The Memory of Us: A Novel (14 page)

“Oh, Kyle. What can I do?”

“I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t think that anything can be done.”

He leaned against the redbrick wall and slid down to a crouch. He ran his fingers through his mop of curls, then covered his face with his hand. I moved to him and placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Let me give it a try.”

He looked up at me with only a whisper of hope. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a nurse, or at least I will be. But I’m not entirely inexperienced. Why don’t we see if he’ll let me in?”

A hesitant smile grew on his face. “I enjoy your friendship too much. I’m not going to lose that by exposing you to a cantankerous old man who hurls things at unwanted guests.”

“I dodged that rake rather deftly, I think.”

He glanced over at it and back to me. “You did now, didn’t you?” He stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers. I touched his arm, and he stood still.

“Kyle, I’m serious. Why don’t you let me see your father? That’s what friends are for.”

I could see the thoughts doing battle in his head until at last he said, “All right. You can go. Once.” He held a finger up as if to drive home the point. “But if he’s inconsiderate to you, that’s it. I’ll not have your pretty little head cracked if he launches something at you.”

“I think my pretty little head can handle it.”

“I think so, too.” He reached out to stroke a strand of hair that lay on my shoulder, holding on to the end thoughtfully before turning away and walking back to work. He called back over his shoulder. “If you’re available tomorrow, I’ll pick you up at nine, just outside your gate.”

“It’s a plan.” To hell with whatever else was on my schedule. I was not going to let Kyle down.

The morning arrived cloudy and overcast, in direct contrast to my feelings, which were soaring at that prospect of seeing Kyle for a second day in a row. I met him at the edge of the estate. Not that it mattered. Father was already off to work, and Mother remained in bed, claiming a migraine. I don’t think she even heard me leave.

He came around to the passenger’s side to open my door. His actions were thoughtful but automatic. His own mood perfectly matched the weather, and I felt guilty for looking forward to spending the day with him under such unfortunate circumstances. I prepared myself for the task ahead, and in no time I was equally pensive.

We barely talked on the way there. It allowed me to pay attention to my surroundings. In all the time I’d spent thinking about Kyle, I had never thought about where he lived. He drove into town, and as we approached the railway station on Ranelagh he pulled over next to some flats and parked. When he’d come around to open my door, I stepped out hesitantly. The buildings were all made of gray concrete, with laundry hanging from lines stretched across the street. Children gathered on the narrow pavement to play with marbles, and I heard shouting coming from an upstairs window. It was so different from Newsham Park, and it made me sad that someone with such a lively spirit lived in such an unfortunate place. One after another, two trains screamed by, rattling my nerves and drowning out every other sound. No wonder he spent so much time working. I would prefer the sanctuary of beautiful gardens, too, even if they weren’t my own.

Pulling a key from his pocket, he opened the front door of the building. The hallway was long and dark. We walked up three flights of steps, Kyle climbing ahead of me, still lost in thought. I supposed he was distracted by the purpose of our visit—which was no doubt true—but when he spoke, his words revealed something else.

With a shrug, he said, “Well, it’s not Westcott Manor, is it?”

Suddenly I understood. Kyle was embarrassed for me to be here. Did he not understand? Did he not realize that my life had been turned inside out since I met him? Did he not see that it didn’t matter to me where he lived?

“It doesn’t need to be.”

He smiled—just a hint, but it was there. Pulling out another key, we arrived at No. 33. He knocked first, then opened the door.

The interior was different from what I had expected. The few windows brought in a surprising amount of light, and bright paintings of green hills adorned the walls.

“My father’s hobby,” he said, answering the question that I didn’t ask. Standing by the nearest window was an easel supporting a half-finished canvas, a layer of dust settling over its tray. “He remembers Ireland that way,” he said when he caught me looking at it. “I’m not supposed to touch it.”

Otherwise, the flat was as neat as a pin. He said, “I cleaned up last night, knowing that you were coming over. We can’t have a lady seeing the squalor that two bachelors can sink into.”

“It’s very cozy,” I said, returning his smile.

“Dadaí!” he called, and then whispered to me that this was an Irish word for “father.”

A cough came from another room, then the squeak of springs as he adjusted himself in the bed. When we entered, I saw an emaciated old man struggle to push himself up on his arms and then rest against a pillow. He placed a ribboned bookmark inside the prayer book that he was holding.

“Dadaí,” Kyle said, “I brought Julianne here, like we talked about.”

“And I told you not to bother with that!” he said gruffly. “I’ll be fit as a fiddle by tomorrow.”

“You are not fit. You are ill. And, since you won’t see a doctor, Julianne generously offered to come and talk to you.”

“I don’t need any help, boy. Take that young thing out of here, and leave me alone!”

“Mr. McCarthy,” I said quietly, inching toward the head of the bed, “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to, but I would really love to visit with you.” I slid into the chair at his bedside, took his hand, and turned upon him the most imploring expression that I could muster.

He flinched at first but then softened at my smile. “Well, since you came all the way out here . . .”

“Kyle,” I said without taking my eyes from his father’s, “why don’t you make us some tea while we get acquainted?”

As though acknowledging that this would go better if I was alone with the elder man, Kyle slipped away and closed the door after him.

“Mr. McCarthy, while it’s true that I’m here to help you get better, don’t think that I’m just doing it to help you. My mother’s rosebushes need work—and don’t go repeating that to Kyle!”

I saw the first glimpse of a smile, which rolled into a slight chuckle. He shifted onto his side and the bedsprings cried out. “He does his best,
cailín
,” he allowed, “but he’s best suited to hauling the peat and trimming the hedges.”

“Yes, so you see my dilemma. If we don’t get you better, our garden will never look the same. I know that she’s been quite happy with your work since you starting coming over.” And with that, the manipulative charm I’d learned from my mother found a good purpose.

