Immaculate Heart

by Camille DeAngelis

  “There’s no mystery to it. How do you know when you’re angry, or tired? How do you know you’re attracted to women?”

  We looked at each other, and it came back to me in a flash of light and color: Tess in a blue-and-white-striped bathing suit, the sand stuck to our wet skin, my lips pressed to hers. Jesus. I was such an idiot.

  Tess looked out the window as if something down in the street had caught her interest. “And how old were you when you realized it?” I managed to ask. “Was it linked with the apparition in any way?”

  “Of course,” she said quietly. “It had everything to do with the apparition.”

  “And yet you give me the distinct impression it was somehow unpleasant for you. Not a spiritual experience, at least not in hindsight. Something else, maybe.” I was reaching, but it felt right.

  Tess took a deep breath, drawing it out to buy herself a bit more time. “I don’t speak of it,” she said finally.

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I keep saying it because I need to speak of it, only there hasn’t been anybody I could tell it to. Everybody already has their notions about what really happened in that time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That makes sense.” We looked at each other. “Would you like me to turn off the recorder?”

  She hesitated. “Doesn’t that mean you can’t use what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  “All right,” she said.

  “All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Okay.” I switched off the recorder. “There were four of you who saw it, right?”

  “Four of us, aye. It was myself, Orla and her younger sister, Síle—you might remember, we were all at the beach together that day—and our classmate Declan.”

  “You and Orla were best friends,” I said. It was Orla who’d called her away. Tess had looked back at me as if we might have another moment like the one we’d just had, but we never did.

  Tess nodded. “She and I were thick as thieves in those days, always over at each other’s houses. So much so that her mother would always set an extra place at the table for me. It was different, of course, when she and Declan started up, but—”

  “She and Declan were dating?”

  “For, ah, eight months or so, before he left for Australia. But they were careful to include me, at least in the beginning.”

  “So the day it happened—the day it first happened—you were all hanging out up there on the hill?”

  “The three of us, and Síle. Síle had a bit of a crush on Declan. Truth be told, everybody did. It aggravated Orla to no end, but Síle would have gone home and made a fuss if she’d resisted, so it was just easier to let her stay with us.”

  “It was after school?”

  Tess nodded. “We’d sit on the wall, drinking Fanta and talking nonsense, and Declan would roll two cigarettes—one to smoke and one to tuck behind his ear for later—and tell us about all the places he was going to go. Bali, Malaysia. Said he wanted to walk the Great Wall of China.” She laughed. “I told him he’d better lay off the fags. I never thought he’d actually leave—not that I didn’t like him, but he did talk a lot. I was wrong, though, and I’ll give him that.” She paused. “I would have remembered that day regardless. He asked her if she’d come with him, and she said she would.”

  “That was before the apparition, I take it.”

  Tess nodded, her eyes on the desk between our mugs. “The weather was fickle that day.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  She smiled. “Even more so, on that day.”

  “How did it begin?”

  “Síle saw it first. We thought she was having some sort of fit. She fell on her knees, and I was frightened when I saw her eyes—they’d gone all glassy, like marbles. She looked…” Tess cleared her throat. “She looked possessed.

  “Still, I could see she was looking at something. So I turned round, towards the statue of the Virgin that used to be in that grotto at the edge of the car park, and…” She took a breath, raised the mug to her lips, and took a long drink. I opened my mouth to ask if the statue in the grotto now wasn’t the original, but she went on. “I do hope you’ll forgive me. It was a long time ago, and I’ve spent most of that time trying to forget it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why.” She laughed quietly to herself. “I wish I could give you everything I remember, and let you see it for yourself, and feel what I felt then, and what I felt afterwards. This is why I don’t speak of it—because nobody else can understand.”

  “What about your friends? Even if you found it an unpleasant experience, surely you could take some comfort in the fact that you experienced it together?”

  Tess shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. Afterwards we would talk about it, and we could never agree. I don’t mean small details either. It was as if she were saying something completely different to each of us. And when we each tried to draw her, well … we may as well have sketched four women we’d met in the street.”

  “I read some of the newspaper articles from that time,” I said, as gently as I could. “That’s not what you told the reporters.”

  She sighed. “In the beginning it was different. We felt called—we felt blessed. It was only afterwards that we realized just how differently we were each experiencing it.”

  “What did she look like to you, then?”

  “Not like any of the pictures or statues I’d ever seen. Her face was plain; she had thin lips and wide eyes, and I remember she looked at me almost as if I were the one who’d surprised her, and not the other way round.”

  “But you knew who she was?”

  Tess nodded. “I knew she was the Blessed Virgin. Her head was covered by the blue mantle, that much was as you’d expect, and she seemed too serene to be anyone but.”

  “And how did she appear? Did she look … I don’t know, ghostly? Or was she more solid looking?”

  “She had a bit of a glow about her, but she seemed solid enough.” Tess put down her mug and began to draw one fingertip along the palm of her other hand, as if she were telling her own fortune. “On other occasions, later on, she actually touched me.”

  “You felt it? Like it was a real person touching you?”

