The Girls on Rose Hill (20 page)

Molly ignored me and continued. "Kitty hid it. Denied it. But every time Rose came to my house she was covered in bruises. Broken fingers. Missing patches of hair. Kitty told my mother that Rose was just an active child, but Rose was timid. A bookworm. My mother never believed Kitty and neither did I."

I said nothing.

"He was a vile, nasty man. To hit a woman, a child. Who would do that?"

I finally turned to face her. "And that justifies murder?"

"Murder? Who even knows if there really was a murder. If Kitty and your mother really wanted him dead, why would they wait two years to do it? Your mother fed him, cleaned him, wiped his ass. I saw her with Peter. She cared for him tenderly, with kindness. More kindness than that bastard deserved. And she never complained, not once. I don't believe she murdered Peter. I don't."

"Well, then why did she say she did? She's told me so many half truths all my life that I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Misplaced guilt? I don't know, Ellen. I don't. But, at the end of the day, does any of this really matter? There are only three people who know what happened. Two are dead and one's about to be." Molly stroked my hair, as she would her young daughter. In a softer voice, she continued, " I think what you need to ask yourself is are you're really so horrified by her admission or are you just using this as an excuse not to deal with your mother, not to deal with her death."

"My head is spinning. I swear to God, Molly, my head is spinning with all of this."

Molly dug through her purse and produced a pack of cigarettes. She lit two and handed one to me.

"But I don't..."

"You do today."

We silently smoked our cigarettes. I choked mine down like a thirteen year old sneaking her first smoke; Molly with the relish of an unrepentant smoker. The sun was low in the sky and the midges had begun to bite, but neither one of us wanted to move. Molly stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. I slapped a mosquito.

"My mother died two months before my wedding. We fought over the seating chart the night before she died. A seating chart, can you believe it? But, I was only twenty-one, she was barely forty-five. Neither one of us dreamed that she wouldn't be there to dance at my wedding."

I said nothing.

"That might be one reason why I've never had patience for your attitude towards your mother. Look, I know it probably wasn't easy for you growing up in that house. I know things weren't perfect. But Rose loved you and she was there. She was there for your wedding. She was there when your children were born. She was there any time you needed her, any time you wanted her."

"I know."

"And now you have the opportunity to hold her hand as she dies. To be with her. You have no idea how much I envy you that. My mother died of an aneurism, alone in the bathroom. This time with your mother is a gift. Don't waste it." Molly stubbed out her cigarette, patted me on the back and awkwardly stood up. I watched her walk slowly back to the street.

I sat, almost frozen, on that dock for another hour. I didn't cry, didn't think, didn't pray. I just sat and allowed my limbs to be the mosquitos' dinner. I think I would've slept there if Billy hadn't found me. He lifted me up and led me like a child back to my mother's house.

Chapter 22

Rose

Monsignor Ryan held my hand as I made my confession. His deep Brooklyn baritone filled the room as he calmly granted me absolution. Only one Hail Mary and two Our Fathers to expiate my sins. We said the prayers together. After more than forty years, my soul was finally clear, whole. I now had God's forgiveness. At least I hoped I had God's forgiveness. I supposed I'd find out soon enough.

But, will I have my daughter's? I didn't know. I knew I didn't have much time left. The morphine drip I'd fought for so long was now permanently attached to my arm, pumping sweet relief into my veins. The jagged edge of pain kept at bay, along with hunger and thirst although I had no desire for any sustenance now other than my daughter's love.

Love. What a funny word for what our relationship was. I'd made mistakes, God knows I'd made mistakes, but there was always love. On my end, there was always love.

But, was it enough? Sadly, I didn't think so. Despite my best intentions, the poison in that house seeped into the next generation. Maybe Ellen's right. Maybe I should've tracked down the charming Denis, shamed him into doing the right thing by me. Make an honest woman of me. Honest, like a band of gold could do that after what I'd done.

Then Ellen would've had a daddy who loved her, who made her feel special. She would've had the white picket fence, happily-ever-after life that she's spent her life searching for. Instead, she was raised in that house, caught in the constant tug of war between myself and my mother. Always the pawn. No wonder. No wonder Ellen hates me.

But, the thought of some man's hands on me night after night. His sour breath on my face as he pounded away at me. A constant reminder of that bastard, that bastard who stole my innocence. A constant reminder of those times in the shed. No. I couldn't do it. I couldn't give up the safety of my spinster bed. Not for Ellen. Not for anyone.

And so now I had to pay the price of putting my own desires ahead of my daughter. If only a Hail Mary and an Our Father could atone for that sin.

It was late afternoon when I woke from my opium induced slumber. A late summer storm raged outside my window. The room was dark and without my glasses I could just make out that there was someone standing by the window. Her heels clicked on the tiles as she walked to me, her bright hair glowing in low light from the window. She handed me my glasses. "Hello, Mom."

"Ellen, you're back."

"I am." She stroked my hair. "And I'm not leaving again. I promise. I'm here to the end."

"To the end," I repeated faintly.

"Yes, Mom. To the end."

"Good," I replied. "Good."

Chapter 23

Ellen

"She's fading," I said into the phone. "She's fading fast. I know you're excited about getting ready for orientation, but if you want to say good bye, you need to come up in the next day or so."

