The Promise of Home (14 page)

Father O'Brien paused. Not everyone in his family had lived to see him enter the seminary, but he had no desire to reveal that sad truth or dredge up the events leading up to it.

“My family was very supportive,” he said. “My uncle Frank—my mother's brother and the priest I mentioned—was an important part of my life…of all of our lives. And my mother—Anna was her name—was especially keen on me pursuing a higher education.”

“All right,” Julia said as she scribbled furiously. She took a moment to skim over her notes before resuming her questions. “So, you were ordained in?”

“January 1941.”

“And how old were you at the time?”

“Almost twenty-two.”

Julia puzzled over his answer. “Forgive me, Father, but isn't that too young to be ordained?”

“These days, yes. Priests are required to be at least twenty-four now, and many are much older, with varied life experiences, at the time of ordination. But I'd finished my schooling early, and there was a war going on, don't forget. Military chaplains of all faiths were urgently needed. So I requested and received a dispensation to be ordained at a younger age.”

“You expected to be sent into the war?”

“I knew it was a possibility, one that I welcomed, if that was the service needed of me. I ended up being assigned here, to Mill River, instead.”

“Your tenure here is extraordinary, Father. I've never heard of another priest being allowed to serve so long in one place. I read a few other articles about you. One of them said that you received special permission to serve the people of Mill River indefinitely. Could you tell me about that?”

“Yes, it was another dispensation, granted to me long ago and honored by the diocese ever since.” Father O'Brien could still see Mary as a young woman, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with her face heavily bandaged. And he would never forget Conor McAllister, Mary's grandfather-in-law, begging him to agree to look after Mary once he had passed on. It was Conor who'd had close ties with the bishop and had persuaded him to permit Father O'Brien to stay in Mill River.

“Has it been frustrating for you to be stuck here for so long?”

Father O'Brien pursed his lips as he considered how best to answer the question. “In all honesty, there was a short period—while I was a very young priest—when I disliked the fact that I had been ‘stuck here.' I wished for what might have been, had I not been asked and agreed to stay in Mill River, even though ‘what might have been' wasn't even known to me. Maybe I would have traveled more, met more people, seen more things. Perhaps I would have taught in a seminary. The thought of teaching always did appeal to me. Or there might have been something else, some other role in which I could have been useful.

“That period quickly passed. I realized that I wasn't stuck in Mill River—I'd been placed here. It was God's doing that I ended up here. The people needed me, some far more than others. And I came to understand that I needed them as well. I've seen generations of the same family grow up here. I've been with them through the good times and bad, and I'm so thankful to have been here for all those times.”

“Now you're, well, pardon my asking, but you're…how old, exactly?”

He smiled. “I've always thought that age was just a number. What truly matters is what's inside here”—he tapped his forefinger to his temple—“and here,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “I pray that I've accumulated enough wisdom over my many years to be of better service in my position, and I still feel very young at heart.”

Julia smiled at him, and the wonder on her face was plain. “Do you think you'll retire anytime soon?”

Father O'Brien chuckled and leaned forward in his chair. “Julia, my dear, don't you think I would have retired long ago if I had any intention of retiring at all?” He winked at the journalist to make sure she understood that he wasn't being gruff or condescending. “Even if I did retire as pastor, I would immediately look for another way to serve and to work. I love what I do. I love the Lord and the people of Mill River. I fully intend to serve here as long as I'm able.”

In Claudia Simon's fourth-grade classroom Tuesday afternoon, Karen was preoccupied with watching the clock. It wasn't because the students were being unruly or because she was eager to be done with work for the day. On the contrary, she was dreading the end of the school day, when she would leave the distraction of fourteen busy children and face another evening of uncertainty, not knowing whether her husband was safe or even alive.

She'd arrived early that morning so she could explain to Claudia what had happened and why she might not be completely herself. It was no surprise that Claudia had been completely supportive and sympathetic. Her supervising teacher was a sweetheart, and they'd worked together for months, since Claudia had taken the open fourth-grade position at the school. They were now friends as well as colleagues.

The classroom was quiet at the moment, with the children having gone to gym class. As Claudia worked on redoing one of the classroom bulletin boards, Karen sat at a desk grading the morning's math quizzes. It should have been a quick and easy task, but she kept looking up at the clock's minute hand inching forward and losing her place among the rows of math problems.

Just focus,
she thought.
Worrying won't do anything to help you or Nick, and the kids will be back soon enough to take your mind off it.

“How are your wedding plans coming?” she asked Claudia.