  She nodded. “A real person. A real hand. Soft but callused, and smelling of Pond’s.”

  “Pond’s?”

  “It’s a brand of cold cream.”

  “Ah.”

  The Mother of God, washing her face like an ordinary woman? Really? But I held my tongue. “And she spoke to you?”

  Tess stifled a laugh. “Oh, she spoke to me! In the beginning—the first two or three times she appeared to us—she told me she had a message for me and me alone.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “It was a queer sort of thrill. You can just imagine. But when she gave me the message, I was disappointed.”

  “What was it?”

  “Love. That was her ‘message.’ She said…” Now Tess laid her hands palms down on the desk, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. “She said I found it easier to love the poor and afflicted on a distant continent than the people I professed to love in my own home.” Then she gripped her mug and took another long drink, though the tea must have gone cold in the meantime. “I’m sorry, this is harder than I thought it would be. Is it all right if we end it here, for now?”

  Damn. I’d wanted to ask her about her mother and the “miracle” with the well water. I tucked the digital recorder back in my pocket. “Of course.”

  “I just need to gather my thoughts,” she said absently as she rose from the table.

  “Look, Tess—the last thing I want to do is pressure you,” I said to her back as she busied herself tidying up. “We don’t have to discuss it again if you don’t want to.”

  “No, no,” she said. “But it may take me a few days. How long did you say you were staying?”

  * * *

  Tess agreed to introdu
ce me to the parish secretary, and I followed her up the tiny street and into the church through a side door. It felt colder inside than out. A notice on a small bulletin board in the entryway read VISIONS OF HEAVEN, VISIONS OF HELL: JOIN US FOR A WEEKLY REVELATIONS STUDY GROUP, WEDNESDAYS AT 7 PM IN THE PARISH HALL. ONLY THROUGH YOUR OWN FAITH AND PRAYERS CAN THE DEVIL BE OVERCOME. Another notice read THINKING ABOUT THE PRIESTHOOD? WHY NOT! as if the commitment were one night only instead of the rest of your life.

  Holy effigies looked down from the stained-glass windows, their faces competently rendered, though blank and uninspired, and the statues of the Virgin and Saint Patrick spooked me as if I were seeing them for the first time. They were cast in plaster, painted in flat colors, and wreathed in synthetic flowers, and underneath the statues, rows of red plastic votives imitated the flicker of real candles. Another coffin rested under a white cloth on a sort of wheeled trolley in front of the altar. There was a remoteness to the place—as if you’d actually drifted farther away from God by stepping inside—and a dampness that felt like it would never leave you, not even after a piping-hot cup of tea by a roaring fire.

  Through a series of doors out of the sacristy, we made our way into the rectory, where the air was warmer and more human. Tess introduced me to Louise, the secretary, but hesitated when it came time to excuse herself. “Would you like to come to Mass with me?”

  “Next Sunday?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “There’s Mass every day, though it isn’t particularly well attended.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Louise smiling to herself in agreement; clearly she had a healthy sense of humor about her job. “You might learn something,” Tess went on. She read my face and said, with a wry twist of the lip, “You never know.”

  I had a feeling there might not be enough time to drive up to Sligo today, so I wanted to leave tomorrow open. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll come. I made plans for tomorrow morning, but what about the day after?”

  “That would be fine,” she said. “I’ll see you here Friday at eight, so.”

  * * *

  With his buzz cut and guarded demeanor, Father Lynch seemed more like a cop than a priest, and he was probably only a few years older than I was. Another priest, a white-haired man who must have been nearing retirement, had said John’s funeral mass.

  The young priest greeted me by name, pumping my hand and offering his condolences as he invited me into his office. “Now,” he said as he settled himself behind the desk. “Louise tells me you’ve a few questions about the history of Ballymorris. The apparition, is it?”

  I nodded. “But I imagine it was well before your time, Father.”

  “Right you are,” he replied with a cordial smile. “The purported visitation took place in Father Dowd’s time. He was my predecessor.”

  The purported visitation. “Is Father Dowd the priest who said my uncle’s funeral mass?”

  “Ah, that would be Father Pat. No, I’m afraid Father Dowd passed away seven or eight years ago now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He would have been the one to speak to. I’m told Father Dowd conducted quite a thorough investigation of his own before reporting the case to the Church authorities.”

  “Do you have any of his records?”

  Father Lynch hesitated, his eyes on his old-fashioned ink blotter. “Now, that I couldn’t say. I’ll ask Louise does she know where they are. Louise!” he called through the half-open office door. “Have we the records of the visitation, do you know?”

  I heard the creak of a chair as the secretary rose and came into the doorway. “Not anymore, Father. We gave them to Tess to hold on to after Father Dowd passed.”

  “Ah, right.” The priest turned back to me and said, “Would you believe you’re the first person to ask for them, in all my time here?”

  “That is surprising. It sounds like a dramatic story, by all accounts.”

  “Dramatic, sure. And it was quite a boon for the town, for a good year or two, anyway.”

  “Lots of pilgrims?”

