The Healing Place

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 23

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Ella.

  The girl was standing in the corridor, looking through – or at – the dark window, which gave a view only of the single light outside the front entrance of the nursing home. She turned, clutching the pile of towels. Ella saw there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Hi, I’m Ella.’

  The girl nodded. She wore a name badge on her blue overall but it seemed rude to look at the badge rather than the person, Ella thought; anyway, she couldn’t read it from this angle.

  ‘The old man,’ she said, gesturing towards the room they had both just evacuated. ‘He looks very frail.’

  ‘He’s dying,’ the girl said bluntly.

  ‘I thought so.’ Ella searched for the right words. ‘And that’s why Sister Briege wrote to ….?’

  The girl looked away quickly. ‘Sister Briege wrote to everyone in his address book who wasn’t marked deceased or had the address crossed out.’

  ‘She wrote twice?’

  Again, that quick flicking movement of the head, averting her eyes. No reply.

  Treat this girl like Franz, something told Ella inside her head. Don’t ask questions; she’ll clam up. The girl looked frightened, she thought. She couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one years old.

  ‘It must be hard to work here, I imagine,’ Ella said, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s not my real work,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve only been here five months. I’m a hairdresser really.’

  ‘Oh, I should have guessed,’ said Ella, ‘by the beautiful way you do your hair.’

  It was beautiful – the mass of tiny black plaits clinging to the small head and hanging down over her thin shoulders. She was Caribbean rather than African, Ella guessed.

  The girl smiled. ‘I’ve done four years,’ she said. ‘In the salon and with training at college. I train some of the juniors now.’

  ‘And you gave it up to work here?’

  The smile wiped itself from her face. ‘I had to be here,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not easy,’ Ella said, ‘to care for people who are dying.’

  The tears sprang into the girl’s eyes again.

  She’s in such pain, Ella thought. Keep talking to her. Talk about yourself; don’t ask about her.

  ‘I sat with my brother when he was dying,’ Ella said. ‘It was so hard at the time. But afterwards I was so glad I’d spent that time with him.’

  The girl’s expression turned to compassion. ‘How old?’ she said.

  ‘He was eleven, I was fifteen. He had leukaemia. When the doctors had done all they could, they told him he wouldn’t get better now. He’d asked them. He wanted to know. Then he said he wanted to come home. My mother didn’t want him to; she was afraid of the responsibility.’

  The girl nodded, understanding.

  ‘So I said if she let me stay off school, I’d stay with him, help look after him.’

  ‘How long did he live, when he was home?’ The girl’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Only eight days. I sat in the chair beside him during the daytime and lay in the bed beside him at night. He died in the night. I woke up and couldn’t feel his breath on my face. I kept calling his name and shaking him. Then I knew I had to let him go.’

  Ella hadn’t known she was crying, till the girl put her hand tentatively on her arm.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ella said. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Thanks,’ said the girl. ‘I was thinking I didn’t know if I could do this. I want to stay with him till … he goes … but I was thinking I might not be able to do it.’

  ‘With who?’ asked Ella gently.

  ‘Father Francis.’

  She had turned towards the light when Ella started crying, and Ella saw her name badge now. Rachel Hamid, she read, and suddenly she knew who the girl was.

  ‘You’re Rachel,’ she said. ‘You’re Franz’s sister, aren’t you?’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Did he call me his sister?’ she said.

  ‘He told me you were in Jamaica,’ said Ella.

  ‘I came back.’ The eyes flicked away again for a second, as if ashamed. ‘I wrote the second letter,’ she whispered. ‘I signed it Sister Briege. I told him to come quickly if he wanted to see Father Francis still living.’

  Ella took Rachel by the elbow and steered her towards the room. ‘I think we should go back in,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t …. He doesn’t know …’

  ‘Then he should know,’ said Ella firmly.

  She steered Rachel ahead of her through the doorway. They both stopped.

  Franz was seated on the narrow arm of the chair, with his arm around the old man, reading aloud to him from the book. Father Francis McCarthy, his white hair fine as a baby’s yet still thickly covering his head, leaned against him, tears still streaming from his eyes yet a look of utter peacefulness on his face. He was very still, nodding his head at the words Franz was reading.

  ‘In the shadow of your wings I rejoice,’ Franz read. ‘My soul clings to you. Your right hand holds me safe.’

