What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  Families everywhere—reunions, greetings, people overjoyed to see each other. Seamus swallowed hard; he’d never had anyone happy to see him since Kathleen, and this arrival in America just brought it home for him. He heard the woman who’d sat next to him on the plane cry “Frank!” and throw herself into her husband’s arms. They kissed, and they seemed so happy. Seamus paused, looking for the exit.

  Sliding his gaze away from the couple, he glimpsed a nun. Ah, that was nice—a Sister of Notre Dame des Victoires. He’d know their habit anywhere—the long black dress, the white underpart of her veil framing her face, and the black outer part of the veil falling over her shoulders. Seamus’s throat caught to see her—it was like a homecoming, in a way, and he took it as a good sign for him and Kathleen. He raised his eyes to hers, to greet her, and what he saw there was the warmest, most loving expression he’d ever seen in his life.

  The nun’s blue eyes were glowing, smiling, making Seamus feel as if they knew each other. He stumbled, and started walking toward her. Had she been one of his teachers? Or at St. Augustine’s? Just then, she said his name:

  “Seamus.”

  But they had known him as James there….

  “Sister,” he said politely.

  And then he saw: a few strands of red hair emerging from beneath her veil, and her clear, bright eyes. Standing beside her was the tall man, his blue eyes shining, his nose a little crooked but otherwise healed.

  “Tom,” Seamus said, reaching out to shake his hand. Tom did the same, and their rings clicked—two Kelly rings, emblazoned with the great sea monster.

  “Welcome to America,” Tom said.

  “Yes, Seamus. Welcome,” Sister Bernadette said. As if she couldn’t hold herself back, she opened her arms. Maybe it was because he was exhausted from the flight, or maybe it was because she was wearing the habit he had so long associated with love, and care, and everything maternal, but he opened his arms also, and let her hug him.

  And then it was over. He pulled back, she stepped away, and they all stood there looking at each other. Seamus felt awkward, for a thousand reasons he couldn’t even name.

  “Are you traveling somewhere?” he asked. “I’ll let you get on your way now, because I’m in a hurry myself.”

  “Seamus,” she said, “we came to get you.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, his brow wrinkled with confusion. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Tom found out,” she said. “From Sixtus…”

  “Oh,” Seamus said. Had he mentioned to Sixtus what time his flight was leaving, or that he’d be flying to Boston? His head spun; was this what jet lag felt like? He didn’t want to hurt their feelings; although he wasn’t half as angry as he’d been when he first met them in Dublin, he didn’t quite know what they wanted from him. Besides, he had to get to Newport, to Kathleen. “I’m sorry, but I have somewhere to go,” he said.

  “We’ll take you to her,” Tom said.

  “But you don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going…. I’m sorry for being rude the last time we met, and again now, but this is urgent….”

  “He does know where you’re going,” Sister Bernadette said, putting her hand on Seamus’s arm, looking into his eyes. “He found Kathleen for you.”

  “Kathleen?” Seamus asked in disbelief, his voice breaking.

  “Yes,” Tom said, hoisting Seamus’s bag, slinging it over his back. “But we have to hurry—we don’t have much time.”

  “I know,” Seamus said. “Kathleen needs me.”

  “I think you’re right; she does,” Tom said, hurrying along, as if he understood Seamus with everything he had.

  Bernie sat between Tom and Seamus in the pickup’s cab. Her left arm touched Tom, her right Seamus, and she felt so close to each of them. Not just physically close, either. There’d been such energy in Seamus’s gaze when he saw her—instant recognition. Perhaps not as his mother, not even specifically as Sister Bernadette Ignatius—but merely as a Sister of Notre Dame des Victoires. She had loved seeing his reaction to her habit, knowing that he had good feelings about the Sisters who had raised him.

  That made everything go a little easier. This was a day of miracles, but not in the usual sense. Bernie knew that most people used that word to describe moments of great joy—a healing, a cure, a resurrection. And in many ways, “joy” would be the right word to describe the day. Seeing her son again, sitting between him and Tom, his father. She felt energy pouring off both of them, through her body, back to each other.

