Kilpara (35 page)

Standing up, Mark looked at the gray hospital
buildings with the same dull eyes I had seen at Francis’ funeral.
He stood still, as if his body had suddenly turned to stone. Only
his hair moved, gently stirred by a constant breeze.

“
Doctors are learning more all the
time about Mother’s disease,” I said, attempting to break through
his mood. “One day they’ll find a cure.”

“
Why can’t it be now?” Mark
demanded.

“
This is the best we’ve got,” Dan
said.

Tears of frustration ran down Mark’s cheeks,
and he didn’t attempt to brush them aside.

The nights we spent in Mother’s bedroom were
becoming more frequent. Aunt Sadie and Rengen weren’t the only ones
going to the little chapel in early morning hours. They were often
joined by Eileen and Seamus and occasionally by Dan,
too.

When Morrigan returned from Kilpara I was
reminded how quickly I'd gotten used to her warm body next to mine,
her legs tangled round mine while we slept. I had missed her during
those few short days she'd been away. The visit had agreed with
her. There was more color in her face, and she smiled more, even
though they were sad smiles. She brought back an easel and some
canvases with her and during Mother’s restful periods she sat by
her bedside sketching. She drew portraits of Mother for us, not as
she was now, but as she had been in healthier periods. She drew
portraits of Dan and Mark and me and placed them next to Mother’s
bedside.

At one point Mother rallied and she asked for
Dan, Mark and me. We gathered around her bedside.

“
A woman never had three more
wonderful sons than you boys,” she gasped. “Each one of you is
precious to me in your own unique way. Everything is in God’s
hands. I’ll be leaving this world to go to a better place than I’m
in now. Please don’t mourn for me or wallow in sadness. Go on with
your lives. Enjoy your families and be happy. God has been good to
me. He’s given me many blessings. One day we’ll be reunited on the
other side. Soon I’ll join your father and Francis.” Her voice
wavered. “Life is short and you must fill your hearts up with
memories. Always know that I loved you.” She struggled for breath
and we attempted to make her comfortable. She motioned us closer.
Each of us kissed her in turn and professed our love. I bent over
her rasping body and moistened her hollowed cheek with
tears.

Outside the sick-room, Mark yelled.
“No—God—No. You can't have her!” He turned and beat his fists
against the wall. Morrigan, who had waited in the vestry, went to
him. In a trembling voice she said, “It’s all right,
Mark.”

She cradled him in her arms. He gazed past us
over her shoulder, his mind imprisoned in a violent
past.

I opened the front door and stood outside
against the hard wall, gulping air into my lungs. Dan followed me
and looked up at the sky, blinking back tears. We knew Mother was
trying to prepare us for the final parting. The end approached like
a snake coiled, and ready to make its fatal strike.

Trees began to lose their leaves and become
bare. Mother lost her will to fight and grew weaker. Aunt Sadie
ordered us away from the convent for a few hours each day, although
she herself hardly ever left Mother's side. Never, before or since,
have I seen such devotion in any human being.

On an afternoon in early November, Mother
heaved her last breath and left us. She’d had a bad night. Trista,
Aunt Sadie, and for a short while, Morrigan, had seen her through
it. They were resting. Dan had left after staying with her for a
few hours and I was sitting by her bedside when she opened her
eyes.

“
It’s all right, Mother,” I said.
“I’m here.”

“
Ellis?” Her voice was hoarse and
my name sounded like a sigh.

“
Yes, Mother, it’s me.”

“
I’m cold Ellis. And
afraid.”

“
I’ll cover you up, Mother. Don’t
be afraid. I’m right here.”

I reached for the extra blanket at the end of
the bed and lifted it to cover her. I pulled it up around her
shoulders and as I did, she heaved, shivered, and stopped
breathing. “Mother?” I said, panic filling me. “Mother, answer
me.”

She didn’t. Her chest had stopped rising and
falling and her labored breath had ceased. “Mother, please,” I
begged, “Please don’t leave me. I'm not ready to let you go.” I
don’t know how long I stood there standing over her, the blanket
still grasped in my hands. All I remembered was Trista coming into
the room and gasping, “Oh, God, no. You’ve got to leave now, Ellis.
She’s gone.”

