One Year (40 page)

G
race stood quietly by her mother's bedside after her father and brother had gone home. Mary Bernadette was asleep. She looked alarmingly disturbed, almost in pain, as if all the struggles and sorrows of her life were alive and torturing her at that very moment.

“I wish you could rest, Mom,” Grace whispered. “Truly rest. I don't think you've let go for even one moment of your life. But then again, what do I really know about you? Next to nothing.”

It was true, Grace thought. She knew so very little about her mother other than what was readily observable. More precisely, other than what Mary Bernadette allowed her family and friends to witness. She was a wife and a mother and a grandmother. She was a dedicated member of the congregation of the Church of the Immaculate Conception. She was a long-standing and highly respected member of the board of the Oliver's Well Historical Association. Important information, certainly. But Grace suspected that not even her father knew the secrets of Mary Bernadette's heart.

Grace checked her watch. Megan was due soon to relieve her. Amazing woman, Grace thought. Her efforts on behalf of Mary Bernadette's beloved historical society really were admirable. If
she
had been as abused by Mary Bernadette as Megan had been over the years, would she be willing to go to bat for the woman's reputation and peace of mind? Grace sighed. Not likely. She was a nun, not a saint.

A nun who was also a daughter and who, in spite of all, loved her mother. Not long ago Grace had come across an old Irish blessing. The words had stayed with her, and probably for this very occasion, she thought now.

“Oh, aged old woman of the gray locks,” she whispered, “may eight hundred blessings twelve times over be on thee! Mayest thou be free from desolation.”

Grace paused. There was another line to the blessing, but she was reluctant to give it voice. But then she went on. After all, someday . . . “Oh woman of the aged frame!” she recited. “And may many tears fall on thy grave.”

Gently, Grace touched her mother's face. “Megan's on her way,” she told her. “And I'm going to pay a visit to William.”

There was no indication that her mother had heard anything.

S
he was late for mass. She was angry with herself. Tardiness indicated laziness of character. She ran out of the house. With long leaps and bounds she sped through the streets of Oliver's Well, deserted in the dusk that had suddenly descended on the town.

The church loomed in front of her. She ran up the stairs and threw open the doors. “I'm here!” she cried. But no one replied to her greeting. The church was empty. She became aware only now that she was wearing a dress she had often worn when she was first married to Paddy. Though she could not see her own image, she knew that her hair was once again brown.

“Father Murphy,” she cried. “Where is everyone?” She dashed up the central aisle to the altar and made the sign of the cross. A noise like the beating of a bat's wings made her whirl around. “Hello?” she called. “Paddy?”

She became aware of being frightened and frighteningly alone. Where was Father Murphy? Or was it Father Robert she was meant to meet? Where was her family? Maybe she was in the wrong church. Yes, something wasn't right. Why were the windows covered with black curtains? This was not
her
church at all!

With a small cry of terror, Mary Bernadette dashed back down the aisle and into the preternatural dusk. She found herself in an old cemetery. “This is where William is buried,” she said to the crows cawing in the dark. “I must see him.” She hurried toward a giant oak tree, under which she knew she would find his grave.

And now she was no longer alone. Jeannette was standing by William's grave, as if protecting it. She was not the aged Jeannette and not the young Jeannette but both, and a middle-aged woman at once, all three ages of woman in one. Mary Bernadette wondered at this.

“Where is everyone?” she cried, reaching out her hands toward her friend. “No one is inside. They were supposed to be here. They promised me!”

Jeannette did not take Mary Bernadette's hands. She replied with a voice filled with infinite sorrow. “Oh, Mary,” she said. “You made everyone go away.”

“What do you mean I made them go away?” Mary Bernadette demanded. “I love them, all of them, they're my family! I need them here with me!”

Jeannette pointed to the headstone. “Do you see what words are written here?”

Mary Bernadette looked more closely. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but after a moment she made out five words that sent a chill through her heart.

Here lies Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon.

“But that's William's grave!” she protested. “What's the meaning of this?”

“It's your grave, too, Mary. You've always known that, haven't you?”

“No,” Mary Bernadette said defiantly. “No, I know nothing. Oh, I'm so confused. Where
is
everyone!”

Jeannette began to fade into the gloom. “Look for them hard enough and you will find them. God willing.”

Mary Bernadette took a step forward and again reached out for her friend. “Where? Where do I look? Help me, Jeannette!”