  And Bernie’s time in the Blue Grotto; it had been over two decades since she had knelt at the feet of the statue of the Virgin Mary and Mary had come down from her pediment to wipe Bernie’s brow, soothe her with words of love and grace. In the language of the faithful, that event was called a “Marian apparition.”

  But to Bernie, there’d been no apparition about it. Mary had been real, and Bernie had felt her touch, heard her words, shared time with her, and felt her presence. This morning, it had happened again.

  Bernie’s skin still tingled now, from that single touch that morning. Sitting in the middle of the truck’s bench seat, Bernie caught sight of her face in the rearview mirror. There was a small mark on her right cheek, bright red, like a sting or a burn, where Mary’s hand had been. Bernie felt it now, tender to the touch, but without any pain. Instead, she only felt the loving presence of God.

  Mary had said, “Be ready.” What did that mean, and why did Bernie’s stomach jump to think of it? Just hours ago, Bernie had gazed into the Blessed Mother’s kind, loving eyes. She had asked what the words meant, but Mary had just said them again: Be ready.

  Tom sped, passing cars, driving as fast as he could. The truck weaved in and out of traffic. Seamus was very alert, watching out the window, probably thinking of Kathleen; Tom was intent only on making good time, getting to Newport as quickly as possible. Neither one of them talked.

  Bernie was glad. She needed this time to think and pray. When the truck jostled her and Tom together, she sensed him wondering whether she was uncomfortable. At the same time, she knew what this meant to him—not just the overwhelming fact of having their son in the truck with them, but the simple, ordinary fact that he and Bernie were touching. She had only to look up at his face to know how happy it made him; his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and his mouth lifted in a smile.

  Bernie had to close her eyes; she was so grateful for this time. She prayed that Tom could know the depths of her love, her appreciation of the gift he had always been in her life. She asked for the words to tell him, when the time was right. And she thanked God for everything He had given her, given all three of them, especially this time together now, today.

  Gifts came in small and large ways. Several years ago, when Sister Felicity developed multiple sclerosis, Bernie had read everything she could find on breakthroughs in research on the disease. Reading one article, she had been shocked to learn that mothers carry cells from their children years after they are born. The cells live on in the mother’s body. Although the article said that this discovery brought medical hope, that the cells of babies born even decades earlier retain the power to regenerate, and help the mother fight disease, Bernie was struck with a much simpler truth.

  She had lowered the scientific journal and wept. The knowledge had made her feel closer to her beloved child. She had always felt his spirit and presence; she had held him close in prayer each day since his birth. But to learn that his cells existed in her, that they were still united, mother and child, had felt like the most wonderful gift.

  They hadn’t been together, not really—not walking and talking and interacting. But now she knew that a part of her son was with her always. That night, reading in bed, she’d cried because Tom didn’t have that. He hadn’t carried the baby as she had. And she knew that Tom’s grief was double, in many ways more severe than Bernie’s.

  Because Tom had had no choice. Not really. When Bernie decided to give up the baby and j
oin the convent, Tom had had to stand back and let it happen. That was what Mary spoke to her about that morning. That and other things…

  Now, speeding south, Bernie prayed for strength. She felt Tom’s and Seamus’s tension and knew that they worried they wouldn’t be on time to intercept Kathleen. Bernie wanted to reassure them, tell them what she knew. But she didn’t quite trust her own voice.

  So she said the rosary, lips moving in silence. When they reached the Newport Bridge, soaring over Narragansett Bay, they saw the whole town spreading out below. Seamus pressed his face against the truck window. Bernie knew that he could feel how close they were to Kathleen; she believed that her son’s intense love for his long-lost friend was guiding them like a beacon.

  “We’re almost there,” she said now, catching Seamus’s eye.

  He nodded, and she saw his eyes gleam with a smile.

