The Memory of Us: A Novel (33 page)

“Dear, don’t you know?”

Our eyes met. Tears began to form in mine.

“Lily is as much a part of you as she is of me. I knew what anguish I would feel to never know what had become of her. I wouldn’t have encroached upon your privacy. I just wanted to write to you. To tell you how she was. To thank you for sacrificing such a gift to my care. But you’d always vanished.”

I hung my head as she pressed on.

“It wasn’t until recently that my hope in finding you was renewed.”

“How is that?”

“Charcross. This is the fourth year in a row that the postmark had the same stamp. I’d begun to think that you were finally settled.”

“But I always sent it to Smithdown, and you aren’t there anymore.”

“Lily and I come back every year for Christmas, and as I’d come to expect your packages every November, I just asked them to hold it for me if it would arrive.”

In my comfort of my life next to Father McCarthy, I had not thought about the postmark being from the same place. After so much time, I’d doubted that anyone would have still cared to find me.

“And so you came to Charcross to find me?”

“Well, I’m no Poirot or anything,” she laughed. “It’s not more than a village, and it wasn’t too difficult to write and ask if there was someone of your, well, distinct appearance.” She shifted in her seat. “When the postmaster responded and said that the housekeeper at the cemetery matched your description, I had to come see for myself. So I came out a few months ago. I didn’t see you at the Mass, but I did see you sweeping the front steps.”

“Why didn’t you come over?”

She sat back into the chair. “I nearly did. I wanted to. But I chickened out, as Lily might say. After all this time, there you were. I just lost all my words.”

“But you sent Lily here?”

“Yes. She and Albert met in school when they were much younger, and although we’ve all moved on to London—Lily will be graduating soon—they wanted to get married back in Liverpool. We looked at some churches around there, but they kept saying they wanted something simpler, something in the country. I remembered All Souls.”

She looked out the window. “It’s really peaceful here, you know. Beautiful in its own way, with the rolling hills. I knew that Lily would just love it. And she did.”

I glanced where her gaze had taken her and nodded.

She turned back to me. “I told her I’d sprained my ankle, as I didn’t want to come here and stir something up by my presence. I figured if Lily agreed with me and liked the setting, then I would decide how best to move forward. But I should have counted on my girl jumping right in and talking to the woman who runs the place.”

I smiled. “So she told you about me?”

“Yes and no. She mentioned meeting a woman who could help her make the arrangements, but I had to ask some, well, pointed questions to determine if it was you that she had met with.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked her what you looked like.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what she said?”

I looked up.

“She said, ‘Well, she had the prettiest green eyes, and she looked at me as if she’d known me all her life. I liked her.’”

I smiled. My daughter had seen me through the mask of my face. “And so here we are.”

“Yes,” she said. “Here we are.”

We stared at each other in silence, questions unspoken, but certainly thought.

“It’s a long story,” I finally said.

“You were never one to give up information easily.”

I laughed. “I’m sorry about that. I suppose that I became a very private person.”

“Well, I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“You have no idea.”

We sat like that for a second. I wasn’t going to offer up any more just yet, and she didn’t press the point.

“Lily is wonderful,” I said, filling the space.

“She is. She is the best Christmas present that I ever received. I have you to thank for that.”

“No, you’ve done it all. I had no idea how to take care of myself, let alone a baby. I’m so grateful that you kept her.” As I said the words, I realized how true they were. All those years I had suppressed thoughts of my child and the natural imaginings of her life.

“Oh, you know, we had already started bonding in the nursery. It was an easy decision.”

I handed her the gloves. “Here. Don’t forget these.”

“I didn’t forget them. I left them here so that I could have an excuse to come back in.” She stood up, and I joined her as she turned toward the door. “Listen,” she said.

“Yes?”

Jane placed her hand on the knob and looked down. “Do you intend to tell Lily—well, you know?” Jane looked uncertain as to what she wanted my answer to be.

“Not at all. Lily is all yours.”

I saw a flicker of relief. “She knows she’s adopted, of course. She just doesn’t know that it’s you. I don’t know what I was thinking even coming out here in the first place. Curiosity. Gratefulness. I can’t say, other than I felt I had to see you. You know, maybe in time, we can tell her the truth.”

I shook my head. “There is no need for that. She’s already got a saint for a mother. No need to tell her that she has a sinner for one as well.”

