One Year (38 page)

P
at followed his father through the living room and into the kitchen, Mercy trotting between them. The two men had been at the hospital all morning. Pat had spent only a moment or two with his mother and then had waited for his father in the cafeteria, reading the paper on his iPhone and drinking weak, flavorless coffee. Anything was better than standing tongue-tied by his mother's bed, wrestling with unsettling emotions.

Mercy was now bouncing around the kitchen. In search of a treat, Pat supposed. The mutt never stopped eating, asking to eat, and probably dreaming of eating. Well, that sort of fixation was common in shelter animals. God only knew what sort of awful life Mercy had endured before someone had brought her to safety and then Paddy Fitzgibbon had adopted her.

“Let me make you some lunch, Dad,” Pat said, opening a cupboard and scanning the contents.

“Don't go to the trouble, Pat. I'm not hungry.”

Pat turned to his father. “You have to eat, Dad. Mom will kill one of us if you lose weight. Look, here's a can of tomato soup. How about soup and a grilled cheese sandwich? And there's beer in the fridge. I brought it in. I won't tell Mom if you won't.”

Paddy managed a smile. “No, I won't say a word.”

His father took a seat at the table, Mercy ever attentive by his side, while Pat went about preparing lunch. And while he toasted bread and heated soup he thought back to all the times his father had quietly—though sometimes ineffectually—attempted to make up for his mother's frequent punishments and chronic lack of affection. Pat had always been very grateful for his father's love.

Now he brought the soup and sandwiches to the table. “Eat it while it's hot, Dad,” he said.

His father picked up his spoon but put it down again. “I know,” he said, “that your mother has been hard on you, Pat. But she's always loved you. I hope you believe that.”

Pat choked on his soup. It was the last thing he had expected to hear from his father. The content of their conversations had always strictly remained in the realm of weather, sports, and local politics. Never, ever did they discuss family matters or, God forbid, feelings. Pat fervently wished that Megan would come through the kitchen door right then and rescue them both.

“It's just that something happened to her when William died,” his father went on, stirring his soup into a small maelstrom. “And then you coming along so soon after . . . Well, she hadn't finished mourning, I suppose.”

“Eat some soup, Dad,” Pat repeated, “before it gets cold.”

Dutifully, his father took a few spoonfuls of soup and a bite of his sandwich. And then he looked at his son earnestly. “I hope that you can forgive her, Pat. She is, after all, your mother. But I know that's between the two of you.”

Pat stared at his plate and considered his father's words.
Could
he forgive his mother her arrogance and her constant criticism?
Could
he forgive her for all the times he had gone to her for comfort and she had turned him away?
Could
he forgive her for the rudeness and disdain with which she had treated his wife? And
could
he forgive her for loving William more than she was ever able to love him?

Automatically, Pat took another bite of his sandwich, but it had no taste for him now. He was half-tempted to give the sandwich to Mercy, but the thought of his mother finding out—no matter that she was in a hospital bed miles away—stopped him. And at that moment he realized that though he might never come to like his mother, he did love her. Though the love wasn't as strong as what he felt for his father or his wife or his children, still, it
was
love. And maybe you owed forgiveness to the ones you loved, even the difficult ones.

Pat cleared his throat. “I promise I'll always do the right thing by her, Dad.”

His father smiled at him. “I know you will.”

They ate their lunch and drank their beer in silence for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts, while Mercy continued to stare fixedly at Paddy's bowl and plate. “If it weren't wrong to be envious of another person's good fortune,” Paddy said suddenly, urgently, “I would be envious of you, Pat. You have all that I lost.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Pat asked, troubled by his father's tone of voice. “What have you lost? What do I have that you don't?”

“You have to understand that I mean no disrespect to your mother.”

“Of course not. But I still don't understand.”

“I do love your mother, Pat. And I know that she loves me. But things haven't been right in such a long time. . . .” Paddy looked down at his half-empty bowl of soup. “It was different,” he said, “when your mother learned she was going to have William. It was—better. We were so very happy. And then when William died, well, it near killed her. My dear wife. She became . . . She grew distant from me, from everyone. She couldn't risk the intimacy, you see. She was so very afraid that she wouldn't survive another great loss so she hardened her heart.”

Pat was at a loss for words. His mother, afraid? And his father . . . He had never known how much of his mother's difficult nature had registered with his father; he had never even considered that his father might be unhappy or lonely in his marriage. He felt immensely sorry for the man's suffering. And he felt ashamed of his own lack of sympathy and understanding.

Paddy began to cry quietly. Mercy whimpered and rested her head on his lap. “Good girl,” Paddy told her through his tears. “Good girl.”

