The Mill River Recluse (37 page)

In the first few months after the diagnosis, her illness did not progress as rapidly as the doctors predicted. For this, he was grateful. He found himself examining her each time he visited the marble house, looking for any sign of a faltering step or increased fatigue. Once in a while, Mary mentioned feeling more tired than usual, but Daisy’s frequent visits helped keep Mary smiling.

When the deep snow of winter finally gave way to moist earth and tender new leaves, they reveled in the springtime. The property behind the marble mansion was mostly pasture, surrounded by a forest of oak, aspen, and sugar maple trees. On the warmer days, they walked down to the barn and around the greening, empty pastures, sometimes talking, sometimes not.

When Daisy was with them, they couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

The little round woman delighted in gathering herbs for her potions during these outdoor treks. Daisy insisted on explaining the medicinal use of the plants she collected, the proper way to preserve them, their uses in certain potions…but Mary and Father O’Brien always listened attentively.

“You know, Michael,” Mary whispered as Daisy spotted a cluster of clover and rushed over to it, “we must keep coming here with her as long as we can. Even when I start to feel poorly. She’s so happy here. She mustn’t know what’s happening to me until she has to.”

“Of course, Mary dear,” Father O’Brien replied. He blinked several times as she went over to Daisy. Mary put an arm around the little round woman's shoulders and whispered in her ear. Holding up a four-leafed clover, Daisy smiled and hugged Mary around the waist.

They’ve become so close
, he thought. A hint of wonder lit up his eyes as he watched them together.

“Come look, Michael!” Mary called. “Every clover in this clump has four leaves!”

Daisy examined the leaves in her hand and then looked up at him. “It’s a miracle!” she said. She smiled at the sun as she waved a fistful of green in the air.

~~~

“Don’t forget the library, Michael,” Mary said one August evening as they discussed her plan, “and the schools. The children will need books. There were never enough books when I was in school.”

“Books,” Father O’Brien said. He was sitting at her bedside, dutifully taking notes.

“Make sure there’s enough for new ones each year.”

“There’s more than enough, Mary.”

“And we need to do something for the police,” she said, clutching at her abdomen and wincing as she shifted position on the sitting room sofa. Dr. Richardson had written her a prescription for MS Contin, a narcotic painkiller, and Father O’Brien had became a regular customer at the pharmacy. The medication dulled the pain enough to permit her to focus on the disposition of her estate. “What do they need?”

“I’m not sure. I can talk with Fitz, if you’d like,” Father O’Brien said.

“No, no, no one can know until I’m gone. You’ll have to think of something, Michael.”

“All right.”

“Who else is there? Think of who else we can help, Michael.” She fell asleep after that, with her head on the arm of the sofa and an expression of concentration still on her face.

Father O’Brien gazed at Mary. She seemed to have aged another twenty years since the start of spring. He noticed the deepened creases in her cheeks and forehead, the white hair that had grown even lighter in color, the frail form that collapsed in exhaustion after walking around the house for only a few minutes. He noticed her paling complexion, for the only sunlight that warmed her face now came in through the bedroom window as she looked down at Mill River.

He stood and gently pulled a crocheted throw over her. She spent so much of her time sleeping. The medication contributed to this, but Father O’Brien knew that her constant exhaustion meant that the cancer was slowly overcoming her.

Seeing her in such a weakened condition, Father O’Brien never would have believed that, each day, she waited for the mailman despite her anxiety, and that she struggled down the stairs to see whether a certain package had arrived.

He never would have guessed that she could carry the large box from Sears upstairs and open it. But she did. Somehow, Mary found the strength and courage to assemble and use what she had ordered. It took all her strength to repackage the equipment and hide it in her closet, but she managed to do this as well. Father O’Brien would have been shocked to learn that she had kept this secret from him, and that she didn’t feel guilty for doing so.

All would be revealed in time.

~~~

By September, Mary couldn’t properly care for herself, and it became necessary to explain her illness and prognosis to Daisy.

