What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  “Sister,” Bernie said, shaking, “I grieve for everything Eleanor went through as a child. But right now you’re telling me she destroyed my son’s chance for happiness, for a good family life for both of them, him and Kathleen!”

  The older nun bowed her head, tears rolling down heavy cheeks.

  “She’s so envious,” she said. “You seemed to have everything. A calling…not just within your own heart, but from Mary. You had that, and a child, too. Eleanor Marie feels abandoned by the world, by Mary, by God. You forgave yourself for your sins—she can’t do that for herself.”

  “But she didn’t sin!” Bernie said. “She was an innocent child!”

  “As I said, she’s ill. Her mind is warped with all that’s happened. A downfall of being a Catholic woman,” Sister Theodore said. “Where sex comes in, guilt is sure to follow. We have a long way to go in that area.”

  Amen to that, Bernie wanted to say, surprised by Theodore’s point of view.

  “When you went to America and were made Superior of the order over there, it was too much for Eleanor Marie. Don’t you see how troubled she is? Please, you’re good. You’re such a good person, Sister Bernadette Ignatius.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Forgive her. I plan to tell our Provincial Superior. I’ll do it today. Sister Bernadette—it will destroy Sister Eleanor Marie, although I’m doing it out of love. I can’t live with what I’ve done, and I don’t believe she can either.”

  “It bothers her?”

  Sister Theodore nodded, tears spilling from her eyes. “She’s haunted by it. I’m sure that’s why she didn’t want you to find Seamus. She’s wracked by all that guilt, and it’s eating her up. She hid the files because she couldn’t bear for you to know what we’d done to him. Or to Kathleen…”

  “Where is Kathleen now?” Bernie asked. She remembered the postcard from America Sister Anastasia had given Tom. How specific had it been, in terms of her address?

  Sister Theodore shook her head. “Keeping track of Kathleen Murphy never had the same priority as Thomas James Sullivan. I’m so sorry, Sister Bernadette. Please forgive both of us.”

  “It’s not for me to forgive,” Bernie whispered, staring out at the playground, at the lonely children playing in the shadow of St. Augustine’s. She pictured Seamus and Kathleen, sticking together through everything. She imagined their separation, what it must have done to each of them. And she saw the look in Seamus’s eyes, and the words in his letter, the same fury tearing through both. “It’s for them,” she said.

  “Them?” Sister Theodore asked.

  “My son and Kathleen,” Bernie said. “It’s for them to forgive us all.”

  Fifteen

  The day after the couple came looking for him, Seamus called in sick to work—something he’d never done. He had such a good reputation at the Greencastle, no one would suspect that he was shirking. Everyone thought him such a good worker, such an honorable man. He knew they’d all be shocked to see him up and about, completely healthy, just hiding out. Kevin, his best friend, had given him such a sympathetic look, when he’d come by to pick up the letter.

  It was seeing the couple—Seamus wouldn’t call them his parents. What had they said their names were? Thomas Kelly and Bernadette Sullivan. So, that’s where his last name came from—they weren’t married. He was a bastard. Who cared, and what did it matter? Whether they were married or not, they hadn’t wanted him.

  He was grown-up now, with a good life of his own. Why was this bothering him so much? They came to see him—big deal. He had moved far beyond the trials and hurts of St. Augustine’s. Most of the time, in fact, he thought he’d had it pretty good there, as institutions went.

  No, his reaction to the couple was shocking him. It was like being stung by a bee, and not knowing you were allergic. You think it’s just an insect, you assume the sting might hurt a little. But suddenly you’re all swollen, finding it hard to breathe, seeing the world go black before your very eyes. You can’t catch a breath because your throat has shut tight, and next thing you know, you’re dead.

  That’s how Seamus, sitting in his armchair, felt about meeting the couple. Over the years—not as often as some St. Augustine’s kids, but more than he’d like to admit—he had imagined what he’d do if someone came looking for him. A woman saying she was his mother, a man saying he was his father, or both together.