Jane touched my arms with her familiar, reassuring way. “Oh, Helen. You are far too hard on yourself. Whatever you have done, you surely had your reasons. And you have certainly atoned.” She slid her hand over mine. “I hope you can believe that yourself and find the peace that I have always wanted for you.”

I sniffled. Jane was the only person ever to have loved me as Helen.

“I have. I am. I mean, I’m sure that I will. Find peace, that is.”

“Good. I will be thinking of you, as I always have, and I will be sure to come with Lily for our meeting in February.”

“I look forward to that.”

“Me, too. Take care, Helen.” She squeezed my hands, the ones that she had rescued.

“You too, Jane. Happy Christmas.” And I closed the door.

The pounding in my chest started again, but was quickly resolved with some deep breaths. It was only noon, and I had packed more emotion into the day than I could bear. I took a cup of tea upstairs to my bedroom and lay down for a nap.

The return of Lily and Jane to my life left me giddy. Jane generously sent me notes in the post telling me stories of Lily’s childhood. I read and reread each one of them, placing them in a little wooden box for safekeeping when I was finished. I found myself humming and smiling, and even Father McCarthy noticed the difference. My joy must have been contagious, because he became more cheerful as well. I cooked with extra care, paying attention to what he liked and calling on my memories to re-create his favorites.

I became reckless, relaxing my usual caution in concealing myself. This was a fact that I realized one day when I spent the morning baking. Carrying a hot plate into the garden, I saw Father McCarthy pulling weeds.

“I made some cinnamon rolls. Would you like to take a break and eat one?”

He took off his thick gloves and wiped his hands on his garden apron. “Cinnamon rolls? I haven’t had those in years.”

“Well, they’re fresh out of the oven. I’ve brought plates and napkins, and a fork if you prefer not to eat it with your fingers.”

“They are rather dirty. I think I will use that fork. But first, I’m going to wash up at the hosepipe.”

I sat down on the stone wall of the church courtyard, swinging my legs like a schoolgirl. The sun was making an appearance today, rare for this time of year.

It took him a while to scrub the caked dirt off his fingernails. He used the time to initiate the conversation, something that was quite out of the ordinary for him.

“So I’ve seen you at Mass for the past few Sundays. It’s the stellar quality of my preaching that keeps you coming back, isn’t it?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. It’s not enough anymore for me to hear you practicing on Saturday night. I have to come see the full show.”

“Well, it’s certainly not sold out, and I’m glad to have one more in the audience.”

“Maybe I’m that one soul that you’re supposed to be reaching, as you told me some time ago.”

He finished with his right and started with the left.

“Whatever it is that brought you, I’m glad you’re there.”

He was glad that I was there?

He continued. “The shepherd loves when his sheep return.”

Of course. He was happy that I was there because it was one more soul returning to his God. Still, my presence made him smile, and I was grateful for that, whatever the cause.

“I’m not all the way there, but I do find some comfort in it. You know, I’m not Catholic.”

“Yes, I noticed that you are not in the Communion line. Why not be confirmed in the faith and be able to participate fully?”

“I almost did, years ago. Then this happened”—I pointed to my face—“and I never went back. I guess that I was angry at God.”

“How did it happen?”

He’d always been far too polite to bring it up, but now I had.

“In the war.” Any more, and I might let slip more than I should.

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, there was much lost during the war. On both sides of the fighting.” He looked at me and lingered.
See me, Kyle,
I willed.
See me.
He blinked and turned to shut the water off.

I returned to our conversation, both dejected and relieved. “You told me once that you served in the army.”

“Yes. It took me all over. I spent the beginning of it in Egypt with the Desert Rats, as we were called. And later we fought in Italy, stormed Normandy, returned to Britain, and finished in Germany.”

“It’s amazing that you survived.”

“It is. I asked God so many times why he took some and left me behind.”

I had felt this sentiment myself. “I guess we’ll never know why things happen the way that they do.”

“Yes. We just have to make the most of what we are given.” He dried his hand on a clean spot on the apron and hopped onto the wall next to me. “Well, it’s time for one of those cinnamon rolls. We wouldn’t want them to get cold now.”

I handed him his plate and fork. He took a bite, and I saw his eyes widen before even swallowing.

