The Girls on Rose Hill (7 page)

Well, Kitty did marry her quare fellow and take back her child. For about a year, their correspondence was frequent. Kitty described her new home by the sea and the customers in the village hardware shop that her husband's family owned while Eileen described the details of her husband's wake and funeral and her son Danny's subsequent marriage to a Sheehan. If mother and daughter were not as close as they once were, they were closer than they had been since Kitty's ill fated marriage to Tim Murphy. But then Eileen sent this letter:
"My Dear Kitty, I am holding Margaret's letter in my hand and I can't believe it. She says that when she saw you last, she was shocked by your condition.. She said that your pretty hair is thin, and even missing in places and that the child is in even worse shape with bruises on her arm and a scar on her neck. Dear child, what is happening? You must tell me. Do not let pride stop you from seeking help. Sure, isn't Margaret's John a police sergeant? Let him help you. Your brother Danny says to tell you that there is always a place for you here. Even his wife Maggie agrees, and well, despite her being a Sheehan, she's not the worst of them. We would make room for you and your dear child. Please God, you are safe and I will wait for your next letter."

Kitty's response was short and savage.
"If my sister cannot visit without carrying tales, then's she's no longer welcome in my home, and you can tell her that. I'm fine and my child is fine, and for that one to say otherwise and cause trouble, well I won't stand for it. Rose is an active child and gets into everything, so of course she gets bruises. I know my hair has thinned, but it's from the pregnancy. Does Margaret honestly believe my husband would pull my hair? Peter is a good and kind husband and I will not hear anything against him. You can tell my brother and the Sheehans that all is well for us on Long Island."

I put down the letter, the thin paper almost transparent with age. The breeze from the window was now cool and the sun was low. I dropped the letters and hurried out of the room so as not to be late.

I made it to my mother's room at St. Francis by seven, to the obvious relief of Carol.

"How is she?" I asked.

"More alert today, for a little while anyway. She finished her dinner and drifted off about a half hour ago." Carol picked up a purse the size of a suitcase.

"She wasn't upset or anything?"

"No, El, she was just her usual sweet self. Listen, hon, I really gotta go before we lose that reservation."

"Of course, go on. Have a good time."

With a quick wave, she was off. I turned to my mother, whose color was a little better. Her sleep seemed untroubled by the dreams that disturbed her yesterday.

If that's what they were. What if they were memories? What did she say yesterday—don't hurt me, Peter? I tried to recall whether there had been any hint from my mother or Kitty that Peter was a little quick with his hands. But there was nothing. They never spoke about Peter. Other than the stiff family portrait taken at Danny's baptism, there were no pictures of Peter that I remembered even seeing at home, and that lone picture soon disappeared after Kitty's funeral. Besides the fact that he left two sons, it was as if the man had never lived.

But wasn't that in itself a sign? I grew up in what was essentially that man's house—it had been in the Frohller family since it was built in 1886—and I knew next to nothing about Peter Frohller. Didn't that speak volumes?

I couldn't imagine anyone less likely to be a battered wife than Kitty. Kitty, who buried two husbands by age forty-three and raised three children and a grandchild, was the most capable woman I'd ever met. I could still see her with her hand on her hip as she harangued a poor delivery man who delivered the wrong size nails. Someone hit bold Kitty? How could they dare?

But a woman of sixty, safe and secure in her own home and with money in the bank was a far cry from a young immigrant of twenty-five with a young child to care for. Would she suffer in silence just to give her child a home? I didn't know the answer to that. I'd never met a scared and vulnerable Kitty.

Maybe Margaret got it wrong. Maybe my mother was just an active and somewhat clumsy child. My son Timmy was one big bruise from ages three to six. Surely Kitty wouldn't subject her own child to the violence described in that letter because she didn't want to admit to her family that she had been wrong to marry Peter. I had put up with a lot from my own husband, maybe too much, but he'd soon find himself in the trunk of his precious sedan if he hurt one of our children. Surely Kitty would've felt the same.