  Oh, Seamus had had quite the speech imagined. At one point, he’d dreamed of spitting on their shoes. That was a nice touch. He’d thought of showing them his class pictures—all the way through eighth grade. To him, staring at the group shots, he’d always thought he looked ridiculous, like a bird. Too skinny, too tall, with his sleeves not fitting right, and his red hair sticking out in tufts.

  He’d gone to a school that took students from St. Augustine’s as well as kids from regular homes, and he remembered looking around the class, always being able to tell which kids had mothers and which didn’t.

  Mothers combed their kids’ hair. They made them wash their faces, so they wouldn’t have sleep in their eyes. They straightened their ties and collars on picture day. They checked out their sleeves, and if they’d outgrown their shirts, they’d set them aside for the younger kids and pull a new shirt from the closet.

  For motherless girls, it was even more extreme. Girls without mothers either tried too hard or not hard enough; as they got older, they sometimes wore extra makeup, as if it could mask the fact they didn’t know what to do, how to act.

  Kathleen had been the opposite. She had had such natural beauty, she hadn’t needed makeup at all. Her skin glowed, and her dark hair was as shiny as silk. But Seamus had always had to remind her to brush her hair, to wear the sweater without the hole in the cuff, to put on socks with elastic that hadn’t given out, that didn’t droop over her shoes.

  Yes, Seamus had often imagined showing his “parents” these old school pictures, pointing out what a ragamuffin he’d looked like compared to his classmates. He pulled them out now, from the box under his bed where he stored important things. Getting them hadn’t been an easy task. Because he’d run away from St. Augustine’s when he was thirteen, he obviously hadn’t taken his pictures along.

  But when he’d returned the next year, looking for Kathleen, and Sister Anastasia had convinced him to stay, she had helped him. They’d gone through all the yearbooks of his school, finding the class pictures of him, and those of Kathleen, and then Sister had helped him write letters to the yearbook company, asking for copies of the pictures. Although the pictures had originally been free—one to each student, included in their school fees—getting copies had cost money. Sister Anastasia had paid for them, letting Seamus work off his debt by washing windows in the school and convent, on top of his normal chores.

  Seamus gazed at the pictures now. He wondered what the couple would think, to see him as a child. Spreading the class pictures out on his bed, he stared at himself, wondered what he’d been thinking. His eyes always looked too wide and wild—as if startled by the flash. Deep down, Seamus remembered always being scared. He’d always felt unsure, off balance, worried about what was going to happen next.

  He looked at Kathleen. They had attended grammar school together, but once they’d reached sixth grade, they’d gone to single-sex academies. That was just how St. Augustine’s did it; but staring at the pictures, Seamus remembered how wrenching it had been, to be separated from each other for entire days at a time. Even at night, after school, he was living in the boys’ wing and she in the girls’. Her job was cooking, his was cleanup. Some days their only conversation had been before school, walking to the bus, or in the kitchen, after meals, dead tired on their feet.

  Some days, on their way to the bus, he’d tuck her hair behind her ears. Or she’d hand him a tissue, to shine his shoes. His favorite mornings had been times she’d ask him to braid her hair, and they’d hang back, him fumbling with sections of her long, smooth hair, smelling her shampoo and n
ever wanting to stop.

  He stared at a picture of her now, one with her thick braid coming forward over her shoulder, so long it nearly obliterated the school insignia on her green blazer. Running his finger over her face, he stared into her big eyes and saw that same startled expression that he always saw in his own. He wondered what she looked like now, where she lived. Did she still have long dark hair? Was someone else braiding it for her?

  A knock sounded at the door, and Seamus looked up. Who could that be? Not Kevin, he was sure—it was late in the day, and his shift was over. He should be home by now, showering and getting changed, on his way to pick up Eily for Randi-Lu O’Byrne’s concert.

  Leaving the pictures on the bed, Seamus crossed the room. His flat was small, so it only took him a few steps. What if it was his boss from the Greencastle, coming to check and make sure he was really sick? Taking his chances, Seamus opened the door.