  Father Francis’ right hand, bony as a bird’s claw, covered Franz’s right hand holding the book. His wide mouth was relaxed, the long narrow nose nodding slightly as he listened to the words, the thick white eyebrows arched into uneven shapes, raised in attentiveness.

  Ella looked from the old man to Franz and back again and wondered how she had not recognized from the moment they came into the room that they were father and son.

  Franz raised his head now, seeing them and said, his voice catching, ‘Rachel?’

  For a moment Ella thought the girl was going to run out of the room again, and reached out to her, but the sight of Franz suddenly shaken with tears again made the girl straighten her back and walk resolutely towards him.

  The old man waited, looking down at the book and then back at Franz, as if puzzled by the interruption.

  Rachel went and stood behind his chair, put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, and started reading the part of the page that was not covered by his hand.

  ‘Your love is worth more to me than life itself,’ she read. ‘My lips will sing your praises.’

  She glanced at Franz, whose shoulders were shaking. He steadied himself and read with her, the two voices keeping pace with each other, the old man nodding with contentment. ‘My hands are raised to you without ceasing. My soul is filled with joy. At night, my God, I think of you, I remember you, for you have been my help.’

  They arrived at the part Franz had been saying when Rachel and Ella came in.

  ‘In the shadow of your wings I rejoice. My soul clings to you. Your right hand holds me safe.’

  The old man’s head nodded deeper, sinking on to his chest. He drew one huge, deep breath, and slept.

  Gently, Franz detached the old man’s hand from his own and placed it against his thin chest. Rachel lifted the folded blanket from the end of the bed and covered him, tucking it around him.

  ‘I’ll come back later,’ she whispered, ‘and put him to bed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Franz. ‘I didn’t know …. You should have told me you …’

  She smiled, miming 'Sshh!' with her finger against her lips, and they tiptoed out.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Franz asked, when they were out in the corridor. ‘Are you free to talk? Can you come out with us?’

  ‘No. It gets busy now, doing baths and getting them to bed, and I don’t finish till ten. I’m not on till two tomorrow, though – I could see you in the morning? Are you staying?’

  ‘Only a couple of days. Shall we pick you up in the morning? Ella, is that okay with you?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ella said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil your holiday,’ Rachel told her.

  ‘It isn’t a holiday,’ said Ella. ‘It’s a pilgrimage. Isn’t it?’ she asked Franz.

  ‘Or something,’ he said. ‘How long has he got, Rach?’

&nb
sp; ‘Sister Briege said two or three days – but she said that a week ago and then he got stronger again. He has to have the oxygen mask at night; he’s finding it hard to breathe.’

  Franz caught his breath, as though winded himself. ‘We’ll come back in the morning, then, and see how he is,’ he said. ‘And have time for a coffee together before you start work?’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said.

  Franz took one of his business cards out of his pocket. ‘Take my mobile number,’ he said, ‘in case you want to ring.’

  It was a curiously formal gesture, in the circumstances – his business persona coming between him and his sister. Rachel was suddenly overcome with shyness, taking the card but looking into the distance and taking a step back from him.

  Ella stepped towards her and gave her a hug. ‘It’s so nice to meet you, Franz’s sister,’ she said.

  There was that quick flash of a smile again, then a sudden doubting glance towards Franz, but he nodded at her, smiling.

  ‘How did I lose touch for so long with my own sister?’ he said, moving forward and hugging her tightly. Rachel buried her face for a minute against his shoulder, then came up determinedly smiling.

  Such pain she’s in, thought Ella again. She said, lightly, ‘Never mind being his sister, I hope you’re ready to become an auntie as well, Rachel?’

  ‘Really? Really?’ The girl’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Really really,’ Franz teased her. ‘I hope you’re ready for the responsibility because when you visit us you’re going to have to do your share of babysitting!’

  The joy in her face was unmistakable. She hugged them both with no trace of shyness now. ‘I’m so happy for you!’ she told Ella. ‘I’m so happy!’ she said to Franz.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow, baby sister.’

  Outside in the cold evening air Ella walked ahead of Franz to the car and stood by the passenger door. They wouldn’t talk now, not here. Maybe not till tomorrow morning, with Rachel, she thought. She wasn’t going to pressure him. She still knew so little, but enough now to know why he found it so hard to tell her.

  He glanced sideways at her a few times while he was driving. She smiled at him but said nothing.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked. ‘Are you hungry, tired – what?’