My mother stirred in the bed. With all the weight loss, her features were sharper than ever, but what was heartbreaking when she was awake was almost child-like in sleep. Did Peter hurt her? Was that why she was so meek and mild, because Peter had beaten the spirit out of her? I didn't know what upset me more, the thought of someone harming a small defenseless Rose or the fact that I had no clue as to who the woman lying on the bed really was.

The letter said Rose had a scar on her neck. My mother didn't have a scar, did she? If there was no scar, then maybe Margaret's letter to Eileen and her letter to Kitty were just a misunderstanding, a Bay Ridge to Templeglantin to Centerport game of telephone that had gone horribly wrong. If there was no scar, then maybe there was no abuse.

I bent closer to my mother and examined her neck. Just as I thought, there was no scar. Relief washed over me as I sat back in my chair. "I'm overwrought," I thought, "and I have no business going through Rose's and Kitty's things." Molly was right, I should leave those musty letters alone. I had upset myself over nothing.

I walked down to the vending machine on the first floor and bought myself a cup of weak coffee. I chatted briefly to one of the night nurses who handed me the most recent celebrity magazine. I promised to give her my newspaper when I was finished with it. In a much better frame of mind, I returned to my mother's room, and proceeded to read through the trashy mags.

About an hour and a half later, one of the aides stuck her head in the door. "Mrs. Mills? It's almost eleven. Visiting hours are over."

"Yes, of course. I lost track of time." I put down the magazine and looked at my mother who had turned on her side, faced away from me, while I had been engrossed by the latest celebrity dust-up. The back of her thin neck was fully exposed. In the soft light, I could see a mark that almost looked as if it had been made from the sheets. I moved closer until I saw it: a jagged silvery line that reached halfway down my mother's neck.

Chapter 7

Ellen

By ten o'clock, I was up, dressed and fit to be tied. No sign of Brendan, no call to tell me he'd be late. Well, I'd cut my fingers off before I dialed him.

I rearranged the plate of bagels I'd rushed out to buy this morning and then walked into the hallway and fussed with the arrangement of flowers I'd cut from the garden earlier. I looked into the hallway's old brass mirror and ran my hands through my newly shorn hair.

Back in the kitchen, I poured myself a mug of coffee. I didn't want to be found by Brendan waiting on the steps, like a child waiting for Santa, so I took a new magazine and my coffee to the back patio. I sat on the flimsy lawn chair and attempted to focus on the lush flowers while ignoring the equally abundant weeds.

I looked at the heavy platinum and diamond Cartier watch the children guilted Brendan into buying me for my 40th birthday. Twenty-five to eleven. I fought the urge to call him and focused instead on the latest celebutantes and their various weight loss tricks.

Two minutes later, a car door slammed followed by the faint chime of the doorbell. I forced myself to walk slowly into the house, through the kitchen and the hallway to the heavy oak front door. "Brendan," I said, feigning slight disinterest, "you made it."

"Of course, sweetheart." He swept me into a hearty embrace. "I said I would be here."

I disentangled myself from his arms. "So you did. Why don't you drop your bag in the living room and we'll be off."

"What, no coffee?" Brendan barreled into the kitchen. His large frame overwhelmed the small room. "Ooo, bagels."

I followed him. "We don't have time."

"Sure we do, hon, she's not going anywhere."

I poured him a cup of coffee. "Nice, Brendan."

"Aw, that's not what I meant. I just drove six hours through horrendous New York traffic. Cut me some slack, boss."

I sighed. "Do you want cream cheese?"

"Of course! Load me up."

After Brendan was fed and watered, we walked to my car, where I received a wave from a shirtless and sweaty Billy. For some reason this piqued Brendan's interest. "You're friendly with the gardener, honey?"

"That's the neighbor's son. We went to high school together."

"I'll bet he had a huge crush on you."

"We didn't exactly run in the same circles."

"I'm sure all the boys loved you," Brendan said with his usual flirty smile.