  Tom Kelly stood there.

  Seamus leaned back, shocked to see him.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “I needed to see you. It’s important.”

  “Yeah, who told you where I live?” Seamus asked belligerently.

  “Look, I’m a Kelly,” Tom said. “I pulled some strings.”

  Seamus peered at him through narrowed eyes. He knew the Kellys were powerful; it was a world beyond imagining. Seamus drove people like Sixtus Kelly all the time. He’d pretend to be deaf, listening all the while to what went on in the back seat. He’d hear state secrets, dark plots, the details of romantic assignations. He knew that people like that had access to anything they wanted: detectives, operatives, everything short of magicians.

  “What, you paid someone to find me?”

  “Never mind how I did it,” Tom said. “Look, can I come in?”

  Seamus wanted to slam the door in his face, and he started to—but Tom’s hand shot out fast and hard, caught the door’s force with a sharp crack. Tom’s expression didn’t change, even though the impact must have killed his palm and wrist.

  Without asking again, Tom stepped inside. He gently closed the door behind him. Seamus glared at him, his heart racing. He wanted to attack the man—thinking he could just invade his home this way! But something in Tom’s eyes took Seamus aback; it was beyond words, a sadness and resignation that Seamus hadn’t seen yesterday. As if overnight, Tom Kelly had gotten old.

  “Rich people like the Kellys do things differently,” Seamus said. “They do what they want. They get things done.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “You’re right.”

  Seamus gestured at Tom’s tweed jacket—the same one he’d been wearing both other times Seamus had seen him. It was old, kind of beat up, as if Tom had worn it outside in the rain plenty. The cuffs and pockets were frayed, the shoulders sagging; there were patches on the elbows. Oddly, it looked like something Seamus would have worn in one of his school pictures.

  “If you’re so rich,” Seamus asked, “what’re you wearing that for?”

  “Who said I’m rich?”

  “You’re a Kelly. You just said—”

  “Do me a favor, Seamus. Don’t assume you know anything about me, and I’ll do the same for you. My cousins are rich. I’m not.”

  Seamus felt stunned, as if he’d been slapped. Tom’s eyes were hard, injured—they reminded Seamus of the toughest kids at St. Augustine’s. Like himself, the kids who had been there the longest, gone through the most. Had Tom grown up in an institution?

  “Did you live in a Home?” Seamus asked suddenly, surprising himself.

  Tom shook his head. “Nope. I grew up in a big house. A mansion, actually. Lots of land, servants, big cars. I went to the fanciest schools in Connecticut. Could have gone to Yale if I’d studied harder; my family donated a science building and a gym. But I blew it.”

  “You didn’t work hard?”

  “I worked hard,” Tom said. “But not at school. I like the land. Dirt, rocks, trees, gardens. Things like that. I like the weather, too. Doesn’t matter if the sun’s shining, I just like being outside. Snow, hail, all of it.”

  “So, you keep the gardens nice on your property?” Seamus asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t have any property.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I walked away from Kelly family money,” he said. “It didn’t mean anything to me. Big houses, fancy cars, those Mercedes you drive—I couldn’t care less about them. I have plenty of relatives who are happy to get my share. When I visit Dublin, you know where I like to go?”

  “The Greencastle?” Another dig.

  Tom shook his head. “Nope. Rutland Fountain.”

  “In Merrion Square? That’s where the Kellys live—in all those Georgian houses along the north side. I know, I’ve dropped people off for dinner parties, business meetings….”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s where they live. They make fun of me for visiting the fountain. Do you know about it, Seamus?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I give tours of Dublin to the people I drive around.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’d tell a passenger,” Tom said, and his voice sounded dangerous, as if he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Seamus remembered the crack of the door as Tom had forced his way in, his mind in turmoil. He didn’t like being boxed into a corner, forced to perform like a trained monkey. On the other hand, he didn’t want to cross someone who was this angry.