“What is it?” It had been ages since I’d last made them, but I didn’t think they could be that bad.

“Nothing,” he said through a mouthful. Finishing that bite, he added, “It’s delicious. Perfect, in fact. They are just like the ones that—that I used to have.”

“I’m glad that you like them.”

He took a second bite and a third. “It is very unusual to put lemon in the icing. How did you think of that?”

How reckless I had become. What was happening to me? “Oh, I just like the sour taste with the sweet taste.”

“Me, too.”

After he’d eaten it, he reached for another. I was still working on my first when he’d finished his second.

“Thank you, Helen, for making these. They’ve—I’ve—they are wonderful and bring up equally good memories.”

I have equally good memories of the last time I made these.
I grinned at the thought. Is that what he was remembering, too?

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’m just glad you liked them. I’ll go clean up the kitchen now.”

He hopped down from our perch and reached for the hosepipe again. “Do you want to wash the icing from your hands?” he said.

“Yes, thank you.”

With one hand, he turned on the hose lightly so that the water trickled out. With the other, he took my fingers and placed them under the water. Using his thumb, he slowly rubbed off the stubborn icing. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the flaws and the markings, the red-and-white splotches. Even through the scars, I felt heat at his touch. No one had touched me like that in decades, and now it was him. I held back tears, carefully guarding my reaction. He was so close. I could say his name. My lips parted, and the roll of a
K
sound formed in the back of my throat.

“There you go, you’re all done.” He turned the hosepipe off and stood up, unaware of the landslide that I nearly started.

“Thank you. I’m going to go in now,” I mumbled.

“And I have some corn cockles to wrestle with. They’re trying to strangle my roses.” He held up one of the pink blossoms with black lines. It was hard to believe that such a pretty thing was a weed. “You know,” he said, “corn cockles were once used as primitive medicine, but now they’re considered poisonous.”

That was just like him to know that kind of thing.

“Well, good luck with them.”

“Thank you.” He turned back to his work.

Watching him as I left the garden, I smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lily arrived first thing in the morning on 4 April, followed by Jane and three girlfriends. I opened up my side of the rectory as a dressing room. I enjoyed watching them primp and prep as they took up my parlor. It reminded me of my days with Lucille and what it could have been like if we had been there for each other’s weddings. I felt her there with me, celebrating my daughter. She would have found twenty thousand details that needed to be managed.

Mandy, Lily’s university roommate, applied her makeup and styled her hair. Her dress had clean lines and an empire waist. It was not embellished with lace or pearls as was traditional, for Lily was thoroughly modern. The veil was sewn on to a wide cotton band that encircled her head.

The attendants’ dresses were light pink with white trim but were cut in the same clean, modern lines.

Jane devoted herself to it all, fluffing the dress and putting Lily’s stray hairs in their place. Her dress was light blue with a short matching jacket. There was a little lace on the edge of the sleeves, no doubt a nod to her more traditional tastes. More than once, she pulled me aside and begged me to join them at the reception in town. I declined, saying that I had given up that right long ago but was so pleased to be asked. I would, however, attend the ceremony.

Our organist, still playing away by some miracle, pounded out the wedding march, one of the few compromises toward convention. She had brought her own priest, but as a courtesy, allowed Father McCarthy to concelebrate the Mass. It was not every day that a wedding took place at All Souls, and he didn’t want to miss out on that.

He had asked me earlier, upon seeing Lily’s name, if she was any relation to me. I told him that I had no family. I lied to a priest. Well, it was probably the least of my sins. Though the nagging temptation to tell him the truth had returned. Now that they were in each other’s company, the guilt of my deception burned each time I saw them. But I easily convinced myself that this was not the right time for this revelation, that the focus should be on Lily’s wedding, and I postponed it once again.

I took my usual seat in the back, tucked behind a column, and peeked out through my damp handkerchief.

“Do you, Lily, take Albert to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold . . .”

I closed my eyes at the words. Today I heard my daughter speak the vows that I had once made. I looked at Father McCarthy, sitting up at the front, and wondered if he was remembering the same thing.

“For better or worse, ’til death do us part.”

Kyle had kept up his promise, and I had not. I realized this now as I hadn’t before. When I chose to disappear, I never considered my vows. Would I have loved Kyle and stayed with him if he had come home injured from the war? There was no doubt. I had been injured in the war, and I didn’t give him a chance to make that decision. And I had no doubt now as to what it would have been. So “worse” had found us. And I had fled.

