The Memory of Us: A Novel (6 page)

“I can’t imagine. What did you think?”

“I didn’t have to think. The other paperwork contained a birth certificate and letters from Bootle. So the next week, I decided to take a look for myself. And I’ve been coming back ever since, making one excuse or another for my absence.”

I was exhausted by the sudden release of this burden. Kyle sighed deeply, from what I couldn’t say. Maybe he was thinking that this was what it was going to be like to be a priest. To hear a confession and choose between condemnation and forgiveness. The latter really seemed to fit him best, although I feared that I had strained the thin thread of friendship that we had begun. My family’s secrets made me feel like a pariah in disguise as a princess.

He was a good listener, and it made me see him in a different way. The way I should see him. I could almost understand why he wanted to be a priest, and I knew that he’d be an exceptional one. That brought me some peace, and I almost found it easier to accept this die he’d cast. Almost.

“Is that why you want to be a nurse?”

We had scooted in closer to each other without realizing it, and I could have reached out to touch him if I’d dared.

“Partially. There’s no doubt that my time at Bootle Home has been an inspiration. Or that it will be a useful skill if we end up in another war. But it’s a good question. Why do I want to study nursing?” I looked up at the rafters. It was not an uncommon question. To my mother’s friends, I answered, “So that I can give back, like Mother does,” which was followed by airy approval, if not understanding. To my father’s friends, I answered, “Oh, I don’t have a head for business. But I need to do something useful.” To which they responded with the smug acknowledgment that women, of course, were not cut out for a man’s work. I supposed what I’d just suggested to Kyle was true—I’d first thought of it after meeting Charles. But to Kyle I could tell the darkest part of the truth, regardless of what he would think of me.

“To do something different than what is planned out for me.”

There. That would seal the deal. I wasn’t a selfless heroine, a Clara Barton for the ages.

He pursed his lips and nodded. “I can’t say that I blame you.”

I must have looked startled. I certainly felt it.

He continued. “It can be suffocating to live on a pedestal, to live according to someone else’s expectations.” His voice trailed off, and I wondered if we were even talking about me anymore. Just as well. I was tired of talking about me.

“So what’s your story?” I asked.

“Mine?”

“Yes—you’ve heard all about me. It’s my turn to ask the questions.”

“Not much to say. I’ve helped my father in his work as long as I can remember. I’m here for the summers and in Durham during the school year. The end.”

He made it sound so simple, but I had the sense that I was getting the brush-off. That wouldn’t do.

I felt emboldened tonight. I’d been a success at the auction. I had revealed the secrets that troubled me. Surely I could delve into the questions that I most wanted answers to.

“But—a priest. How did that happen?” As if it had been an accident.
I tripped on a pavement crack and became a priest.

“It’s something that I’ve been drawn to for many years,” he said. “The traditions, the rituals. I served as an acolyte, and I always thought that it could be a worthwhile life, saving people’s souls.”

“Won’t you have to speak Latin and wear a dress?”
And give up women,
I wanted to add. But I couldn’t bring myself to say that. So much for audacity.

“Well, I’m fairly proficient in Latin by now. And priests don’t wear dresses, they wear cassocks. It’s not the same thing.”

“I just don’t understand, though. It seems so—hmm—” I bit my lip, trying to think of the right word. “It seems like such a
drastic
thing to choose.”

“God has blessed me with much. It’s a small thing for me to give in return.”

Again, he’d had the last word. How could I come up with a smart retort when he said things like that?

We continued to talk, and I was blissfully unaware of the time. He asked me more about my school plans, and I asked what Durham was like. I told him about Lucille, and he entertained me with some Irish jokes. I basked in the glow that I felt from being near him.

“Do you think we’ll get in trouble for being here?” he asked.

“No, this is the Eckleys’ barn. They’re visiting family in Formby right now. Besides, they owe Father a favor, so I don’t think they’d mind.”

“What favor is that?”

“Some developers wanted the land, and Father petitioned his friends in the city government to let the Eckleys keep it. He says it’s because there’s too much development, but I think it’s because they export a lot of wool from their sheep farm in Knowsley and store it in his warehouse until it’s ready for shipment.”

“That’s a little cynical.”

“That’s business for you. Still, he does like his open spaces, so maybe there’s a little truth in it. It’s a good thing we live on the park.”

“Oh, I completely agree. Ideally, I would love to live out in the country. Just me and the hills and the silence. What about you?”

I couldn’t exactly tell him that I couldn’t imagine living more than five blocks from a good dress shop. “Oh, absolutely,” I said instead. “Hills and silence? What else could one want?”

The livestock had long since become used to our presence and stopped looking at us altogether. Although one of the cows eyed me with suspicion, as if she disapproved of my white lie.

I could see that we were each stifling yawns, but neither made a move to leave. At one point, he lay back against the stall and closed his eyes. I thought that he might be sleeping. I curled my knees up to my chin and put my arms around my legs, avoiding the painful area. Head on my arms, tilted to the side.

I looked at him, so still. Handsome. Good. Funny. He was so wonderful with Charles. He was unlike any other man that I knew, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Was this what love felt like? Or the beginning of it? I dismissed that thought, rationalizing that I had known him for too little a time.

I stayed in the same position, even as my joints stiffened. How I would have liked to sit next to him, to ask him the things that burned inside of me. To hear him tell me that he liked having me here.

Why didn’t you bid on me? I can understand, with the priest thing, if you didn’t bid on anyone, but you did.
“Why didn’t you bid on me?”

He shifted and I gasped—had I said that last part out loud? I hoped that he hadn’t heard. It couldn’t have been more than a whisper.

Still lying down, he said, “So you noticed that.”