But Jeannette was gone now. William's grave stood unattended and abandoned. Mary Bernadette ran to it and knelt in the damp earth. It was then she saw that there were other words etched into the stone. Frantically, she wiped the stone with her hand to clear it of dirt and lichen.

“Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,” she read aloud, “if I do not remember you.”

She was aware that she was making a sort of whimpering sound.
Where am I
?
Someone help me!

“Mrs. Fitzgibbon? Mrs. Fitzgibbon, wake up. You're having a bad dream.”

Mary Bernadette opened her eyes to see a nurse leaning over her.

“Yes, yes. I'm awake,” she said, her throat dry. “I'm fine. I was . . . A dream . . .”

The nurse smiled sympathetically. “Yes, dreams can be wearying, can't they? Sometimes they just get you in their grip and try as you might you can't escape them.”

“Yes.”

“Would you like your dinner now?” the nurse asked. “I've kept it aside.”

“All right.”

When the nurse had left the room Mary Bernadette gathered every bit of her formidable mental energies. It was essential that she not forget the dream; clearly, it was a message from God. And what was He saying to her? What did He want her to know?

Yes. He was telling her that she had been less than what she might have been for her family. She had failed to keep them close, her husband and her son and her daughter. She had in some way abandoned them.
All those Sunday sermons on the importance of love,
she thought.
And did I ever really take heed?

“Oh,” she whispered to the empty room, “what have I done?” Had she indeed permanently alienated her son and his wife, her daughter, even her beloved husband, Paddy? Had she let down her oldest grandchild, of whom she was so fond? Why hadn't she been more lenient with her grandson's wife, less forceful and demanding? At least, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek, her beloved William was safe; at least he was beyond any harm her failings might cause him.

Despair settled heavily on Mary Bernadette's heart. But despair was a sin. She knew that. Life was the most precious gift God had granted and to throw it away—even to wish it over and gone—was wrong. No matter how difficult the path ahead might be, Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon was determined to make what amends she could. “Dear God,” she whispered. “I ask for your forgiveness and for your strength.”

M
egan took a sip of tea and sighed. Really, it was amazing how good a cup of tea could make her feel.
I'm an addict,
she thought.
I am addicted to tea
. Which was a lot better than being addicted to power and control. She thought back to the last meeting of the board of the OWHA. They had been discussing a problem with the Kennington House. Just the year before, a reputable company had been hired to repaint the exterior. As far as anyone knew, proper procedures had been followed. But for some reason the paint was not adhering to the clapboard.

“It might be a moisture issue,” Richard had pointed out. “I've seen it before.”

“So,” Neal had asked, “how do we ascertain if that is the problem?”

“Call in an expert. If moisture
is
at fault, then we might need a vapor barrier. And that involves removing the plaster or Sheetrock, installing plastic sheeting, and then adding a new wall finish. It's a big job, and it doesn't always solve the problem.”

Leonard had frowned. “And by big job you mean expensive job.”

“Well, we certainly can't ignore it.”

Megan had been reading up on the problem of peeling paint and had another idea of what might be the culprit. She had gotten as far as saying, “It might also be—” when Meadows had cut her off.

“With all due respect,” he had said, tapping away on his iPhone, “given the fact that you are a temporary member of this board, I think that you should be seen and not heard.” At this point he had finally looked at her. “Unless, of course, you have something truly profound to add to this discussion.”

Megan had simply smiled; she would share her information with Leonard at another time. She had almost been amused by Meadows's rude behavior. Having heard from so many people during the course of her campaign that he was so disliked took a good deal of the sting out of his words. She was nothing special to him, just another person to torture and bully.

“What he doesn't know is that I'm a pit bull in sheep's clothing,” she had told her husband that morning over coffee, after having related the Great Man's latest little abuse of power.

“I think I'm becoming a bit afraid of you,” he had replied. “It's kind of appealing.”

“Don't be weird, Pat.”

“Sorry.”

Well, Megan thought now, glancing up at the words of her beloved Saint Francis, let Meadows have his pathetic amusements. What mattered was that she had made good progress with her campaign to save the integrity of the OWHA. It had been easier than she had imagined, convincing people to rally to her cause, and she couldn't help but wonder how many of them had agreed to help fund the OWHA to the initial tune of one million dollars only to see Wynston Meadows derailed. “I wouldn't touch that man with a ten-foot pole,” one of them had said. “What were these people thinking when they invited him on the board?” To which Megan had carefully replied, “Unfortunately, they weren't well informed.” That $1 million up-front wasn't $5 million up-front should not be an issue. Sarah Simon's expertise had determined the OWHA didn't
need
$5 million to get the ball rolling. And Megan would make the others heed that fact.

