck. This girl was experienced. Finally, just before the recess bell rang, Sally remembered a trick of Robert’s. Hey, watch out for the ball! she shouted.

The unsuspecting new kid swung her head left just as the teeter-totter was going up on her side. On the opposite end, Sally threw her legs up and out to the right side. She leaped and landed standing. The other end of the teeter-totter crashed to the ground. Off the girl popped, falling onto the tan bark and scratching her leg. It bled without acknowledgment as her sole reaction was contained within a hostile glare thrown at Sally. The bell rang and the children all ran to line up.

As they entered the classroom, Mrs. Mooney immediately noticed the blood streaming down the girl’s leg and staining her white knee sock. What happened? she asked.

Nothing, said the girl.

Well, you’ll have to go to the nurse’s office.

Sally made her fall off the teeter-totter, Audrey whined. She was the class tattletale.

Is that true? Mrs. Mooney regarded Sally with surprise.

Um, well . . . maybe sorta . . . I mean she was hogging the teeter-totter and not taking turns. Sally complained.

Well, you two will have to miss recess the rest of the week and stay inside with me. Now, shake hands and properly introduce yourselves.

Hi, I’m Sally. She stuck out a limp hand as she rolled her eyes and tapped her foot.

Hi, I’m Camille, the new girl responded as she proffered her own hand while studying the chalkboard.

That was how Sally met Camille. By the end of the week, they were laughing together and sharing secrets.

Hey, ya wanna know something? Camille asked Sally.

What?

Well, dog, d-o-g, is God spelled backwards.

Hey, I didn’t know that! What’s that mean?

Well, maybe they’re like an angel or something here to sorta protect us. I’m not sure, but I’m sure it’s a good thing.

Yeah, it must be, confirmed Sally. Still, I wish my mom would let us get one.

How come she won’t? Like everyone’s got a dog. What if you tell her about the God thing?

No, it won’t make any difference. She says it’s too much work. I told her I’d help, but she doesn’t believe me. There was no negotiation with Mother.

Wow, that’s too bad. Well, you can play with Bandit at our house any time you wanna.

Thanks, Sally answered. The offer clarified that Camille was her best friend.

Sally’s brother Robert labeled them a fearsome twosome on the playground. One day in particular their classmate Michael was running around at recess, grabbing at girls’ skirts, and lifting them up. Smart girls wore shorts underneath their outfits. Camille and Sally spotted him across the playground and pretended to ignore him.

Hey, I’ve got a joke for ya! exclaimed Camille.

Yeah, what? Sally answered.

Look up, Camille ordered.

Sally jerked her head up in compliance.

Look down.

Again, Sally followed Camille’s command.

Look at your thumb.

Sally raised her thumb and studied it.

Gee, you’re dumb. Camille laughed.

Hey, that’s pretty good. Sally chortled. I can’t wait to try it out on Robert.

Watch out! Camille pointed to the right as Michael descended upon them. They pivoted as he arrived and shoved him to the ground.

Shit . . . ca . . . go! Michael squealed as he fell. His exclamation was not uncommon to his peers at recess. The children were not allowed to swear, so they had developed their own code. If someone started to say shit, it was modified so it became Chi-ca-go, or close to it. An inadvertent God became the song God Bless America. Hell was amended to H-e-double-hockey-stick.

You psychos! You broke my watch! It cost seven dollars! Sure enough, the face of Michael’s Timex watch was cracked.

You’re such a spaz. It’s your own fault! declared Camille.

Oh yeah, well, I’m gonna tell on you!

Tattletale, go to jail, don’t forget your underwear!

Michael ran over to Mrs. Mooney who had playground duty that day. They broke my watch! He pointed an accusatory finger toward Camille and Sally as he proffered the arm with the damaged timepiece.

He pulled up the skirts of all the girls, Sally said in their defense. Mrs. Mooney studied her. Everyone knew of Michael’s playground antics.

I’m sorry about your watch Michael, but maybe you’ll learn from this to leave the girls alone.

As Michael stumped off, the girls sang:

Boys are made of greasy, grimy, gopher guts,

Mutilated monkey meat,

Dirty little birdy’s feet,

French-fried eyeballs in a pint of blood,

I forgot my spoon, yuck!

We grabbed hands and skipped in a circle chanting as spun:

Make friends, make friends,

Never ever break friends.

If you do, we’ll take your shoes,

Then you won’t be able to.

Chapter Two

Sally was delighted to discover that Camille lived just around the corner and was the oldest of three children. Camille’s two brothers were four and two years younger than she was. Sally thought it was weird to have little brothers, but she found that when she visited Camille’s house, it was fun to boss them around. The pair walked together to St. Cats every day. Sally kept and cherished the insert Camille authored and added one summer to Sally’s eighth birthday card:

The ABC’s of Friendship!

A friend . . .