  “That’s right,” Tom said. “Just a few more minutes…”

  His words seemed prescient, and they pierced Bernie’s heart. This time with their son, all sitting so close together, nearly overwhelmed her. She was a nun, but she didn’t care. Reaching for his hand, she held it in hers. He looked over with shock and almost more happiness than she could bear. Bernie held her rosary beads in her right hand, and she kept silently praying; but she held Tom’s hand in her left, and she wouldn’t let it go.

  Twenty-Five

  Kathleen crouched on the floor in this secret, boarded-up part of the attic, across the hall from her bedroom, huddled in a blanket. Unseasonably cold October drafts blew through cracks in the walls and bare floorboards. In this mansion, where downstairs nearly every inch was gilded or silvered or intricately carved or marbleized, this spare and rustic attic made her feel as if she were home again.

  Not only that, it gave her a place to hide. No one would find her here; the family would think she had run away. Her suitcase was stowed behind an ancient, cracked cheval glass, over in the corner. If she stayed very quiet, she would fool them into imagining she’d slipped out the back door. If she had one regret, it was that she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Andrew…she hoped that he would understand, or at least drown his sorrows in his next drink.

  She could stay here at Oakhurst, living in the dark so the neighbors wouldn’t know she was here, until she figured out what to do next—not so much for her, but for her baby. Every move she made now had to be for him or her. Nothing else really mattered. She couldn’t abandon her baby, not even for a second, not even in these early months. But no matter what hardships she faced, she knew she couldn’t stay with the Wellses one more day.

  Pierce wouldn’t care; he wouldn’t spare her a thought. Kathleen had kept her secret well. Her swelling breasts had turned him on, but he hadn’t asked her what was happening. She didn’t feel one bit guilty about not telling him. He didn’t deserve to know.

  The attic was filled with old trunks, wardrobes, and stacks of ornately framed portraits leaning against the rustic walls. Ever since Kathleen had forced her way past the boards, jimmying the nails with a screwdriver, she had spent her afternoons off exploring these rooms.

  It was a museum of Wells family history. Old gowns of velvet, silk, and satin hung in dusty armoires. Ancient lace petticoats, turning brown, disintegrated to the touch. Hatboxes contained bowlers, homburgs, top hats, fancy flowered Easter bonnets, some over a hundred years old.

  Wedding gowns were stored in special cases. They ranged from the opulent to the very spare, came from Worth of Paris, Balenciaga, Bonwit Teller, some with seed pearls and others of simple white silk. But there was only one veil, and it had been worn by every bride in the family for three centuries—from Mrs. John Quincy Adams III all the way down to June and Wendy. The oldest daughter hadn’t worn the veil, however. Not Louise…

  Scrapbooks of each Wells family wedding were stored downstairs, in the library. Kathleen had seen Beth dusting each embossed, red leather-bound volume carefully, knowing the scrapbooks were as priceless as the silver tea sets, Canton china, and Limoges figurines. But newspaper clippings describing Louise’s wedding were here in the hidden attic—stuffed into a cardboard box with old grocery receipts and New York Yacht Club chits—to yellow and crumble into dust. From the way they were tossed aside with what amounted to trash, Kathleen almost wondered why Mrs. Wells had kept them at all.

  Louise Wells had married a black man. They had met at Harvard. He was a doctor, a visiting lecturer from Mississippi. Louise had been a sociology student. The clipping didn’t say much—torn from the society pages, it showed pictures of a lovely dark-eyed girl, her spirit radiating even now, fifteen years later. Kathleen noticed that she wasn’t wearing the family veil.

  So this attic seemed the perfect place for Kathleen to hide. She thought of Louise, who had defied her terrible family for love, and gathered her close—as an angel or a protector. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, shivering and trying to sit still. Having to pee and throw up was her curse these days. But she had to hold herself back from doing either until the family left.