I didn't even bother to answer. I turned up the radio and neither of us spoke again during our ride to St. Francis. Once there, we walked past the nurses at the front desk who gave me a smile and Brendan an appraising look. At fifty-nine, Brendan, with his broad shoulders, deep set blue-grey eyes and thick mane of silver hair, still cut an impressive figure. We had almost reached my mother's room, when he touched my hair. "Hey, did you do something to your hair?"

"Yeah, I cut off six inches." And it only took you an hour to notice, I sniped in my head.

"Lookin' good, kid," he said with the same smile he'd give his secretary Susan if she bought a new pair of glasses.

I stifled my irritation and said thank you as we walked into my mother's room. My mother looked anxious as her friend from her convent days, Sister Elizabeth, read from the bible. Sister Elizabeth stopped reading and beamed at us.

"Well, here they are now, Rose. I told you they'd be along soon."

"Sorry we're late," I said.

"Not at all. It gave me a chance to catch up with Rose. I was out last week at a retreat." The small wren-like woman rose quickly and gave Brendan her seat. "Now, I'll leave you alone to enjoy your visit."

"Bye, Elizabeth," my mother said faintly.

"Good-bye, Sister Elizabeth," I said.

Sister smiled. "See you later. I'll stop in before I leave."

Even sitting, Brendan's large frame overwhelmed the small room. In a booming voice he said, "So, look at my favorite mother-in-law. Are they treating you okay?"

"Oh, yes, Brendan." Rose struggled to sit up. I ran to the other side of her bed and propped a pillow behind her back.

"And you're not causing any trouble here? Have the male nurses fallen in love with you yet, Rose?"

Unbelievably, my mother always loved Brendan's ridiculous banter, the more hokey, the better.

"Oh, Brendan, you're terrible." Her small thin hand playfully tapped his. They went on like that for another twenty minutes until Rose's energy flagged. She must have felt herself go, because she took Brendan's hand. "Brendan, thank you for taking such good care of my Ellen all these years. I knew the first time I met you, that you were a good man and that you'd make my daughter happy."

"I'm the lucky one, Rose. Lucky to have two such beautiful women in my life," Brendan said, a typical glib response.

"No, Brendan," she said, her voice no louder than a whisper now, "I'm serious. You gave Ellen a real home and family, something I couldn't do. For that I've always been grateful. May God bless you and keep you." Tears welled in her eyes, and Brendan looked at me, slightly panicked. Brendan could never handle real emotions. I saved him and said, "Mom, Brendan has always told me how you were a second mother to him." I poked him, hard. "Didn't you, dear?"

"Oh yes, Rose. I always say that."

My mother nodded. Her lids fluttered as she fought the fatigue. Within minutes, she succumbed.

Brendan slapped his hands on his knees. "Well, what now?"

"What do you mean, what now?" I snapped. "We wait until she wakes up."

He looked slightly confused. "But I said good-bye. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Paul will be here at four to start the night shift. We'll stay until then."

"Is it really necessary for one of you to just sit here all day?" Brendan asked, unable to hide his exasperation. "Isn't that what the nurses are for?"

"Brendan, she's dying. In a matter of a few weeks, maybe just a few more days for all the doctors know. I'm not going to let her die alone. I can't believe I really have to spell it out for you."

"Fine, fine. No need to get upset."

"My mother's dying and you're acting like a total shit. If anyone has a right to get upset it's me. Why don't you go outside and make whatever calls you need to make. She should be asleep for a while."

He brightened. "Okay, but only if you're sure."

"Just go, Brendan."

I flipped through an old paperback, although it was difficult to concentrate. After a while, I gave up and walked over to the window. Brendan paced along the courtyard and shouted into his cell. Either his insider trading case wasn't going well or Christine was giving him an earful for disrupting their weekend plans. The older woman kneeling at the statue of Mary shot Brendan disapproving looks which I doubt he even noticed. The woman eventually gave up and left.