  “Aye, and from all over Europe, too.” The priest gave me what felt like a look of appraisal. “Louise tells me you’re a journalist. Now, if you don’t mind my asking, what particular aspect of the visitations would you be thinkin’ of writing about?”

  I had to answer him carefully. “The story I’m considering writing has everything to do with the social context. As you said, the visitations brought the town a great deal of money and attention, and I’d like to explore how and why it may have changed this place. A portrait of small-town Ireland, if you will. American readers are very interested in anything to do with life in Ireland, even those of us without Irish ancestry.” I smiled. “Maybe you know my grandmother left Ballymorris when she was a very young woman. This is my second time here—she brought me over when I was a kid.” I cleared my throat. “That was about five years before the … visitation.”

  “I see,” he said. “I see.”

  I didn’t like the way he was saying that, so I went on: “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Father, but I was wondering if you could share your impressions of the four young people who saw her.” I only allowed him a second’s pause before I added, “I’ve only spoken with Tess so far.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Louise mentioned it was Tess who brought you round.”

  I’d had a feeling her name was currency, and I was right. I took out my voice recorder and notebook. “Like I said, Father, I know you’re busy, and I really want to respect your time. But if you could spare maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, no more than twenty, I’d be very grateful to you.”

  He nodded. “Louise?” he called again over my shoulder. “Could you put the kettle on?”

  “I’m makin’ the tea now, Father,” she called.

  “Ah, bless you!” Father Lynch turned back to me and rubbed his hands together. “They say a good secretary knows what you need before you do. Did you ever hear that?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never had one.”

  “Ah, sure. You take your own notes.” He gave me a genuinely friendly smile. “We’ll just leave the door open till she brings in the tea.”

  We spoke of the rotten weather, Gaelic football, and my uncle John being the local postmaster until Louise carried in the tea tray with a plate of store-bought cookies. “Ginger bickies!” Father Lynch exclaimed with satisfaction—“They’re a local delicacy for all they come out of a package”—and Louise closed the door softly behind her.

  The priest took a sip from his steaming teacup as I reached forward and pressed the RECORD button. “Now,” he began, “to be perfectly frank with you, most of what I can tell you I learned through the local gossip. I wasn’t born in this parish—I’m from Meath originally—so of course when I arrived here, I picked up bits and pieces about the local history as time went on.”

  “The Marian apparition being one of the more colorful chapters in that history?”

  “Oh, aye. And by now I’m sure you’ve noticed that we don’t see many people from other parts. I’ve no doubt your visit is the talk of the town at the minute. So you can just imagine what it would’ve been like with the reporters and pilgrims running around. There were all sorts of new shops opening along the high street, and every widow from here to Carrick opening her doors for B and B.”

  “Everyone saw an opportunity,” I said.

  “And who could blame them, when the history of Ireland was a history of leaving?” He sighed. “Anything to keep the young ones here at home where they belonged, all the new jobs—they could only be good for this community.”

  I couldn’t let myself ask the most obvious follow-up—not yet, anyway. “So there were four people who said they saw the apparition?”

  “Aye, there were four involved: the Gallagher sisters, Síle and Orla, and Declan Keaveney, and Tess, whom you know. I’ll tell you I was surprised when Louise said you’d talked with her. Seems to me she goes out of her way not to s
peak of it.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Tess is terribly hard on herself. Always has been, for all the years I’ve known her. It’s what drives her to do all the good she’s done for this town, but it also drives her to doubt.”

  “You think she doubts what she saw?”

  “Now, that’s a question you’d have to ask her.” The priest gave me a hard look. “If you haven’t already.”

  “We’re working up to that.” I responded, with what I hoped was a disarming smile. “I’ve heard and read about the miracle, too.”

  Father Lynch shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to speak to that, now.”

  “It’s powerful stuff, though, isn’t it?” I asked. “Wasn’t Mrs. McGowan scheduled to have her leg amputated the next day?”

  “It’s a powerful story, aye,” he replied. “But I wouldn’t be able to speak to that.”

  I made a mental note to reframe the question later on in the interview. “Tess says she and Orla were close friends growing up. Do you know Orla at all?”

  “I do. I see her every Sunday.”

  “She’s still quite devout, then?”

  “More so than most. She occasionally volunteers her time as a teacher’s aide in the Sunday school, which isn’t easy to do, I imagine, having the three wee ones at home to care for.”

  “Do you know her well, then?”

  The priest glanced out the window beside his desk. “Not well, no.”

  “Tess tells me Orla and Declan were dating at the time of the apparitions.”

  “Is that so? I never heard that, now.”

  “Tess said he was on his way to Australia, so I imagine you’ve never met him.”

  “You’d be right about that,” he sighed. “I know his mother quite well, poor lady—very devout, in the second pew at Mass each and every morning, you know the way—but as I say, all I can tell you is the bits and pieces I’ve heard over time.”

  “What kind of bits and pieces?”

  “By all accounts, the boy was a bad influence. Sucking down the Buckfast, rolling his own cigarettes from the age of nine, marijuana, and who knows what else.” The priest shook his head. “Your typical waster, so they tell me.”