“’Til death do us part.” Kyle had more than kept up his end of the bargain. There were several years between his return from the war and his entrance into the seminary. He had told me that he was “searching.” Somehow I knew for certain that he was searching for me. He didn’t accept that I was gone, and he didn’t return to school until he had come to terms with my death. Faithful always, like the story of Saint Dwynwen that he’d told me on our honeymoon. The patron saint of lovers.

I felt so ashamed. We had each said “I do” to these vows. And later I said, “I don’t.”

I had convinced myself that I was making the choice for everyone else. Kyle would be better off without a scarred, broken wife. My parents would be better off without an embarrassment of a daughter. Lily would be better off without a migratory mother. But that was not what I had vowed, and I realized the truth of it now. It was I who did not want to feel like the lesser part of the marriage. It was I who didn’t want to return to my parents without pride. It was I who chose to break every tie, even with my precious daughter. I was too wrapped up in my vanity and my desperation to consider the other people involved.

I teetered back and forth between joy and sorrow. Happiness at the return of my loved ones and contrition at my part in hurting them. Suddenly Kyle’s faith made sense to me. It was not for the perfect; it was for the repentant. A faith for those seeking healing and salvation. Every Sunday they dropped on their knees to ask for answers, offer thanks, and beg forgiveness.

I found myself wanting this forgiveness more than anything, and I knew where to find it. Tomorrow I would tell Father McCarthy that I was giving in. I wanted to join his church and to hear the words of absolution for my sins.

He looked resplendent in his vestments, white instead of black. I flipped through the Latin missal and followed its translation, thinking of the days when Kyle had showed me how to use it. But as I turned each translucent page, the years fell away and the priest’s voice of today drowned out the boy’s voice of yesterday.

Dominus vobiscum.

The Lord be with you.

In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrite suscipiamur a te, Domine.

Accept us, O Lord, in our spirit of contrition and humility of heart.

Haec quotiescumque feceritis, in mei memoriam facietis.

And as often as you shall do these things, do them in memory of me.

Albert and Lily sealed their promises with a kiss, and a shout of congratulations broke out in the church as friends applauded the couple. They had their lives ahead of them, and with any luck the world would be easier on them than it had been on us. They left in a shower of rice, and I trailed behind. Such dreams ahead of them. The bells tolled, their usual dirge replaced by peals of celebration.

Jane lingered before leaving. She was overcome—her baby was all grown up. The baby that she coaxed during her first steps. The child that she picked up from school. The adolescent that she guided through first love. The young woman that she embraced as her own.

She wrapped her arms around me, kissing my cheek, and I held her as well. We smiled from the sentiment of the wedding and our shared motherhood. I was indebted to her forever.

After watching her drive away, I stooped to pick up a grain of the rice. My chest contracted again, so I rose slowly and held the rice up to the sun.
All my dreams could fit in this little grain,
I thought. But Kyle’s beliefs promised that faith the size of a mustard seed could move mountains. And this rice was larger than a mustard seed.

I tossed it away, where it was retrieved by a waiting sparrow.

I paused at Father McCarthy’s stoop, rested my cheek against his door, and traced the knots of the wood with my right hand. The faint light of dusk cast a shadow on the earth along the wall of the rectory. The elongated version of myself hovered on the ground like a dark and menacing angel. I closed my eyes and knocked.

“Come in,” said the voice that I had loved for so many years.

Father McCarthy was seated at his desk, engrossed, I presumed, over the homily for the following Sunday. He stood when I entered.

“Helen,” he said, surprised to find me here at this unusual time. “Please close the door and have a seat.” He gathered papers that were strewn upon the sofa and gestured for me to take a seat. “Tea?” he offered.

“No, thank you.” I could hear every sound in the room. The tempo of the wall clock. The low volume of the classical music from his radio upstairs. The chair as he slid it over by my side.

“All right, then,” he said as he sat down. He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned in toward me. “What can I do for you?”

His nearness made me feel faint, and I almost forgot my purpose. I looked at him at last and cleared my throat. “You asked me several weeks ago why I don’t participate at your Mass.”

He leaned back. “Yes, I remember.”