“My cancer isn’t something the doctors can fix,” she had said in response to Daisy’s first question. “I am going to die because of it. There isn’t any medicine, or any potion, that can stop it. But the doctor gives me medicine to make me feel better. That way, I can enjoy the time I have left.”

With moist eyes, Daisy looked from Mary to Father O’Brien and back to Mary. “When are you…how much time do you have left?”

“I don’t know for sure, Daisy. Months, maybe. Yes, I think several more months.”

“Oh.” Daisy bit her lip and twisted her hands in her lap. “I always thought a month was a long time. But now, even several months feels too short.” She grabbed Mary’s hand and began to sob. “I don’t know what to do.”

Struggling to keep her composure, Mary looked up at Father O’Brien.

“Daisy, my dear, we must make the most of the time Mary has left,” he said, nodding at Mary. “We’ll all spend lots of time together. And Mary will need our help, too. Will you help me to take care of her and keep her spirits up?”

Daisy squeezed Mary’s hand and nodded.

The little round woman proved to be a selfless caregiver. She spent hours in the marble mansion, keeping Mary company, fixing simple meals, and attending to her more personal needs. Father O’Brien also devoted his every spare moment to Mary and spent only a minimum amount of time on his congregation. As Mary’s condition worsened, though, he knew that it still wasn’t enough. Mary needed more assistance than he and Daisy could provide.

He ordered an adjustable hospital bed and had it moved into her room. Additional personal help for her, though, would be more of a problem. Mary required someone with a medical background, but he would never force her into a hospital. She wanted to die at home, on her own terms.

The only viable option was Rutland County’s home health service. Father O’Brien remembered that Ron Wykowski’s wife was a visiting nurse and arranged for her to come out to the marble home most days. Jean was honest and caring. More importantly, she was sensitive to Mary’s anxiety problem.

To his surprise and great relief, Mary accepted Jean’s presence without complaint.
If only she had a few more years
, he thought,
she might just get used to meeting people
.

“She likes my jewelry,” Mary said to Father O’Brien one evening, smiling.

“Who?”

“Jeanie. She really likes to wear my engagement ring.”

Father O’Brien put down his book and looked at her.
A strange topic of conversation, at least for Mary
, he thought. “You showed it to her?”

“No, not really. She found it herself, while I was napping.”

Father O’Brien gasped. “Found it? Don’t you keep it in your jewelry box? Did you give her permission to wear it?”

“Well, no, but I don’t mind.” Mary wasn’t upset at all. On the contrary, she was settled comfortably against the raised back of the hospital bed. “That ring holds bad memories for me--I don’t know why I kept it, really--and it’s probably the most glamorous thing she’s ever tried on. She wears it around the house, when I’m asleep, or while she thinks I’m asleep, but she puts it back before she leaves.”

“Well, if she puts it back,” Father O’Brien said. He was still disturbed to think Jean would actually help herself to Mary’s private possessions.

“Oh, she won’t steal it. Even if she borrows it for a while, which wouldn’t surprise me, she’ll bring it back. She’s a good girl. She only wears the ring to escape, to pretend she’s a princess or a movie star. She’s watching her youth slipping away. Her life isn’t easy, and if my ring makes her happy, so be it.”

“Hmmph.” There was a certain tone in Mary’s voice that made him drop the subject. After all, someone they both knew had pilfered spoons all his life and never returned them.