  ‘I’m cold. I’d like to go back to the house and have a shower. And a cup of tea – there’s a kettle in the room and I brought some sachets of herb stuff. I don’t mind about food. Whatever you feel like.’

  ‘We could stop at a pub and get a couple of cheese rolls to take away?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He parked outside a small pub with a sign outside that said 'Homemade Food' and Ella waited in the car, rubbing her ankles to bring back the circulation. Two men walking towards the pub from different directions called out to one another. Their paths meeting by the parked car, they both stooped and waved to Ella through the window.

  ‘Evening, there!’ called the first, a thickset young man with a wide smile.

  ‘Evening!’ said the older one. ‘Are you coming in for a drink?’

  She smiled and wound the window down. ‘No, I’m waiting for my husband.’

  ‘He’ll be in there till the cows come home, you know that?’ said the older man, joking, but Franz came out just then, proving him wrong.

  ‘Ah, you’ve got him tamed already, and him still young!’ said the man sorrowfully. ‘She’s got you in tow already, I see, your missus!’ he said to Franz.

  ‘I’m going quietly!’ said Franz, holding up his hands, with a paper carrier bag hanging. ‘I’m a happy prisoner!’

  The men laughed and bade them goodnight, going into the pub.

  ‘I said you were my husband,’ Ella realized.

  Franz slid into the driving seat, leaned across and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Better get used to it,’ he said. He put the carrier bag down by her feet and started the ignition. Backing out of the pub car park, he said, ‘Will you keep your own name or change it?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Ella carefully, ‘on what other name you would give me?’

  ‘Well,’ said Franz, ‘you could be Mrs Kane. Or you could be Mrs Finnucane.’

  He spoke casually but Ella, covertly watching him, could feel the fear coming from him as potently as she had last night when the hammering of his heartbeat had woken her.

  ‘Either one will do fine,’ Ella said, ‘but if you don’t mind, I’d rather it was the same one as you.’

  Her heart was pounding as well now.

  ‘I could go on being Franz Kane,’ said Franz. ‘Or I could go back to my old school nickname, which was Micky Finn.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Was Micky a nickname, to go with the Finn, short for Finnucane?’

  ‘No.’ He stopped the car at a junction, too abruptly, and turned towards her. ‘My name is Michael Francis Finnucane,’ he said.

  She put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ she said, ‘Michael Francis Finnucane. There’s a car behind us, Franz.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He shifted the gear and moved on.

  Further down the road in the dark, somewhere back near the lake, she thought, he stopped the car again, turned the engine off and sank his head against his arms, on the wheel.

  ‘I can’t do this, Ella,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

  She put out a hand and stroked the back of his head. The silver-white of his hair, fine-stranded yet thickly sown, gave a faint shimmer of light in the pale glow of the not-quite-yet-risen moon.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘I want to tell you everything,’ he said. ‘But I’ve kept quiet for so long. I don’t know how to start.’

  ‘Then how about if I start?’ she said.

  She waited.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Father Francis McCarthy is your father,’ she said. ‘You’re his son.’

  His voice was muffled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s a Roman Catholic priest, presumably single, supposedly celibate.’

  Another affirmative, sounding more like a groan.

  ‘You love him, and always have,’ Ella said. ‘And he loves you.’

  Silence.

  ‘And the relationship is very, very painful. For both of you.’

  His shoulders shook, though not a sound escaped him.

  ‘And Rachel,’ Ella said. ‘Is Rachel his?’

  ‘No.’ He broke into sobs, turning almost into a roar.

  God, help him, Ella thought. Oh, God, if there is a God, please help me now to help him.

  Words came back to her and she started to say them, softly, into his ear. His tears reminded her of the waterfall of the lough.

  ‘My God, my God, for you my soul is longing,’ Ella recited, not remembering the exact order of the words and not knowing if they would work even if she did. ‘My bones are dry and weary and I’m thirsting in this desert place.’

  His sobbing slowed down, she thought but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I’m hiding in the shadow of your wings,’ Ella continued, staring out at the glimmer of moonlight, catching the glimpse of a flash on water or something shiny among the rocks, she didn’t know which. ‘My soul clings to you. Your right hand is holding me tight. I’m safe now. Oh God,’ she said, her voice breaking now, ‘we’re safe now. We’re home and dry, all right?’