(A)ccepts you as you are

(B)elieves what you say

(C)ares about you

(D)oesn’t call you names

(E)njoys your company

(F)orgives your mistakes . . .

Early in her third grade year, Sally returned from school to find over half of her possessions gone. The emptiness of her bedroom’s shelves rendered a forlorn welcome. In mere hours, treasures imbued with cherished memories of childhood had disappeared. Nancy Nurse, Chatty Cathy, Mr. Ed the puppet, and Vacuform had vanished. Worst of all, Barbie and all of her clothes had also been removed. No trace remained of her valued friends. Sally ran down the hall yelling, Where’s my stuff? What happened to my stuff?

Lily popped out of her room. She was leaving for college in two days. It’s gone stupid. Where do ya think it is?

But why? I didn’t do anything wrong.

Mom and I decided that ya didn’t need that junk anymore, so we just got rid of it.

"But I did need it, ya don’t understand, Lily. You never even liked dolls."

Just shutup, will ya? I don’t have time for this.

No, you shutup!

Look, Mom told me all about ya today.

What, what do ya mean? Sally asked, confused by her sister’s remark.

Oh come on, like you know.

No, what?

She told me about your scheming, your manipulation. You even have Dad under your thumb. But not me—I see through you.

I don’t get it. Like what are you even talking about?

You know. Why don’t ya do yourself a favor and grow up and act your age for once? Lily said. She turned and resumed sorting the clothes into summer and winter piles.

Sally, leave your sister alone and let her pack. Sally’s mother appeared in the hallway from the kitchen.

But Mom, why’d you guys take my stuff? I mean, like nobody even asked me. Sally approached her mother.

Don’t be ridiculous. We just got rid of a few things. Lily helped me decide. Leave this alone and go do your homework.

No, but it’s mine! You can’t do this! Sally stomped her foot.

Oh yes, I can! Mother grabbed Sally’s arm, yanking Sally towards the bedroom. This is enough from you. If you’re not going to do homework, go clean up your room! She spun her daughter around as she released her hold. Mother marched out of Sally’s bedroom. Sally collapsed on her bed and cried.

That’s it. No more being a kid, Sally thought as she regarded her arm’s fresh bruises, distinct marks left from the vise-like grip of each of her mother’s fingers. She stared at her ceiling. Minutes passed. There must be something left, somewhere. Sally leaped from her bed and searched her room. In less than fifteen minutes, she found it, stuffed in the back of her pajama drawer, Barbie! Her red hair bounced in its ponytail and brilliant blue eyes still sparkled. A red leotard shrouded the doll. Her pointed feet were shoeless. But she hadn’t been taken. They didn’t find you. Sally continued her search with renewed vigor. Her efforts once again bore fruit when in the back corner of her closet Sally discovered another good friend, her troll. He was naked, his orange hair askew. His brown eyes and pug nose sat atop a generous smile. Sally could make him an outfit. She had done it many times before by cutting a shard of fabric to the correct size, adding armholes, and tying the robe closed with ribbon. Sally vowed to keep them safe as she hid each one in a knee sock and stuffed the pair at the back of her sock drawer.

As she returned to her bed, Sally reminded herself that tomorrow was her weekly horseback riding lesson. Sally had begun riding lessons only weeks before and as she hoped, the following day’s lesson provided a welcome relief. Impatient for school to end, Sally thought of nothing but horses throughout her day. After school, Sally dashed home and changed into her English riding attire. Indifferent to the weather, she walked the four blocks to the bus stop. The bus took the riders to a stunning, green-roofed, pristine white stable in Lake Forest with a large indoor riding arena where the still air was permeated by the pungent smell of horse sweat and hay. There were twenty different lesson horses and Sally had already attached herself to one twenty-two-year-old black mare, Missy. In the arena she felt the power of the mare’s pulse below her as she heard the animal breathe in and out in sync with its pounding hooves. Soon Sally’s breathing adopted an identical rhythm. They were a team. Sally trusted horses—they never had a hidden agenda.

By now Sally’s class had received both the Sacraments of Reconciliation and Communion, which allowed them to miss class for Mass held on various holy days and regular confession. Missing class was a welcome treat. Once per month, the class trekked across the playground to the church for confession. Upon arrival, the students were grouped into three identical lines, waiting their turns to enter the confessional. The boys chuckled and squirmed as each demonstrated near professional abilities to generate all types of noises such as farts and burps. Creating a believable list of sins to share with the priest occupied the remainder of the group. It wasn’t that the children didn’t sin; they just didn’t like to keep track of them. After praying and reviewing their sins with the priest in the confessional, they recited their penance prayers kneeling along the communion railing. Next, they joined classmates in the front pews of the church until everyone’s confession was heard.

On this particular day, Sally settled in line behind Camille. Sally was satisfied with her sin list: lied five times, disobeyed five times, and teased someone five times. Next, she reviewed the initial lines of the Act of Contrition prayer, which is said in the confessional. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend Thee my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love.