Distracting him with what my father would call prattle, I surreptitiously examined him. I held his hand and felt that it was clammy. When I wanted to check his temperature, I pulled a lock of hair from his face, brushing his forehead with my hand and feeling the heat coming from it. He coughed intermittently, covering his mouth with a brittle yellowed handkerchief and quickly stuffing it under the blankets. But I had a chance to notice that the cloth was stained with varying shades of red blotches. Even a novice like myself could easily diagnose his malady.

Kyle knocked gently and returned with three cups of tea in a delicate flower china pattern. I wondered if it had been his mother’s.

He gingerly handed one to me, one to his father, and kept a chipped one for himself. I caught his eye and gave him a slight nod to indicate that I knew what was wrong. We didn’t rush out of the room, though. He pulled up a chair, and the three of us talked while we drank our tea.

When we were finished, I stood up, smoothed out my skirt, and placed my teacup on the chest of drawers.

“Thank you, Mr. McCarthy, for letting me come visit. I plan to tell my mother that you will be by soon to tend to the garden. Don’t forget what I told you!”

He winked at me, enjoying the conspiracy I’d created. “Don’t you worry, darlin’. I will be there as sure as Saint Paddy can quiet a snake.”

Kyle approached to place a kiss on his forehead, but the old man shooed him away. “Oh, go on,” he huffed. “I’m sure you’ve got some work to get to.”

As I stepped back from the bed, Kyle gestured for me to leave the room first, and then closed the door behind us. He put his teacup in the sink, and we sat down at the table in the kitchen. Seeing the distress in my face, he became alarmed.

“It’s not good,” I said. I hung my head, because I couldn’t bear to look at him with this news. “It’s tuberculosis, clear as day. I saw several cases in the hospital. He is very advanced. I’m so sorry, Kyle.”

He sighed. “Yes, that’s what I thought, too. I was just hoping that you would confirm it and I might be able to convince him then to get some help. When I came home that week during the spring, it was pretty bad. He improved a little at first, but his condition has worsened since I came home again. I didn’t know what to do. You don’t know how much it means to me that you came.”

This was going to be hard to say. “Kyle, you must know he doesn’t have much time, and you need to prepare yourself for that. At this stage, even if he allowed a doctor to see him, there is so little that could be done. Maybe nothing.”

A tear rolled down my cheek and then another. The first one was for his father. The second was for Kyle, as I realized that he was about to lose the only family that he had ever known. He lifted his hand and wiped the droplets away from my face with the back of his finger. He stood a head taller than me, and I looked directly at the day-old stubble on his chin. My chest tightened at his nearness.

“Thank you for caring. He certainly warmed to you.”

“Oh, you know, I used all of my feminine wiles on him.” We spoke in careful whispers.

“They can be quite dangerous, I expect.”

“Well, I only bring them out in emergencies.”

We both grinned, a respite from the sadness in the adjacent room. But it overtook us again just as quickly. “I wish that I could bring a priest to anoint him,” he lamented, “but he’ll probably throw a bigger fit than he did when I brought the doctor.”

“Why don’t you let me work on him? He
did
like me. Maybe I can bring him around.”

For two weeks, at every opportunity, I came to sit with Mr. McCarthy. I read the newspaper to him, made him tea. I drove myself when Father would allow it, having told him about the situation and how it would be good experience for me. But just as often, Kyle would pick me up. On a few occasions, Kyle cooked for me, and not surprisingly he was good at it. He seemed to do everything well.

Soon enough I gained the confidence of his father, and I was gently able to tell him the truth about his condition, though I was unable to convince him to see a doctor. It didn’t come as a surprise. In fact, he even looked forward to death, since his faith promised that he would see his wife and daughters again. His only regret was leaving Kyle alone.

“He won’t be alone, Mr. McCarthy,” I said. “I’ll always be his friend. And I’m sure he has many friends at school, too.”

I thought I detected a look of appreciation.

Convinced that he had accepted the truth, I told him that it would mean a lot to Kyle to have him anointed. I didn’t even understand what that meant, but if it was important to Kyle, then it was important to me to make it happen. Like butter on a hot pan, he melted to my request. I couldn’t wait to tell Kyle the news on the way home.

Elated, and not satisfied with waiting, he drove us straightaway to his church so that we could see the priest.

Just as I had not thought of where Kyle lived, I had not thought of where Kyle worshipped. I was glad to be entering a more intimate part of his world.

The exterior of Saint Stephen’s reminded me a little of the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, but then again, I was not skilled in seeing the nuances of religious architecture. The interior was noticeably different, though. It had the same basic features—mosaic floors, stained glass windows, an altar—but it was not as ornate as the one that I had visited in London. I liked it better—it was more welcoming and less intimidating to me.

We walked over to the rectory, and although the hours posted had long since passed, Kyle knocked on the door. A housekeeper answered, a bitter-looking old sourpuss who lit up like a young girl when she saw who was on her doorstep.

“Kyle. It’s good to see you. How is your father?”

“He’s not getting any better, Mrs. Mawdsley. In fact, that’s why we’re here. I would like to have Father Sullivan give him extreme unction.”

Extreme unction? I didn’t know what that was, but it sounded so, well,
extreme
. I would have to ask him about that later.

“That’s a shame, dear.” Only then did she seem to notice me, standing just behind him. “And who is this?” Her tone changed to one of malice as she eyed me. I had no doubt that she knew Kyle was studying to join the ranks of this Father Sullivan. Who was this little blond girl with her recruit?

“How rude of me. This is Miss Julianne Westcott. She’s a nursing student, and is the only one that has been able to get my father to face this reality. Julianne, this is Mrs. Mawdsley.”