New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  “She and Lucille have been good to me ever since I arrived,” I said. “It’s the least I could do.” Besides, I added to myself, thinking again of Eddie Churchill, I’m part of the community.

  “How’s Biddy getting on?” she asked.

  Was it my imagination, or did everyone in the takeout seem to lean in to hear my answer? I thought about what Doug had said about the gossiping, and how Biddy valued her privacy so much.

  “She’s fine,” I said, falling back on the O’Brien code. “Just fine.”

  Biddy raved about the fish and chips and said she must treat herself more often. She was much livelier that evening, going so far as to ask for a drink of sherry. Naturally, I joined her. It would have been rude not to.

  But when it was time for bed, she asked if I wouldn’t mind reading her another chapter, which I gladly did. I knew there was a second Maeve Binchy book out and I resolved to buy it for Biddy if I could find it in Clayville. And, if not, then heck, I’d been in Newfoundland for almost eight months, maybe it was time to check out St. John’s.

  I slept on the daybed again that night. It was warm and cozy in the kitchen, and despite Biddy’s obvious improvement, I wanted to be within earshot if she woke in the night.

  The next morning, I woke early and looked around Biddy’s kitchen, really looking. There was a stack of books beside the daybed where I lay and the treasure box was still on the table. Biddy’s tea set, neatly organized up on a shelf, was bone china. Three hooked rugs lay on the floor: one in front of the wood stove, one by the daybed and one at the entranceway. I was lying under the most gorgeous quilt I’d ever seen, although clearly, I would never admit that to Lucille.

  The ringing phone interrupted my inventory taking and I answered quickly, not wanting to wake Biddy.

  “Hello,” I half whispered.

  “Who’s that?” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “Where’s Biddy?”

  “It’s Rachel O’Brien,” I said. “Biddy’s still asleep. I’m . . .” I thought about what Doug had said about not gossiping. “I’m visiting her this weekend.”

  “Visiting?” The voice was incredulous. “This is Elsie, her sister.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to. I’m staying with Biddy this weekend because I didn’t want her to be on her own, after the . . .” I paused, wondering how best to phrase things.

  “I’m after hearing about the accident. Sounds like she’ll mend just fine. Normally, there’s nothing Biddy likes better than being on her own,” Elsie said. “But I’m glad you were able to stay with her.”

  “It’s honestly a pleasure,” I said.

  “Hmph,” came the reply. “We’re coming back to Little Cove as soon as we can, you tell her,” said Elsie. “And I’ll see to her then.”

  After I hung up, I poked my head around the doorway of Biddy’s room. She was awake and I asked her if she wanted tea in bed.

  “My dear,” she said. “What luxury, yes, please. And this is nonsense now, but are there any of them cookies of yours on the go or wha? They’re some good.”

  Ten minutes later, Biddy and I were having cookies and tea for breakfast, she in her bed and me in the rocking chair. I looked up at one point and Biddy had a big smile on her face.

  “What’s got you so happy?” I asked.

  “I just realized that for the first time in fifty years, I don’t have to go to Mass this morning,” she said, gleefully. “I’m too poorly.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought you were feeling better.”

  She smirked, and snuggled back under the covers.

  “You know,” I said. “If you’re not feeling well, maybe I need to stay with you. Just in case.”

  “Not a chance, my dear,” she said. “You needs to show your face. People knows you’re out here and, as a teacher, you needs to set the example.”

  She was sounding remarkably like Father Frank, it seemed to me.

  That afternoon, I packed my bag and tidied up the kitchen and Biddy’s bedroom while she dozed by the stove in the rocking chair. Then the door flew open and Lucille burst in, followed by Geri and a woman who looked like an older but very well-preserved version of Geri. Biddy woke at the noise and held her one good arm out. Lucille ran over and patted Biddy’s shoulder and stroked her cheek, and then settled on a chair beside her, asking how she was and what had happened, and scolding her, saying that if she’d come to the wedding with them, then none of this would have happened in the first place. By the time Lucille stopped for breath, Biddy looked exhausted.