The class inferred that the biggest sinner for that month was the person who spent the most amount of time in confession. Not surprisingly, one of the boys usually won this contest. Lost focus due to the distracting antics of neighboring peers often skewed the elapsed time reported. Sally preferred to be near the front, ahead of as many of the boys as possible because everyone knew that they committed the most sins. Today, however, she and Camille were trapped in the midst of the students.

Camille entered the confessional. The green light above her door flickered from green to red indicating that she was kneeling before the screen, which hid the priest in the neighboring room. Minutes dragged by. Sally watched as three other students in each of the two alternate lines entered and left their confessionals. Sally began to worry. What had Camille done? She was not only the biggest sinner of the month but she was now the biggest sinner of all time! The teacher pretended to ignore the passing time as she moved Sally to a different line. One-by-one classmates looked towards Sally, expecting her to know. Sally shrugged. This must be really bad. Sally dug her toe of her shoe into the church carpet. Maybe I won’t get to play with her anymore! Maybe Camille will get kicked out of school.

Sally entered the neighboring confessional. In a matter of moments she was forgiven and blessed by the priest. She exited, prayed her penance, and returned to the pew, which held the rest of the class. Still no Camille!

After twenty-five minutes, Camille emerged from the opposite confessional. She ignored her penance prayers as she skated across the carpet to the pew and glided in beside Sally.

Like, I’m just so embarrassed! said Camille, her cheeks inflamed.

Why? What happened? answered Sally.

Father Doug, that’s what! It’s just so creepy. I mean like he knew who I was!

What? How do ya know that?

Cuz when we got done with confession, he just started to talk to me.

Are you kidding? Ew, so like, he knows it was you that did all those sins?

Yeah. She turned and looked at me with squinted eyes and pursed lips. "Hey, there weren’t that many sins."

"Well, you were in there a really long time."

I know, but it was mostly him talking.

What’d he talk about?

My family mostly.

Oh no, that’s just so gross.

I know. Like, he kept talking about golf and my dad.

That’s so weird. Golf is just so stupid. I mean like why would anyone want to talk about it?

"I know. It’s bad enough that he comes to our house for dinner and golfs with Dad. But why do I have to talk about it with him in confession?"

Got me. Grownups do strange stuff.

Said he had a message for Dad. I’m supposed to ask about their golfing together this weekend. I’m never going to confession again. As she spoke, Camille shrank into the church pew.

Camille turned away from Sally and fell onto the kneeler. Her lips moved as she silently recited her prayers of penance: three Our Fathers and two Hail Marys. Then, in a single motion, Camille leaned back and slid up into the pew seat. Sally smiled as her friend rejoined her. Thank you God for not making Camille a big sinner.

Chapter Three

Fifth grade heralded the arrival of hormones for many of the girls to the consternation of the nuns. The girls became obsessed with the boys. It was all the nuns could do to stop any combined girl/boy parties from occurring. Sally previously was OK with the boys since she knew a little bit about football and baseball. The rules were changing. The most popular two girls were Cindy and Karen, the first to develop breasts and buy bras. As fifth grade drew to a close, the girls in Sally’s class took to reaching for the back of one another’s shirts and then grabbed for a bra strap across a girl’s back. One deft pull and an answering snap certified who was cool. It was a nearly daily check of who had their first bra.

Finally one night, following dinner, after her brothers and father dispersed, Sally approached her mother in the kitchen. Mom . . . um, I mean, Sally hesitated. You know, Mom? Her tongue felt as if it were twisted into a French knot.

Well, what is it? Without looking up, her mother wiped away a strand of her hair with the back of her hand which clutched a well-worn, sudsy, steel wool pad as she leaned forward over the sink to renew her attack on the broiler pan.

Well, ah, you know Mom . . .

No, I don’t know. Just tell me, then I will.

OK then, like I think I might sorta need a bra. Like, I mean everyone else has one.

Her mother surrendered to the crusty pan for a moment as she lifted her face up to regard her daughter. Really. I mean Sally. I just don’t see it. It’d be a little ridiculous, now wouldn’t it? After all, it’s obvious you don’t need one. Mom shook her head as she returned to her task. She waved the steel wool at Sally and added, You can’t do things just because you think everyone else is; you know that.

Defeated, Sally left the room.

The next week, the fifth grade lay teacher, Miss Campbell, gave all the girls their first class in sex education. The girls assembled in the classroom while the boys attended gym class. Miss Campbell passed out a booklet called, It’s Time You Knew. The girls giggled as they paged through the twenty-page pamphlet. It featured a picture of a girl playing guitar and swimming while informing the girls that they could still go on dates even if it was that time of the month. Sally wondered, If the nuns don’t think we should date, how useful is this advice? After a few minutes, Miss Campbell began talking to them about their special time. Sally’s classmates, Cindy and Karen whispered to others that they already knew all about it. Sally searched the room