Pat waited patiently for his father to compose himself. Eventually, Paddy looked back up at his son. “I did try to make you feel loved. I did try.”

Pat reached across the table and put his hand on his father's. “I know,” he said earnestly. “You did the best you could do, Dad. That's all anyone can ask of a person.”

“I wish it could have been more.”

Pat smiled. “You know what they say, Dad. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”

Paddy smiled back. “You sound just like your mother.”

“God forbid!”

“Now, there you go again.”

Mercy lifted her head from Paddy's lap and barked.

“Eat your lunch, Dad,” Pat said. “And try to keep that dog off the table.”

A
lexis, Grace, and Megan took the elevator down to the hospital's cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Mary Bernadette had fallen asleep and there was no point in the three of them staring at her. That was what Grace had said.

PJ's aunt was tall and straight shouldered like her mother. Her hair was brown with a few streaks of gray and her eyes were the exact color as her brother's. On the fourth finger of her left hand she wore a simple silver band. There was a silver chain around her neck, and Alexis guessed a cross was suspended from it, but whatever it was rested inside Grace's shirt.

“How are you getting along at Fitzgibbon Landscaping?” Grace asked her when they had found seats at a table by a window. “Yikes, this coffee is awful.”

“Fine. It's not a very difficult job.”

“Easy for you to say. I don't do numbers. What else are you up to?”

“Not much,” Alexis admitted. “Well, nothing, really. I was . . . I was doing some work for the OWHA but . . .” Alexis felt her cheeks flame. “But that didn't work out.”

Grace grinned. “Too strong a dose of the matriarch, eh?”

“You two have such full lives,” she blurted. “I mean . . . you have your own lives, apart from . . . apart from Oliver's Well.”

“You have to learn to stand up to Mary Bernadette, Alexis,” her mother-in-law said. “Unfortunately, nobody else can do it for you. Not even my son, though—God forgive me for saying this—he might be of more help to you than he has been.”

Alexis was stunned. Could it be that PJ's mother and aunt had sympathy for her plight?

“Mary Bernadette is not a goddess, Alexis,” Grace added, “no matter how formidable she might appear. She's just a flawed human being like the rest of us.”

“I guess I know that, but still. When she gives you that look . . .”

Megan laughed. “Ah, the look! She really should have been an actress. I wonder how much of her persona is conscious.”

“Good question,” Grace said. “I think that my mother is a fascinating example of a person who's highly conscious of the effects she wants to achieve and at the same time largely unknown to her self. Unaware of her real motives. Flailing. In short, desperately staying afloat.”

“Maybe that will change,” Alexis said. “A crisis can change people for the better. Or so it's said.”

Grace looked up at the cafeteria ceiling, as if, Alexis thought, the answer lay in the insulated tiles. “Maybe,” she said after a time, looking back at the other two women. “But my mother is one stubborn lady. It might take a miracle to budge her. And I haven't witnessed many of those lately.”

“We're Catholic,” Alexis pointed out. “We're supposed to believe in miracles.”

“Do you?” Grace asked. “Do you really believe in miracles?”

“I don't know,” Alexis admitted.

“The problem with my mother,” Grace said now, “is that she has no sense of humor. Now, I don't know if she ever did or if it died when William died. Either way, it would do her good to laugh more. To see the ridiculous or absurd side of things once in a while. To learn to make fun of her own foibles. But again, I think we're talking a miracle.”

Megan shook her head. “I can't imagine Mary Bernadette giggling. Can you? Think about it. Laughing modestly, sure. But not giggling.”

“No snorting milk through her nose, either.”

Alexis laughed. “No thigh slapping.”

“Everything with her is so—so deadly serious.” Grace sighed. “I feel bad for her. I don't think she ever has a moment's peace.”

“How much does anyone know about her childhood?” Alexis asked. “Was it a particularly difficult one?”

“I don't think so,” Grace said. “But she's never talked much about growing up in Ireland.”

Megan nodded. “We do know that she had a brother named William and he died young, in his twenties I think. And both of her parents died before they were sixty. They never saw their grandchildren. No one had the money for travel back then.”

“The last of her line?” Grace wondered. “I never heard about cousins, either. There was Aunt Catherine, and I know she didn't have any daughters, but honestly I have no idea if she had any children at all. If she did have sons, they might still be in Ireland.”

“So,” Alexis said, “apart from us, Mary Bernadette is alone in the world.”

The three Fitzgibbon women were silent for a moment.