“I’m ready now,” I said.

“I see. May I ask what changed your mind?”

“I suppose I would like to be able to be a part of it after all. I thought I should tell you so that I didn’t just show up for Communion one morning.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you came to me, then. It’s not as simple as just getting in line.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you receive Communion and say ‘Amen,’ you are assenting to everything that this faith embodies. Not just that moment. It usually takes a year of study. Catechism. History. Theology. And then the catechumen receives the sacraments for the first time at the vigil of Easter Sunday.”

Time was not my enemy. Here in Charcross, the calendar crawled lazily, marked only by funerals and sparsely attended feast days.

“So how do I get started?”

He threw his hands up and smiled. “If you’ll have me, I can be your teacher. A poor one, I’m sure, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. And we don’t exactly have a resident catechist nor a wait list of students.”

The possibility of spending so much time with him delighted me immeasurably, and I quickly agreed.

This began months of study and a new routine that filled me with anticipation throughout the day. We went about our regular duties and spent most evenings bent over books or reviewing lessons. Often we’d get lost on tangents, though we never shared anything too personal, each keeping our guard.

But there we were, two otherwise lonely people, sharing meals, talking and laughing. We settled into a comfortable friendship once again.

It occurred to me that if the war had not entered our lives, this might be the picture of how we would have ended up anyway. Of course, there was not the affection of a marriage nor the sharing of goods and a bed. But twenty-five years of marriage would probably have looked something like this.

One of the greatest joys of this time together was the rediscovery of the kind and loving God that Kyle had never doubted. His faith stayed true through such sufferings. Mine had not, but I saw now that it was I who deserted God. Not the other way around.

By midsummer, though, I noticed a change in him. Our lessons continued, but they became perfunctory in nature. Father McCarthy wouldn’t meet my eyes and began to sit across the table from me instead of next to me, as had become his habit. I wondered what I had done wrong.

On the first evening in August I knocked at our usual hour. I had made a cranberry-and-walnut loaf to share, and I could feel its heat through the foil.

“Miss Bailey,” he said, reverting to a formality that we had long since discarded.

I looked at him as I found my seat. He held a letter in his hand.

“Miss Bailey, I hope you know that I have enjoyed these months of study with you, and your years of service at All Souls has brought life into this otherwise desolate place.”

I braced myself for what might follow the setup of these kind words.

“I have just received word from my bishop that I’m being transferred. As you know, priests rotate through here every few years, and now it is my turn to move on.”

“Yes,” I protested, “but you received a letter like that several years ago and were able to defer it. You said that no one wants to be out here.” My heart beat faster. What was to become of me now? What would become of the new “us” that had just begun?

“You’re right, of course,” he continued. “But the time has come, and in hindsight we’re often able to see the wisdom of these things.”

The bread escaped my trembling hands, and we bent down in our seats to pick it up at the same time. Our hands brushed, but he moved away faster than I did.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pulling the loaf into my lap.

“I’ve already corresponded with the new priest on your behalf, of course.” He got up to walk over to the stove and busied himself with the teakettle as he spoke. “Father Brown from Merseyside will be taking my place. I’ve told him that you are an excellent cook and housekeeper, you don’t ask for much, and it would be my recommendation that he keep you on. If you prefer that, naturally.”

I nodded out of mirrored politeness. “And where are you going?” I asked.

“Crosby,” he answered. “It’s north of Liverpool.”

“And just beyond Bootle,” I murmured.

His head snapped to look at me. “Yes, Bootle.” Our eyes locked.
See me,
I thought once again. But he looked away.

“The transfer is almost immediate, I’m afraid. I’m leaving next Saturday. Father Brown will be here in time to conduct that Sunday’s Mass.”

“And there is to be no good-bye?” I asked. “To your congregation, I mean?”

“You mean the trickle of people who come for their weekly obligation or the few regulars who are just one step away from becoming permanent residents?” He looked out the window at the vast graveyard and turned back to me. “No, Miss Bailey. I don’t expect to be missed here, and as long as it’s for the best, it might as well happen now.”

“And my studies?”

“Yes, I have already spoken to Father Brown about that, too. Your progress has been excellent and will no doubt continue under him. He is a very learned man, from what I gather, and you will be in good hands. You’ll still receive your sacraments on time in the spring.”