“So far, so good,” Claudia said, stepping up on a stool to staple a border. “I'm trying not to stress over anything, you know? Kyle and I just want to keep things as simple as we can and enjoy the day.”

“That's what matters. You'll remember your wedding day for the rest of your life, and you want those memories to be good ones.”

Karen realized as she spoke the words how true they were for her. She and Nick had married during one of his brief breaks between tours, and so many things about that perfect day were seared into her memory. Seeing her mother beaming and crying as her father walked with her down the aisle to the altar. Hearing her father whisper in her ear—“You remember that you'll
always
be my little girl”—as he'd placed her hand in Nick's. And her new husband's face—strong and yet tender, with his own tear-filled eyes gazing down at her as he lifted her veil to kiss her—how many times during the past several weeks had she remembered that moment, held fast to it to keep herself going? How many times had she prayed to see that face again?

“Karen? Karen, are you all right?”

Only then did she snap out of her reverie and realize that the math quiz in front of her was peppered with tearstains. “I'm fine,” she managed to say. “Talking about weddings…”

“I'm so sorry,” Claudia said, but Karen shook her head.

“No, no, I'm the one who brought it up. I guess I shouldn't have, but it seems like everything I hear or see or say these days reminds me of Nick.”

“I think that's entirely normal, given the circumstances,” Claudia said. The teacher came closer and touched her arm. “Would you like some water? I could run down to the lounge and get a bottle for you.”

Karen nodded. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Claudia left the room, and Karen tried to compose herself and focus on her work. She had made it through another quiz when the cellphone in her pocket began to vibrate. The number that flashed on the screen caused her heart to skip a beat, and her hands began to tremble as she answered the call.

“Yes? Yes, this is Karen Cooper,” she said to the representative from her husband's company. “Do you have new information about my husband?” She listened to the woman on the other end of the line, but as the words began to register, the pounding of her heart and the new flood of tears made it impossible for her to speak or to even keep the phone to her ear. She dropped it on the surface of the student desk in front of her and, shaking, gripped the edges of the desk until her fingers were numb.

The guttural, heart-wrenching sound that rose up and escaped her throat was one of unmistakable grief.

April 20, 1934

O
n his way home from school on a Friday afternoon, Michael checked the mailbox and found it empty. That there was no letter from his father waiting was a minor disappointment, but one that would be reversed in due course, he was sure. After all, they had received the first letter and the five dollars only a few weeks ago, and they needed to allow time for his father to be paid again and for another letter to reach the farm.

The absence of a letter did little to spoil Michael's happy mood, because the past two weeks had been wonderful. His mother and grandmother had done some much-needed shopping with the money his father had sent. The pantry was restocked, the truck's gas tank was full, and there had been a bit left over to save. His mother had seemed better, too. She hadn't had any other fainting episodes, and she'd been unusually cheerful, whistling or sometimes humming to herself as she worked in the kitchen.

Michael came through the front door and hung up his book bag, cap, and coat. The house was strangely quiet. “Mother? Grandma?” He went into the kitchen, where a pot of something that smelled wonderful was simmering on the stove. Everything seemed especially clean, too, he noticed. The floors were damp, as if they had been freshly scrubbed. The counters and table were tidied up, and there were no dirty dishes in the sink basin.
Maybe Mother's in the root cellar,
he thought.
And Grandma might be in the barn.

Just then his grandmother entered the kitchen from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Your mother's taken ill again,” she said with a worried look on her face. “She seemed fine this morning and into the afternoon. Better than fine, really, because she started the spring cleaning. Just after she got supper going, though, she got sick again, and worse this time. Everything she ate came back up. I've been giving her soda crackers and sips of water, but even that won't stay down. I think, Michael…I think we should have a doctor look at her.”

It took Michael a moment to process his grandmother's words. “Should I go call for one?”

“You'll have to, because I don't want to leave her alone, and she's in no shape to drive. Go over and ask Mr. Whibley for a ride to the Union Oil call box. See if you can reach Dr. Washburn before his office closes for the day. And hurry, Michael.”

So many thoughts ran through his mind as he rushed next door and then rode the few miles with his neighbor to the filling station with the public telephone. He wished so much that their farm had a telephone, even if its use was reserved for emergencies. He wondered how his family could afford a doctor's visit right now, especially a home visit, even if his mother's health demanded it. He was reeling from having his weeklong good mood replaced by a sense of precarious insecurity. More than anything, he was deeply concerned about and afraid of what was happening with his mother.

Time slowed to a crawl after Whibley returned him to the farm. Michael sat in the parlor, watching the minute hand of the old clock on the mantel. His grandmother was back in the bedroom, sitting with his mother, as they all waited for the doctor to arrive.