  “I’d tell them that Merrion Square, for all its fanciness, once served a terrible function—it held a soup kitchen in the Great Famine. People starving, dying, all through Ireland. Tremendous suffering. That’s what Merrion Square used to be—not just a place for the Kellys to live their rich lives.”

  “And Rutland Fountain?”

  Again, Seamus felt confused. Tom was testing him for some reason, and Seamus didn’t like it. He felt fury boiling inside, under his skin. “It predated the Famine. Installed in 1791, for Dublin’s poor.”

  Tom nodded. “That’s why I visit it,” he said. “It reminds me of something.”

  “What can it remind you of? You just told me you went to fancy schools, lived in a mansion.”

  “It reminds me of water,” Tom said quietly, as if the fight had just gone out of him.

  “Yeah? Water?”

  “Water is what people need to survive,” he said. “It quenches the deepest thirst, and you don’t have to be rich to drink it. There’s nothing better than cold water….”

  Seamus stared at him. That’s what Kathleen used to say to him. He’d be doing the dishes after dinner—piles of crusty pans and dirty plates and grimy glasses. And he’d be thirsty, his hands elbow-deep in sudsy water, and she’d fill a glass and hold it to his lips. He could still feel the pressure of her hand cupping the back of his head as she’d tilt the glass up, letting him drink.

  “It’s nice to romanticize the poor,” Seamus said now, “when you’re not poor yourself. You use a lot of water on your gardens, don’t you? Oh, that’s right—you say you don’t own property.”

  “You’re right, though. I do use a lot of water—irrigating gardens, lawns, and vineyards. At a very large estate in Connecticut, where the river meets the Sound. It belonged to your great-great-grandfather, Seamus. Francis X. Kelly.”

  “Shut up!” Seamus said, backing away. “He’s not my great-great anything. Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s called Star of the Sea Academy,” he said. “Francis X. donated the land and buildings to the Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires….”

  That got Seamus’s attention. The Sisters who had raised him. Still, he peered at Tom with all the hostility he could muster; it wasn’t hard. Tom didn’t react to the dirty look, though. He just kept talking.

  “There’s a nun who runs the place,” he said. “She’s the reason I walked away from the Kelly money. Don’t tell her that, though.”

  “How would I tell her?” Seamus snapped.
“I don’t know her, and I sure as hell have no plans to visit.”

  “She’s one of those pure types, you know?” Tom asked. “You meet them, and you think they’re too good to be real? They’re kind, and humble, they don’t give a shit about the clothes you wear or the car you drive. They only want to help others. You know what I mean?”

  Seamus didn’t reply, but he did know what Tom meant. He thought of Sister Anastasia, some of the other nuns at St. Augustine’s. He wouldn’t give Tom the satisfaction of identifying, though. So he just stared.

  “This woman. Back when she was young, before she became a nun—she got under my skin. Even with all my family money, I’d never seen anyone as happy as her. It was as if she’d tapped into her own private spring, Seamus. Cool, clear water all day long. And you know—it had nothing to do with money.”

  “So you decided to forsake your family fortune for a girl?” Seamus asked meanly.

  “Yep,” Tom said, Seamus’s sarcasm passing right over his head. “I surely did. A sweet, pure girl. You could even call her holy.”

  “Not many people on this earth are holy. The nuns are, the ones at St. Augustine’s. They’re saints right here on earth,” Seamus countered.

  “So was she…she had a vision.”

  “A what? You mean, like Lourdes?”

  “Exactly like Lourdes. The Virgin Mary appeared to her in the Blue Grotto at Star of the Sea.”

  Seamus tingled, hearing the words. Something was coming back to him now—stories trickled down, from the convent to the Children’s Home. A story about a nun, one of the Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires, who had had a vision in America before she joined the order—something mysterious about it, the reason she entered the convent. Kathleen had loved the story. She’d always been praying for a visitation from Mary.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Seamus asked.