No turning back. I didn’t try to hide the resentment in my voice. “Of course I noticed it. I saw you bid on Anne and Irene and Melody. I didn’t even know that you
knew
them. But you didn’t bid on
me
.”

“I
didn’t
know them.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the best one that I have.”

“No, it’s not. Why did you bid so low on them and then stop? Why did you leave when my name was called?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.” We were almost yelling now. “Yes,” I repeated in a whisper.

“I bid on them because I figured that raising the money was important to you. I didn’t expect to win with those bids, but I wanted to drive up the price to help you—to help the cause.”

He always surprised me with his answers.

“But that doesn’t answer my other question.”

“Which was?”

He knows perfectly well what my other question was, but he’s going to make me repeat it.

“Why did you bid on them and not me.” It was more of a statement, a small accusation, than it was a question.

He didn’t answer immediately, and instead, sat up and folded his hands over his crisscrossed legs. He looked me straight in the eye, promising the truth. When he spoke, his voice had softened.

“I didn’t bid on you because you are the
only
girl that I didn’t want to go out with.”

My eyes widened at this admission until he backtracked.

“Wait—my fault. That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong. What I meant was, you’re the only girl that I didn’t trust myself with. I am going back to the seminary soon, and I couldn’t risk—”

“Risk?”

He sighed and hesitated for a moment, juggling his thoughts. I felt electricity in the air, and we leaned toward each other slightly. I could kiss him now . . .

“I couldn’t risk falling for you any more than I already have.”

Abertillery

The baby nursed until she had her fill. It was unlikely that Mrs. Campbell would still be part of this world at the time of the next feeding, so I started to look for something that could substitute until a permanent solution was found. Perhaps they could put out an advertisement for a wet nurse. Everyone was trying to make an extra shilling here and there. Not that the Campbells could spare it, but what choice did they have?

I instructed Emily to find some cheesecloth. We’d try to create a makeshift bottle by dipping it into some goat’s milk and letting the baby suckle it. As she left the bedroom, I could hear the murmurings of the men coming from the other room.

The baby suddenly let out a desperate scream, demanding my attention. My nipples tingled in response, startling me, and my arms encircled them out of instinct. My own milk had dried up over two decades ago, never used. My breasts, once a gateway to intimacy, had not been seen by anyone since then. And yet, I knew they were still the most beautiful part of me, smooth and plump, spared the scars that had entombed the face of my youth.

The newest Campbell wailed again, and I broke myself away from thoughts of long ago. I dipped her into the now-warm water that had been prepared, and gently, gently rubbed her wrinkled skin. How many times had I done this? At least a hundred. It was common knowledge that babies didn’t need to be handled so delicately—they had just survived the trauma of the birth canal, so could certainly handle a decent scrubbing. But in my arms, this nearly motherless child felt especially fragile.

Behind me, the men entered the room—the dying woman’s husband, and the mysterious Father McCarthy. I heard the priest open his kit and place bottles on the side of the bed. Oil and holy water, if I remembered correctly.

“Pax huic domui. Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”

A chill meandered down my spine, spreading through my body until I was covered in goose bumps. The name, the voice, the ritual—they stirred memories that I had thought to be permanently buried. Darkness surrounded me as I closed my eyes and recalled the explanation that the boy from my youth had given:

“This is called extreme unction. It helps to send the dying person along on their journey.”

Those words sounded hollow, as if they were said in a tunnel, a long tunnel that spanned the distance of decades and was devoid of light. Holding the baby in my right arm, I put my good hand on my temples and squeezed hard, banishing the visions.

I glanced to my side just enough to see the priest wrap a flat purple stole around his neck, but he turned before I could see his face.
“Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Gloria Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
The damned dead language taunted me. I hadn’t set foot in a church since that Christmas morning when I became somebody else. The condemned don’t have any need for religion.

I returned to my task and laid the baby in a dry towel. Her cobalt eyes looked back at me through half-shut eyelids, still new to light. She relaxed in the comfort of my embrace as I rocked her gently. I was most at ease around babies. They didn’t take a second look at me, for they had not yet been taught what is beautiful and what is not. They were born into Eden, only to eat from the Tree of Knowledge shortly thereafter.

I put her tiny hands through the arms of the sleeper, much too big for her, and rolled the sleeves until they seemed to swallow her. I did the same with the legs. Snap, snap, snap. She was bundled well, but as I laid her in a nearby basket, I covered her with a blanket for extra measure.

“Exaudi nos, Domine, sanctae Pater, omnipotens, aeterne Deus: et mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo.”

The words were spoken with an excellent command. But maybe there was nothing special in that. Perhaps every priest could speak it as if it were his native tongue.

I heard him fiddle with the bottles of oils, and then whisper something to Mrs. Campbell. But the words that were audible to me were the ones from years ago. The scene not this remote farmhouse but a tiny flat near a train track. And the dying one is a man, the boy’s father, victim of old age and tuberculosis.

“This is the part where the priest hears the confession, Julianne. It is the last chance to unburden themselves of their sins.”

Julianne. No. I have no use for that name. Make it go away.

“Accipe, soror, Viaticum Corporis Domini nostri Jesu Christi, qui te custodiat ab hoste maligno, et perducat in vitam aeternam. Amen.”
The priest behind me speaks. The boy in my head explains.

“Now the priest is anointing him,” Kyle says. “A cross on his head and one on each hand.” I recall a chipped teacup on the bureau.

“Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolic Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo. Et benedico te . . .”

“The holy water blesses him.” I stand at the iron footboard and watch the ritual with awe. I do not know where I am. I clutch the baby and lean on a nearby table.

Go away. I do not want to remember this. Go away. I put my hand to my head.

Priest:
“In nomine Patris . . .”

Boy: “He crosses his head, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”