  Geri was examining Biddy’s head and adjusting the sling. Then she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Elsie sat down beside me on the daybed and introduced herself, asking how Biddy was doing. I gave her a quick summary and showed her the bottle of pills, then began to gather my things to slip away quietly.

  “Rachel O’Brine!”

  I turned, expecting Lucille to be telling me off about something, but it was Biddy speaking. She crooked her finger at me and I went back over. When I bent down, she stroked my cheek and said, “You’re a star, Rachel. Thank you so much. Now go on home and enjoy some peace and quiet in that cozy house of yours.”

  And I did.

  33

  A few days later during morning break, Judy burst into the staff room, her face white. “Cynthia’s missing. Do you know where she might be?”

  I shook my head, then followed her, wordless, to Patrick’s office, where he was deep in conversation with a tearful Mrs. O’Leary. Her bloodshot eyes were locked on Patrick; she barely registered us entering the room.

  “I hates to say it,” said Patrick, “but do you think she went off somewhere with Ron?”

  Cynthia’s mother accepted his proffered tissue. “That’s what’s got me so worried.” She dabbed at her nose. “I went to see Ron. He said she left his place last night in a right state. He figured she’d come home, but she didn’t. I went to bed early with a headache and when I woke up . . .” She was silent for a minute and when she spoke again, her voice was fierce. “I frigging well knew he’d drop her. I kept telling her but she wouldn’t listen.”

  I leaned against the wall listening to the discussion, wondering first whether Mrs. O’Leary knew that Cynthia was pregnant and second whether she actually was. I had promised not to say anything, but the fact that Cynthia was missing changed things. I beckoned Judy out into the hall.

  “I think Cynthia might be pregnant.”

  Her face crumpled. “How do you know?”

  When I briefly explained, her face grew stern. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, then went back into Patrick’s office, shutting the door in my face.

  When no one came out, and the bell rang signalling the end of break, I went back to my classroom. The day passed slowly. At lunch I went to the staff room, but no one was there. After school, I went to Judy’s office, then Patrick’s, but there was no sign of either of them. At a loss, I drove home, wondering where Cynthia might be and hoping she was okay.

  That evening, Patrick phoned and told me that Cynthia had been found unconscious on a bench in Clayville Park, following an overdose of sleeping pills.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Is she all right?”

  “They’re after pumping her stomach. It looks like she’ll be okay, but they’re keeping her in for now.”

  “Patrick,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone about the pregnancy. Cynthia made me promise.”

  “You did what you thought was right,” he said.

  “But was it?”

  His heavy sigh whooshed down the line. “There’s nothing right about any of this. Don’t drive yourself mental with shoulda woulda coulda.”

  “I think Judy’s pretty mad at me.”

  “Cynthia’s a relation of hers,” Patrick reminded me. “So I expect she feels responsible. Which, by the way, she isn’t. None of us are. Cynthia’s in the Clayville hospital for now, but she might be transferred to St. John’s for a psychiatric consultation.
She’s asking for you. Do you think you could go see her tonight?”

  “Sure,” I said. “As soon as I hang up.” Until recently, I hadn’t even been aware of the Clayville hospital and now I was heading back there for the second time in less than a week.

  Cynthia had been admitted so I went up to the reception desk to find out her room number. The young clerk looked up from her gossip magazine. I gave her Cynthia’s name, and as she checked her log book, she said, “Be good for Diana to have a friend on the inside.”

  “Sorry?”

  She tapped the magazine cover. Just below the picture of Andrew and Fergie was the caption “A friend for Di?”

  Sheila and I had risen early to watch Diana and Charles get married. I was hopeful, gushing about the dress and the train. But Sheila had watched between her fingers, saying “It’s doomed” over and over until I had to hit her with a pillow. I hoped Fergie would bring Diana some joy and said as much to the receptionist. She nodded her agreement, then pointed me in the direction of Cynthia’s room.