Father O’Brien dreaded the autumn. The days of summer had looked much the same, enabling him to pretend that time was no longer against them. As the reds and oranges of the trees grew more vibrant, though, Mary’s condition continued to deteriorate. Often, he sat with her at her bedroom window. As she slept, he held her hand and watched the gradual emptying of branches. The reappearance of the dark, barren limbs reminded him that Mary had so little time remaining.

~~~

The fire that destroyed Daisy’s mobile home that November provided Mary her first opportunity to implement her plan. Father O’Brien made the arrangements for the purchase and delivery of a new mobile home. Mary provided an anonymous letter for him to give to Daisy explaining the gift, but she was surprised when he brought it back to her the evening after the mobile home was delivered.

“I just couldn’t bear to give it to her,” Father O’Brien said. “Daisy was so excited, thinking she had conjured it up herself. I decided to let her keep believing that.”

“The poor dear,” Mary said, clutching her side and alternatively laughing and wincing. “Then it’s good she didn’t see my letter. Eventually, she’ll find out what really happened. I’m just glad that she’s happy.”

They both knew that the approaching Christmas would be Mary’s last. When Father O’Brien arrived at her home after Christmas morning Mass, she was awake and waiting for him.

“Merry Christmas, Michael,” she said from her bed. “I have a present for you.” She held out to him a small, beautifully wrapped gift.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Just a little something I thought you might like. Go ahead, open it.”

He untied the ribbon. Carefully, he peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal a small, thin box.

“Go on,” Mary urged.

Father O’Brien removed the lid. Inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper, was a shiny silver teaspoon.

It was one of Mary’s, although it had been decades since he had last seen any of her silver spoons. She had caught him lurking around her flatware drawer early on in their friendship. That was all it had taken for her to remove her spoons to some hidden spot in the house. It had been for the best. He doubted if he would have been able to resist them.

“Oh,” he breathed, staring at the spoon in the box.

Mary smiled. “Since you have a spoon from nearly everyone else in town, I thought it was time that you had one of mine.” She raised a trembling hand, motioning to him. “Turn it over. There’s something on the other side.”

An inscription was engraved on the smooth, convex back of the spoon. Father O’Brien had to put on his reading glasses to make out the tiny letters.

“To my dear friend, love, MHM,” he read aloud. His chin began to quiver. “Oh, Mary, I, I don’t know what to say. Well, yes I do. It’s just what I always wanted.” He was blinking rapidly now, but they both smiled at the truth in his words. “How did you manage this?” he asked.

“Jean helped me,” Mary said. “I came up with the idea some weeks ago, and she was kind enough to take a spoon and have it engraved for me.” Mary must have noticed the look of panic that appeared on his face, because she added quickly, “Not to worry, though. She doesn’t know anything about your…collection. In fact, she doesn’t even know whom the gift was for.”

At once, the tiny spoon became his most prized possession, a symbol of friendship and acceptance. He would keep it in his desk drawer, apart from the others. Mary’s spoon was different—a gift untarnished by guilt or greed or sin.

“I have something for Daisy, too…a new set of measuring cups. I thought she could use them for her potions,” Mary said after a moment.

“She wanted to come see you this evening, so I’ll bring her by then,” Father O’Brien said, still tracing the delicate edges of his spoon. “I’m sure she’ll love them.”

~~~

When Father O’Brien and Daisy arrived at Mary’s on a dark night in early February, he sensed a change in her spirit and the reflection of his own thoughts.

“Hello, my dears.” There was physical and emotional pain in her voice. “It’s been a year.”

“I know,” he said. Daisy remained uncharacteristically silent, but went around to the other side of Mary’s bed and took her hand.

“I don’t have very much longer.”

This he also knew, but could not bring himself to acknowledge out loud. Instead, he removed his coat and draped it over the back of his usual seat at her bedside.

“Michael,” Mary said before he could sit, “would you give us a minute? There’s something I need to tell my Daisy.” She smiled at the little round woman squeezing her hand.

“Of course,” he said slowly, backing away from the bed. “I’ll wait in the parlor.” He glanced with curiosity at Mary before closing the door behind him.

Downstairs, he turned on no lights. A large lamp sat on the end table nearest him, but he felt the darkness of the parlor to be a shield of sorts, a way to diffuse his thoughts into nothingness, to prevent him from staring at his hands clenched in his lap. Certainly Mary was entitled to speak to Daisy alone, but her request to do so was not like her, and it worried him.

After a long while, he heard Mary’s bedroom door open. “Father O’Brien?” Daisy called from the top of the stairs. Now he finally switched on the table lamp and stood up.

“Down here, Daisy,” he answered. The little round woman sniffed and flew down the stairs toward him.

“She wants to see you now. Oh, Father, she told me…oh, I never knew, and now I don’t know what to do. I love her so much. I don’t want her to die, she can’t die,” Daisy sobbed, clutching him around his waist.