“
I can’t leave,” I said, holding up
the blanket. “Mother says she’s cold...”

“
Ellis—no,” Trista pleaded. She
pried the blanket from my fingers and led me outside. She yelled
for Eileen to fetch Morrigan.

Numbly Morrigan led me to our room. During the
next few days, when we attended services and prayed, and were
offered condolences from the people in neighboring communities, I
saw the same pale look of disbelief pasted on my face reflected on
my brothers’ faces.

On a cold, dull day, inside the O’Donovan
graveyard at Kilpara, we carried Mother and Father's coffins
solemnly to the twin graves that had been prepared for them. Winds
from Lough Corrib, no longer gentle, blew fiercely and whipped
around us on the barren hillside.

“
Unto thee, oh God, we commend the
souls of your faithful servants, Ann and Angus O’Donovan,” Father
Matthews moaned. “May God grant them eternal rest. And may
perpetual light shine upon their souls. Amen.” He sprinkled holy
water on the coffins lying deep inside the rugged earth. Each of us
kissed a red rose and threw it into the grave. As we walked back to
Kilpara, the sound of dirt hitting our parents' coffins echoed in
our ears. They were home at last. Together.

Someone took charge of taking our belongings
to Kilpara. After that, Dan, Mark and I rode out over the land
every day and along the lakeshore, often accompanied by ominous
black clouds that collided together, and cold, tumultuous waves
that beat against land. In our torn state winter's icy fingers
nipped at us, reminding us to live.

Thanksgiving, unknown in Ireland, was
celebrated in the merest way. We gathered close, struggling with
our loss, unable to do justice to the food that Eileen and Jasmine
instructed the Kilpara staff to prepare. All I could think about
were those many years at Stonebridge when Thanksgiving meals were
filled with laughter and stories told around the table and music
played long into the night. Mother and Father would share a
nostalgic gaze for their disavowed homeland, mixed with contentment
and gratitude for their other blessings in life.

Murmurings of holly, plum pudding, and cooked
goose stirred thoughts of Christmas throughout Kilpara cutting
through the barrier that kept us numb. For months my days had
revolved around Mother’s illness and her needs and I had difficulty
knowing what I should do now. My brothers also began to recover.
They became anxious to return to Stonebridge to be with their
families. I wanted them to stay until spring, arguing that crossing
the Atlantic was perilous in wintertime. They rebutted my argument,
saying it was time to go home. If the weather cooperated, they
might even make it there by Christmas. They wanted Morrigan and me
to go with them, but understood when we refused, accepting our
vague promise of a visit. More than ever, I was bound to
Kilpara.

After final preparations, Morrigan and I
accompanied Dan and Mark to Queensland where they had booked
passage on a cargo ship bound for New York. We took the train from
Galway to Cork, and then boarded another train that continued the
short distance to Cork Harbor. As the landscape flashed by our
carriage window we spoke little, preferring instead to stare at the
river bordering the train-track on one side or wooded hills that
rose up on the other side.

A porter took charge of our luggage when we
arrived at our destination. He explained that Queensland was built
on what was called the Great Island. On our short walk to the
Commodore Hotel, waves splashed against the harbor wall.
Haulbowline and Spike Islands stood visible out in the channel,
just inside a land gap bridging the natural port with the ocean.
These two islands defended the mainland from the full harshness of
waves and wind. We walked past narrow streets sloping up steep
hillsides giving the appearance that houses were built
crooked.

Now that we were here, I could no longer
deceive myself that my brothers were departing. Over the past few
months we had grown closer than ever before. Those last days with
Mother had created an ironclad bond between us. I didn’t want them
to leave.