  Just past the nursing station, I began to feel light-headed. Meeting Biddy in the waiting room was one thing; visiting Cynthia as an in-patient was something else.

  I stopped at a fountain and braced myself against the wall for a minute before taking a drink. When I reached Room 17, I paused at the doorway and peeked in. The lights were dimmed, except for one directly above Cynthia, which glinted on her glasses. Her face was whiter than the sheets, and her hair was uncombed and dirty against the pillow.

  I waited until she opened her eyes.

  “Hi, miss,” she said softly. “I’m some stunned.”

  “No, you’re not.” I sat down on the chair beside her bed as tears began to roll down her cheeks. I pulled a tissue from the box on the tray table and passed it to her. She poked it up under her glasses, dabbing at her eyes. Then she balled up the tissue in her hand, sniffing.

  “You were right,” she whispered.

  I felt no satisfaction at hearing this. “About what?”

  “Everything,” she croaked. She broke down again and I waited until her sobs subsided. “Ron’s after dropping me, miss. He says I’m too young and foolish for him.”

  I patted her arm. “I’m sorry. But he was so much older than you.”

  What was it with girls who fell for the bad guys? I’d never understood it, although Sheila had dabbled on the dark side when we were younger.

  “Where did you get the sleeping pills?” I asked.

  “Ron had them in his bathroom, I guess on account of the car accident last year.” Cynthia chewed at the ragged skin of her thumb. “Everything’s ruined,” she said. “I gave up school for nothing.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Concentrate on getting better. Think about the baby.”

  “I lost it.” Her voice was flat; I couldn’t read her feelings.

  I took her hand in mine. “That’s hard. But maybe you can come back to school.”

  “It’s too late for this year,” she said. “Mom asked Mr. Donovan and that’s what he said.”

  “There’s always next year,” I said, but she dropped her gaze.

  I put the box of tissues on her lap. “Things will seem brighter soon,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Can I bring you anything from the store?”

  “No,” she said. “Mam’s coming in later with a few things.” Then she closed her eyes.

  “I’ll leave you to rest,” I said, getting up to go. I walked briskly down the hall, my pace quickening as I neared the exit. I pushed the buzzer to open the hospital doors, staggered around the corner of the building and retched repeatedly, until there was nothing left to come up.

  The entire time I’d been in Cynthia’s hospital room, I kept pushing the memories away and they kept flooding back in. Now, I walked woozily to my car, sagged into the driver’s seat and let them surge over the breakwater.

  I had been in my bedroom, two weeks after the disastrous graduation party, flipping through the photos of that evening. I hadn’t even known my mother had sent them off to be developed. I lingered over a photo of Sheila and me. We were laughing so hard, our eyes were squeezed shut.

  In the next photo, Jake had his arm slung around my shoulder and I was smiling up at him. It was probably taken shortly before that girl showed up. Looking at it made me nauseous and I’d ripped it into pieces. Then I felt my breakfast rising up and ran for the bathroom.

  After I threw up, I wet my face and looked in the mirror. It was the second time that week, and suddenly I had a horrible thought. I counted back the days to my last period. It couldn’t be. I was on the pill. I ran back to the bedroom and checked the little dial. I hadn’t missed a single day. People often talked about how the pill was only ninety-nine percent effective. I guess someone had to be the one percent.

  Now, sitting in my car outside the Clayville hospital, I remembered how I’d reached for the phone to call Sheila, my hands shaking as I tried to dial. Thanks to her job, Sheila knew her way around the medical profession. She arrived less than an hour later with pamphlets, phone numbers and a tub of chocolate ice cream. Mom was out, so we sat in the kitchen with two spoons, passing the ice cream back and forth.

  Eventually Sheila said, “What’s the plan?”

  I picked up the brochure for the abortion clinic and waved it weakly in the air.

  “Are we telling Jake?”

  I loved her for saying we. But Sheila’s mother was even more hard-core Catholic than mine. “Are you sure you want to be involved with this?” I asked.