  It wouldn’t be long. She knew they had plans to meet friends for dinner at the Union Club in New York. They would do a quick search through the house for Kathleen, and when they didn’t find her, they’d assume that she had run off, abandoned the family, like so many other thankless servants before her. She had heard the story of how the last cook, Vivian, had whipped off her apron and walked out in the middle of a dinner party for thirty—all because the chocolate soufflés had fallen. Or so Mrs. Wells thought…

  Although Kathleen had never met Vivian, she felt she knew her. Pierce had told Kathleen about Vivian, lips against her ear, moving inside her, saying that Kathleen was hotter, wetter, sweeter than Vivian had ever been, that she was more willing, eager, sexier; that he liked Kathleen’s Irish accent better than Vivian’s French one; that Kathleen’s tits were bigger, her nipples nicer.

  Kathleen had tuned him out. She’d thought of Vivian with Pierce inside her, wondered whether Vivian had loved him, made him part of her fairy tale, or whether, like Kathleen, she had known. For Kathleen did know…she had to give herself that. She’d never bothered kidding herself, not even for a minute. Not once had she told herself that Pierce loved her—and she sure as hell knew that she didn’t love him.

  Oh God, she had to pee. That was part of the first three months, she’d learned from the baby book she’d bought. Not that she wouldn’t know anyway—considering her bladder was screaming out right now, refusing to be denied. She looked around the attic for something, anything, to relieve herself in.

  There—a cachepot. Herend porcelain, just like the priceless pieces downstairs, only this one chipped—just a tiny crack along the gold rim—and thus relegated to the dark attic. Kathleen lunged for it. Her body was betraying her, she had no choice. The need to go was so great, she felt her eyes overflowing.

  But they were tears; of course they were. She had finally reached her limit. If only James had come for her this summer…she really had never given up hope. But now all was lost. Her last shred of hope was gone. She was a madwoman in the secret attic of a family who had millions of dollars and not an ounce of sense or love. Kathleen was shivering, her teeth chattering. Pulling down her pants, her bottom bare, she squatted over the chipped Hungarian cachepot. She thought of James, and began weeping in earnest.

  Just then, mid-pee, the boards creaked.

  Jaysus, she thought, who’s this? The intrusion—with her stuck on the pot, unable to move—made her unable to stifle any sound, and she sobbed out loud. The jig was up. It was Pierce, here for one last visit before they hit the road for New York. He hadn’t found her in her room, so he’d followed the sound of urination. Kathleen bit her lip, tears flying from her eyes and the stream down below continuing forever.

  “Kathleen?” she heard the female voice whisper.

  Oh God. Relief flooded through her. It wasn’t Pierce…. But Kathleen was so crazy now, she thought it had to be Louise. Or Vivian…Or Sister Anas
tasia, or the Virgin Mary herself, a kindred spirit come to find her, save her, take her to James.

  “Help me,” she wept. “Mother of God, help me….”

  Holy crap, if help didn’t come. The young woman poked her head through the cracked green door, wedging her way under the rough boards Kathleen had left in place to fool the family. Kathleen had the impression of brown hair, bright, compassionate eyes, and the black-and-white clothing of a maid or a nun.

  “Kathleen Murphy?” she asked, eyes locking with Kathleen’s.

  Kathleen nodded dumbly, and at that moment saw everything register on the girl’s kind face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, turning her back to give Kathleen her privacy.

  “Close the door behind you,” Kathleen whispered.

  The brown-haired girl did so, stepping quietly into the attic, standing there until Kathleen was done. After pulling up her pants and stowing the cachepot off to the side, Kathleen cleared her throat.

  “Who are you?” she asked as the girl turned around, coming toward her.

  “I’m Regis Sullivan,” she said. “And we have to leave now.”

  “What do you mean, ‘leave’? What are you doing here?” Kathleen asked.

  “I came to get you—”

  “Get me? Jaysus! You have to leave me alone!” Kathleen felt the panic rising in her chest. Who was this girl? She was wearing a uniform like Beth’s; she obviously worked in service, had come to join the staff. “And you have to save yourself, too. Get out now, Regis. Run, and don’t look back….”

  “I can’t. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “My God, girl. You don’t understand what’s going on. They can’t find us in here, or they’ll take us with them. I’d rather die than go with them to Palm Beach.”