The sound of a car pulling up brought Michael to his feet. He opened the front door before the doctor had even gotten out of his car.

“Hello, Michael. Good to see you. So, your mother hasn't been feeling well, has she? I'll do my best to change that.”

“Thank you, sir. She's inside resting.” He led the doctor down the hallway to his mother's room and knocked gently on the door. “Mother? Grandma? Dr. Washburn is here.”

His grandmother opened the door and quickly ushered the doctor inside. A look at Michael as she closed the door clearly communicated that he should remain outside the bedroom.

He turned and walked halfway back to the parlor before he stopped. It was wrong to even think about eavesdropping, and his cheeks flushed with shame as he stood silently in the hallway. Still, he began to creep back toward the bedroom, knowing all the while that he was going to listen at the bedroom door.

At first, it was hard to hear what was going on inside. Michael pressed his ear tight against the door and hoped it wouldn't creak. Only then could he make out the doctor's low voice quietly asking his mother questions and his mother answering weakly.

“…remember when the last time you bled?”

“…not sure, maybe a few months ago? It's not regular, and I don't really keep track very carefully anymore.”

“And when was the last time you ate a normal meal?”

“I think three days ago, at breakfast. I haven't felt like eating much at all.”

“Are you able to drink anything? Water? Milk?”

“I try, but it usually doesn't stay down.”

There was a minute or so of silence before the doctor began to speak again. “There's no doubt you're with child again, Mrs. O'Brien. About six or seven weeks along, I'd say. Your extreme nausea troubles me. No one knows for sure why this sickness occurs in expectant mothers. Recently, there have been articles published by experts in the medical community indicating that nausea and vomiting like yours are largely psychosomatic. That is, some subconscious part of a woman's mind is fighting against the child she's carrying, resulting in the physical symptoms known as morning sickness. Of course, I'm aware of your medical history and the difficulties you've suffered trying to bear children. Given these new articles, however, I feel it my duty to ask—do you truly want another baby? Could it be that your attempts to bear another child were influenced by the wishes of your husband?”

“What?” His mother's voice carried as much shock as Michael felt after hearing the doctor's insinuation and question. “Of course I want another child. So does Niall, but I can assure you, Doctor, that my own desire is both great and wholly independent of my husband's wishes. Why, I'd give my own life if doing so would allow this baby to survive.”

“She very nearly did give her own life the last couple of tries, which you well know,” his grandmother said. There was anger in her voice, and Michael could envision the wrinkles around her eyes becoming more pronounced as she glared at the doctor. “How could you believe that Anna doesn't want another child?”

“I don't believe that exactly, ma'am,” the doctor said, and his voice took on an appeasing tone. “Of course she would
consciously
want the child she's carrying. If the current theory is correct—that the subconscious mind is the root cause of morning sickness—she might not be aware of such resistance.”

“I can assure you, Doctor, that I want this child with
all
of my mind, be it conscious, subconscious, or whatever,” his mother said. Her voice sounded louder.

The doctor sighed. “Then perhaps the nausea is the result of some sort of stress you're experiencing. You said your husband will be working out of state for an extended period?”

“Yes.”

“It can't be easy to hold down this place on your own, not knowing when he'll return.”

“I'm not on my own,” his mother said, and Michael could hear her frustration building as she spoke. “I have Lizzie and Michael here, and they help me plenty. If anything, the fact that Niall has found good, steady work has been quite a relief, even if it means he won't be home for a while. In times like these, a family has to make sacrifices. One of ours will be time spent apart, if it means that my husband will remain employed.”

“Well. I suppose the important thing for now isn't why you're having this sickness but how we can get you feeling better. Your pulse is rapid, and you're showing early signs of dehydration. It's important that you continue to try to drink as much as you can, even if it comes up afterward. Water, fruit juices, any kind of liquid. It may be easier if you sip fluids in between meals. I'm sure you remember that a tea made with sugar and gingerroot is often very helpful in reducing nausea.”

“Yes. So are soda crackers, especially in the morning, although they haven't helped me so far.”

“I'll give you a prescription for a new vitamin formula that's being recommended for cases like yours. When you go to the drugstore to pick it up, you might also get a bottle of cola syrup, which is sold over the counter. And I want you to stay in bed and rest for the time being. Let's see how it goes over the next twenty-four hours. I'll come out to check on you tomorrow around this time.”