  “Rachel,” she said. “Do you not remember that we got married in kindergarten? Sickness and health, babe, ’til death do us part. My mother may be a living saint, but I’m on the other side of the divide. So I repeat, are we telling Jake?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Good,” she said. “Makes it cleaner.”

  Two days later, Sheila drove me to the clinic. She checked me in, sat beside me in the waiting room and filled in various forms. My hands were trembling so much I barely managed the signature. Sheila walked the completed paperwork back to the desk, then came back and talked about her annoying boss. She shared the latest pop-star gossip she’d gleaned from her brother Mike and mused aloud as to which of the three men in her current rotation was on the rise and which was about to be cut loose. None of it was new, but all of it helped.

  When a nurse with squeaky shoes called my name, Sheila enveloped me in a hug. “I’m staying right here until you’re done,” she whispered.

  Later, when I was cleared to leave, Sheila insisted on coming home with me. We walked wordlessly upstairs. I took off my sweatshirt and let it drop to the floor, crawling into bed in my sweatpants and top. I was somewhere between bulky and empty.

  Sheila plumped pillows and smoothed sheets. She fetched me a glass of water and put it gently on the bedside table. Then she went to the other side of the bed and crawled in beside me.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “No,” I squeaked.

  She stroked my hair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Crampy.”

  She propped herself up on her elbow. “The nurse said that’s normal, though, right?”

  I fell asleep watching Sheila watch me, her normally sunny expression sombre. When I woke in total darkness, she was asleep beside me. I nudged her awake.

  “I fell asleep,” she mumbled.

  “Me too.” My teeth were chattering. “I’m cold.”

  Sheila threw back the covers. “Well, I’m boiling.” She turned on the bedside light and got out of bed.

  I pulled the covers higher, shivering.

  She came around to my side of the bed and rested her hand on my forehead. “You look awful and you’re burning up.”

  “Oh God,” I said. “I think I just peed the bed.”

  But when Sheila pulled back the covers, we both gasped at the blood.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  Even
as I was telling her not to, I felt myself slipping away.

  When I woke up the next day in hospital, Mom was sitting in the chair beside my bed, her face grave. She leaned forward and squeezed my hand too tightly. “I can’t lose you, too,” she said, her voice fierce. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  We both knew she would have tried to stop me. “I didn’t want you to worry,” I lied.

  “That’s my job,” she lied back. It had been mostly Dad’s job and we both knew it.

  She let go of my hand and rubbed her eyes. I wondered how long she’d been there.

  We listened to machines being wheeled down the corridor and the occasional announcement over the PA system. After a while, Mom spoke again.

  “Does Jake know?”

  “I didn’t see the point of telling him since we’re broken up.”

  She touched the cross on her necklace, then said, “How did you let this happen, Rachel?”

  “I was careful, Mom,” I said. “I was on the pill.”

  She frowned. For her, that was almost as bad.

  I could bear all those memories, even though I hoped they would someday be buried under a scab that I would never pick off. But one memory was seared in my consciousness, one I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried. It had happened during my convalescence at home.

  After I was discharged from the hospital, Mom and I developed a habit of watching videos late into the night. One night, Mom decided to open a bottle of merlot. I was forbidden to drink because I was on antibiotics, but Mom kept refilling her wine glass until the bottle was empty. Then a dog died in the movie, and she started crying, becoming maudlin about Dad. She worked herself into such a state that I, the invalid, had to help her upstairs and into bed. I flicked the light switch off and was closing the door when she said, “It’s a good thing your father’s dead, Rachel. Otherwise this whole thing with you and your procedure”—she spat the word out—“would’ve killed him.”

  I knew it was the wine talking, but if she had slugged me, it would have hurt less. I left her room and drove straight to Sheila’s for the night. Mom and I spent the next few days avoiding each other. Then I saw the ad for the job in Little Cove and lunged at it. It was the word Newfoundland that had clinched it. New. Found. Land. Somewhere to start over.