The hotel was comfortable and the food
comforting, yet I spent a restless night. After a hearty breakfast
that wasn’t fully appreciated and conversation that revolved mostly
around the journey ahead, Morrigan and I accompanied Dan and Mark
to the pier where they would board the Caractacus. The day was gray
and the air carried a cold chill. My brothers and I hugged each
other several times before we finally said goodbye. Morrigan handed
Dan and Mark each a neatly wrapped package. Mark opened his and
blinked back tears when he saw the portrait of Mother. “Thank you,”
he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Morrigan and I stood on the shore watching my
brothers’ shapes grow distant as the ship moved out into the
harbor. It had sailed onto the open sea before we could force
ourselves away from the pier, even though our faces and hands had
gone numb from the cold. It seemed like years had passed instead of
months since that fateful day when I arrived on these shores. So
much had changed and the deepest change had occurred within
me.

Eileen and Seamus, who stayed behind to visit
family, insisted on creating a Christmas feast. “Your mother and
father always loved Christmas,” Eileen said. “It's tradition, and
they’d want us to continue the custom. We'll make them both
proud.”

I didn't feel like arguing, but soon noticed
it must have been the right thing to do because I began to hear
laughter in the house, which had been missing since we moved in.
Even Purcenell was a little kinder, strangely moved by our
mourning.

It was about then that I realized Rengen had
become attached to Aunt Sadie. This observation led me to ask him
if he and Jasmine would like to stay longer. He thought about it
briefly before giving me his decision. “I be worried about the
Mother Superior,” he said. “She’s mourning your mama. And them
little Sisters can't manage all them patients by themselves.
There’s be the milking and the garden to tend to. Theyse needing
some help to get by. So I's thinking I should stay here awhile
longer.”

When Rengen asked if he could send for the
rest of his family, I immediately obliged. But he reminded me that
his intention to stay was not permanent. “You know I be leaving
when the Mother Superior be recovered from her grief.”

Each day he faithfully trudged to the
graveyard to visit the gravesites, and several times a week we rode
over to Mercy Hospital to help out Aunt Sadie and the
nuns.

With Rengen's decision to stay, I began
contemplating if Brazonhead should sire a foal. I suggested this to
Rengen and he agreed that the stallion and Pandora should mate in
hopes of producing strong foals with good racing
qualities.

A nugget of desire to hold a midnight service
at Kilpara had planted itself in my mind ever since Eileen began
preparations for one of my parents’ favorite holidays. I mentioned
to Purcenell that I’d like to invite Father Matthews to perform a
Christmas Eve service in the chapel at Kilpara and half-expected
him to explode. Instead he managed to restrain his resentment.
Perhaps it was because I hadn’t objected to the small Christmas
party he hosted for the Sloanes, the Lighams and Reverend White; or
perhaps it was because he had hopes of becoming a grandfather soon
and didn’t want to upset Morrigan.

When the tenants of Brandubh arrived for the
service, I was surprised and touched that each family arrived
bearing a small token. I was so overwhelmed by their kindness that
I impulsively invited them all into the house for drinks and plum
pudding afterwards. Eileen and Jasmine were delighted by this
gesture and quickly prepared food to take care of the hungry
crowd.

Purcenell immediately took to his room at the
sight of commoners traipsing all over his home. He looked like he
might order them all off the property, but he just sulked
instead.

That night as we prepared for bed, Morrigan
announced we were to become parents. I picked her up and twirled
her around. “It’s my Christmas present to you,” she said. The news
lifted my spirits and began to penetrate the anguish and loss
packed tightly around my heart.

Drafts seeped through Kilpara’s thick walls
during winter. Morrigan and I spent the long cold evenings wrapped
in woolen shawls next to the fireplace. But as temperatures became
milder in February, we began taking walks outside and then carriage
rides into Galway. In early March, Eileen and Seamus announced they
were ready to return to Stonebridge and prepared to set sail for
New York. By then, I had done an assessment of Kilpara’s staff and
had discussed with Purcenell the possibility of adding more people
because I intended to increase livestock and produce output.
Reluctantly, he agreed with my ideas and gave his consent. Upon
Seamus and Eileen’s departure, I gave Eileen a letter to take to
Maureen offering her and Tom Townsend positions at Kilpara after
they were married. Eileen had proudly told us when she first
arrived that Tom had proposed to Maureen, and she had accepted. She
beamed now at the possibility that her daughter would come to live
in Ireland.