Michael heard the creaking of bedsprings, presumably from the doctor standing up or his mother shifting position. Whichever the cause, the sound prompted him to back away from the door and slip down the hallway. He heard the bedroom door open almost as soon as he reached the kitchen, and the doctor and his grandmother joined him.

“I'd like you to keep a close eye on her, Mrs. O'Brien,” the doctor said. He turned toward Michael. “You, too, son. Don't let your mother do anything to exert herself. Make sure she takes the medicine I prescribed and that she drinks often.”

“Doctor,” his grandmother said, “seeing as how I don't drive and Michael is too young to hold a junior license, we'll be hard pressed to get the medicine before the pharmacy closes. Would you be able to give Michael a lift into town? He could pick up the prescriptions for Anna and walk back here.”

“That's no problem at all. I was planning to go back to the clinic, anyway.”

“Thank you. I have one other concern, that being the bill for your services. We're extremely short on cash. I guess most folks are these days. We can pay the four dollars for today's visit, but after we buy medicine for Anna…”

The doctor was quiet for a moment and then offered his grandmother a resigned smile. “Why don't we consider tomorrow's follow-up part of today's visit? I know there isn't a family in the area that isn't struggling financially, and you folks have been patients of mine for a long time.”

“We would appreciate that very much, Doctor. Thank you.”

The doctor nodded. “I'll make note of it on the bill. Have a good evening, Mrs. O'Brien. Are you ready, Michael?”

“Yes, sir, I'll just get my coat.”

“All right. I'll go start the car.”

As soon as the doctor had left the house, his grandmother grabbed his wrist. “You'll need some money for the medicine. Wait here.” She went quickly down the hallway to her room and returned a few moments later.

“Here,” she said, shoving a five-dollar bill into his hand. “Most of what your father sent went to buy groceries and gas, so use this for the prescriptions. And you be careful to bring back the change.”

Michael looked at the money in his hand. “Grandma, I thought you told the doctor…Where did you get this?”

“It's not your business to ask, Michael, but I'll tell you anyway.” His grandmother gave him a wry smile. “It came from that vicious tramp who attacked your mother. Do you remember the gold watch you found in his pocket?” she whispered as she glanced out the front window. “When your mother and I went to town after your father sent money, I told her I wanted to go to the drugstore to get some liniment for my arthritis. While she shopped for groceries, I did just that. But first I walked over to the loan office.”

Michael knew about the loan office. It was the only one of its kind in Burlington, tucked away on the corner of a street on the edge of town. He had passed by it on occasion, and the front window was always stocked with fine jewelry and sparkling watches. The other items on display routinely changed. There might be a crystal vase or sterling candlesticks. He had seen a lovely, shiny guitar once, suspended from two ropes near the top of the window. Another time, there had been a new-looking console radio positioned at the very front, with the jewelry and watches flanking it.

The loan office was run by a sweaty Russian named Igor Borisov. Michael knew this because his mother had described the man, and she had made clear that he was never to go there. “It's a place of shame and desperation and last resort,” she'd said. “Not only that, but Mr. Borisov has a reputation for being slimy, and not just in the physical sense.” But his grandmother hadn't had a privileged upbringing like his mother's. Having lived and worked on a farm her entire life, she was used to doing whatever was required to scrape by.

“You took a loan against the watch?” Michael asked.

“I
sold
the watch,” his grandmother said. “I figured we didn't need it lying around here, where it might raise suspicion if someone saw it. And Borisov gave me twenty dollars for it. Twenty dollars! It's a good thing, because I have a feeling this won't be the last time we have the doctor out here for your mother. Don't you dare breathe a word of it to her. She wouldn't approve of me going there or telling you about it. Do you understand me?”

Michael nodded. He was trying to wrap his mind around what his grandmother had done, as well as the fact that there was now a new secret he was responsible for keeping.

His grandmother pulled his coat from the hook by the door and held it out to him. “You best get out there. The doctor's waiting for you.”

The doctor's vehicle, a Cadillac town sedan, was by far the finest car in which Michael had ridden. He couldn't help but stare at the rich wood trim and the myriad gauges positioned across the dashboard behind a gleaming glass panel. The soft velour upholstery on the plush seats caught on the skin of his rough, chapped hands, and the polished chrome door and window handles reflected his image.

“You're quiet,” the doctor observed as he drove out onto the road. “Worried about your mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll monitor her closely. She might improve and get through the roughest part of the sickness on her own.”

“And what if she doesn't, Doctor? What if she doesn't get better?”

Dr. Washburn sighed. “It's been several years since her last time expecting. There are some new treatments available. They're in-hospital treatments, mind you, but they're usually very effective.”