"Timmy has to work tomorrow but he said he'd drive me up with me on Tuesday. I haven't spoken to Michael."

"I spoke to him. He's at the Cape with his roommate but he's taking the train down on Wednesday."

"Okay. Do you want me tell Dad?" Veronica asked hesitantly.

"Of course. Tell him you're coming up. But, there's no reason for him to miss work for this." I tried to keep the flint from my voice.

"But, it's Nana. Shouldn't he..."

"Leave it, Veronica. Just leave it. He had his chance to say good-bye." He had his chance.

"Are you sure? Because I could I ask him to come with me tonight and Timmy could drive down by himself."

"I'm sure, honey."

After I decided to put my doubts and anger aside and return to my mother's room, my mother was quiet but coherent. I spent the following handful of days reading the paper to her, reading the bible. She didn't seem to care what I read as long as I was with her, as long as she could hear my voice. But then yesterday something changed. She was agitated, her fingers constantly plucked at the bed covers for some reason. Short of knocking her out altogether, nothing seemed to calm her. Whenever she was awake she would look intently at the corner of her room, near the window. She nodded at it, murmured to it, as if she was speaking to someone. What upset me most of all was that she no longer recognized me. The forty-three year old Ellen, mother of three, was gone. In Rose's mind, that Ellen had been replaced by my grandmother.

The word had gone out and now members of the extended family streamed through the room. Auntie Maura, her sons, their wives and children, Paul's children, Carol's sister. Some sat naturally and chatted about an upcoming family wedding or graduation, as if my mother could follow what they were saying, as if she would be there for the happy event. Others were uncomfortable and spent more time talking to me rather than addressing my mother. One distant cousin was so rattled that she spent her half hour visit filling vases with water, even a vase full of artificial flowers.

Veronica and Timmy arrived around noon the next day. They walked into my mother's room bursting with youth and vitality, both their faces burnished with a thick layer of freckles. Timmy engulfed me in a suffocating hug. Veronica held back and offered me an uncertain smile.

Rose had just woken from a nap and was relatively alert. "Come here to me," she croaked to the children.

Veronica walked up to her and hesitantly took her hand. Timmy followed.

"Hello, Nana."

"Ellen, what have you done to your hair?"

"I'm not Ellen, I'm..."

"What has happened to your beautiful blonde hair?" She looked at me. "Mama, did you let Ellen dye her hair? Was it you or was it that devil Laurie Nolan?"

"But, Nana, I'm..."

"Red? Why on earth would you dye that poor child's hair red. I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

I shot Veronica a look. "It'll wash out, Rosie. The girls were only experimenting."

"Well, I should hope so," she huffed. During my own adolescence, Rose wouldn't have said a word if I had shaved my head. This new querulous personality of hers was strange and unsettling.

"And who is this, Ellie? Is it your boyfriend?"

Playing along, Timmy said, "Yes, I'm a friend from school." He contorted his face into an approximation of a smile, but I could see how upset he was. I sometimes forgot how young my children were, how sheltered. Their lives had been a whirl of private schools, sports, parties. Other than Brendan's remote parenting style, this death was probably the first bit of sadness to touch their unblemished lives. But, Timmy was brave. He filled the space with stories from his summer life guarding job. Rose nodded, almost pleasantly, as if she could follow his stories.

It was Veronica I worried about. She shrank into the corner and stared blankly at her grandmother. I sensed that neither my mother nor my daughter could take much more, so I said, "Rose, it's time for you to rest. You can see the children later."

"Mama, I don't need you to tell me what to do," Rose snapped. "I'm a grown woman, with a child of my own. You seem to like to forget that."

"Of course," I soothed, "of course."

Tears sprung from her eyes. "Why are you always going off without me? Why don't you ever let me come?"

Veronica's eyes were wild now with panic and Timmy looked like he was going to cry.

"We're not going far, Rose. I promise, we're not going far."

After I settled the children back at the house, I returned to St. Francis. Sister Elizabeth was in with her. My mother continued that disturbing plucking motion, but it didn't seem to phase Sister Elizabeth. She continued her soothing patter while my mother mindlessly pulled at her covers. I stood at the doorway, unable to enter.

"Hey."

I turned around. "Hey yourself."

"Here, I thought you could use this." He handed me a large coffee.

I carefully sipped the hot coffee. "Thanks, Billy."

"How is she?"

I gestured to the open door. "Not good, as you can see for yourself. She hasn't much longer, I'm afraid."

"And you?"

"I'm here. I'm still here. That's about all I can say for myself."

He took my free hand. "Let's go outside. I think you could use a break."

We walked hand-in-hand to the empty courtyard, the late afternoon sun still strong. We sat together on the hard bench in front of Our Lady's statue.

"You look wiped out."

"Really?" I self consciously ran my fingers through my overgrown hair.

He touched my cheek. "You still look beautiful to me. You just look tired. Tired and sad."

I smiled. "Tired and sad. I guess that about sums it up."

"What can I do, Ellen? What do you need?"

"God, it's been a long time since anyone has asked me that."

"I'm here for you. Whatever you need."