Now she was ready to approach her fellow board members—excluding Joyce, Wallace, and, for the moment, Norma—with the good news.

Megan picked up her cell phone and punched in the first number. “Leonard,” she said. “I've got it. I've got us the money.”

M
egan and Grace and Jeannette and Maureen were at the Fitzgibbon house. They had come to water the plants, do the laundry (Mary Bernadette was concerned that Paddy had a clean shirt to wear every day), dust and polish the furniture (“Mom's going to give every surface the white glove test as soon as she gets home,” Grace had warned), and vacuum the carpets (“That mutt of Paddy's sheds like a demon.”). Paddy had taken the offending Mercy for a walk, and Banshee had removed herself from the scene of activity.

“Probably hiding in Mary Bernadette's closet,” Megan said. “The poor thing's been spending a lot of time in there since her mommy's been in the hospital.”

The women had been working for more than an hour when Megan suggested they gather in the kitchen for a break. She and Grace and Maureen could work on without rest, but Jeannette suffered from a bad back. Some respect had to be paid to the condition she never mentioned.

“There will have to be some big changes around here,” Grace said when they were seated around the table with cups of tea and a plate of cookies. “For one, Dad and Mom are getting cell phones whether they like it or not.”

Jeannette frowned. “You know Mary. She doesn't trust technology.”

“Tough. She's going to have to change her mind. I'll get them something elder friendly.”

“And one of those Life Alert systems,” Megan said. “It wouldn't hurt to have one of those for when either Mary Bernadette or Paddy is alone in the house.”

Grace laughed. “Assuming we can make them use it. Or remember to use it.”

“And at least one more landline extension,” Maureen said. “It's ridiculous in a house this size to have only two.”

“She's going to fight us all the way, you know,” Megan said.

Grace shrugged. “I don't care. It's for her own good, and Dad's. If we can't convince her to take care of herself, we'll appeal to her belief in duty to others.”

“And she shouldn't be driving for a while, I would think. I can certainly help in that regard, take her shopping or to church.”

“Thanks, Maureen. That will take some of the burden off Paddy.”

“And I'll keep an eye on her, of course,” Jeannette said. “For what good it will do.”

“She values your friendship, Mom,” Maureen said earnestly. “She needs your companionship.”

“As I need and value hers.”

Maureen sighed and fiddled with her teaspoon. “I never thought I'd be polishing Mary Bernadette's furniture and talking about—about all that's going to change. It feels like the end of an era. God, how dramatic of me. Sorry.”

“The end of an era maybe,” Megan said, “but not the end of the entire story.”

Grace reached for a cookie. “Jeannette,” she said, “tell us about my mother in the early days. Tell us about William.”

“It's a difficult thing for me to talk about,” Jeannette said, smoothing her dress unnecessarily. “I promised Mary Bernadette I would never mention William to anyone.”

“I'm sorry,” Grace said, putting her hand on the older woman's arm. “I shouldn't have asked.”

Jeannette sighed. “No. Things have changed and you have every right to know about your brother. He was a lovely little boy. Your mother doted on him as if he were a prince, and indeed he charmed everyone. I sometimes think about what he would have become had he lived.... Something great. Something good.”

Megan wondered how much of Jeannette's memory of the child had been colored by Mary Bernadette's idealized vision of her son. But did it matter?

“After he died, the poor soul, I despaired of Mary's ever regaining her spirits,” Jeannette went on. “She was in a terrible way. I'd never seen a human being so shattered. But I should have known that someone with her strength of character would revive.”

“But not actually recover?” Grace wondered.

“Was she . . . was she at all happy when she learned she was pregnant with Pat?” Megan asked.

Jeannette's eyes filled with tears. “She couldn't be. It was too soon. It seemed somehow—cruel.”

Megan nodded. “I see.”

“And when she was pregnant with me?” Grace asked.

“Eight more years had passed. She was better able to take some pleasure in the thought of another child. And, well, your being a girl somehow made it easier for her.”

“She couldn't compare me to her version of William the way she could compare Pat. Sorry. Probably shouldn't have said that.”

“Well, that's all in the past,” Maureen said hurriedly. “What's done is done.”

No,
Megan thought.
The past is never truly past. What once happened is always happening
. But it was no good in arguing that point now.

“More tea, Jeannette?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Jeannette replied, rising from the table with some difficulty. “I think it's time I got back to my cleaning.”