“You know,” Grace said suddenly. “I think my mother is terribly afraid to be happy. I think she believes that being happy only tempts fate. Or, in her case, the punishing wrath of God.
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; my sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy
. That's from a poem Ben Jonson wrote after his son died of the plague. Same notion. Punishment for happiness.”

Megan sighed. “I wonder if she was always this way. I wonder if her—let's say, her seriousness—came about only after she lost her child.”

“I think it's quite possible. But I'm pretty sure we'll never know. I'm certainly not going to ask Dad a question like that!”

“It would upset him,” Alexis said. “He's such a nice man, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Megan said. “He is.”

“I suppose I'd better get back to Mom,” Grace said suddenly, rising from her seat. She smiled at Alexis. “I'm glad we had this time together.”

Alexis smiled back. “Me too,” she said. “And thanks, the both of you.”

“I
had a very nice conversation with your mother and your aunt Grace this afternoon. They're such intelligent women. Funny, too,” said Alexis.

Alexis and PJ were at the cottage that evening. Alexis was feeling more optimistic than she had felt in a very long time. Grace and Megan had given her hope that someday she might succeed in forging a meaningful and independent life while still being a member of the Fitzgibbon family. Assuming she was still married to PJ.

“Good.”

“What do you want for dinner?” Alexis asked, opening the fridge and looking inside. “We've got ground turkey. I could make burgers or meatballs.”

“Either one, you pick. Alexis? I need to talk to you about something.”

Alexis closed the fridge and turned around. The pained look she saw on her husband's face startled her. “Is it your grandmother ?” she asked hurriedly. “Did something happen since I was at the hospital?”

“Grandmother is fine. It's just . . .”

“What, PJ?” Alexis walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. Her heart was beating madly. She was suddenly very, very afraid of losing him.

“It's just that there's a rumor around town that you and Morgan Shelby have been spending time together. People have seen you going into his gallery.”

Alexis took her hand away from her husband and willed herself not to blush furiously.
A guilty conscience needs no accuser,
she thought. How true that was! “Yes,” she said carefully, “I
was
spending some time with him. I—I was thinking about maybe learning the gallery business. He gave me some advice. But then I decided it wasn't what I wanted to do after all.”

“That's all?” PJ asked, his tone pathetically hopeful.

“Yes, PJ,” Alexis said. “I swear. That's all.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were thinking about working in a gallery?”

“It seemed that you had so much on your mind already.”

“You mean you thought I wouldn't listen to you. You thought I'd say you were just complaining about your job with Fitzgibbon Landscaping.”

Alexis nodded. “Yes.”

PJ shook his head. “You were probably right.”

“Who . . . Who are these people who saw me with Morgan Shelby?” she asked.

PJ looked embarrassed. “The wife of one of the guys at work told him she'd heard rumors,” he said. “He came to me. He thought I should know.”

Alexis felt slightly sick. She could honestly say that nothing had happened, but the thought of people talking as if it had badly frightened her. She remembered something PJ had said, back when Wynston Meadows had started making trouble for the family. The very rumor of wrongdoing could taint even the most innocent of people. And just how innocent
was
she, Alexis wondered. Not as innocent as she should be.

PJ now took her right hand and held it in both of his. “The thought of you falling in love with another man . . . I don't think I could stand it, Ali.”

“I'm not in love with another man, PJ.”

“I believe you. And I've thought about what you asked, and I
do
want us to see a counselor. As long as we don't tell my grandmother. She's always distrusted therapy of any kind and given her health . . . Well, I don't want to make things worse for her.”

And,
Alexis thought,
you're still thinking of Mary Bernadette before me. And when I was miserable all by myself you ignored me, but when you thought there might be another man, you listened. Oh, PJ, we both have some serious growing up to do.

“Thank you,” she said. “It might not be easy, you know.”

“I know.”

“Things will have to change, PJ, or we'll find ourselves right back in the same place a year from now. But with a baby in tow.”

PJ's eyes were blurred with tears. “I'm afraid, Ali. I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of what my parents would think of me if I were stupid enough to let you go, if I gave up on our marriage. I'm afraid that no matter how hard I try I'll fail.”

“But you still love me?” she asked.

“With all my heart,” he said.

“Then we'll be okay,” she said, willing herself to believe it. “We
have
to be, for our baby's sake.”

“Do you remember our wedding?” PJ asked.

Alexis smiled and gently wiped the tears from her husband's cheek. “Like it was yesterday.”

“You for me, and I for thee and for none else.”

The words they had spoken before God, family, and friends. “Your face to mine and your head turned away from all others,” Alexis responded.

“I vow.”

“I vow.”

And then PJ took her in his arms and they stood together, quietly, for a long time.