The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  I hated that old language. The cadence of the Latin was taking my thoughts to places that I did not want to visit. Flashes of Kyle studying in the garden. Kyle driving me through Anglesey. Kyle with the perpetual grin on his face.

  I shook the towel until it was cool enough to wring with both hands.

  Touching the little one’s eyes gently, I then moved around her cheeks, the crown of her head, down her neck.

  I found a dry towel next to me and prepared to dress and swaddle her.

  “Oremus. Exaudi nos, Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus: et mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.”

  Mr. Campbell had left the room to be with the other children. I heard the clink of what must be a small glass bottle, and I knew that the priest was anointing the woman with oils—meant, if I remembered correctly, to cleanse her of her sins. I prepared the baby in front of me for life, as the priest shepherded her mother into an eternity with the good God that they believed in. Such dreams ahead, such dreams behind.

  Carefully I pulled the delicate hands through the sleeves of her babysuit, doing the same with her toes. Snap, snap, snap. Close up the sleeper. I looked around for a blanket in time to see that Mr. Campbell had returned, and his stricken face told me that he knew she was gone.

  “Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolic Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo et benedico te. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  The priest continued anyway. What was the point of that? Her body would soon be cold, so how could the prayers do anything now? Well, it was none of my business if they wanted to waste their time. If the ritual brought reassurance to Mr. Campbell, confident that he had assisted in his wife’s salvation, I suppose that it served some purpose after all.

  I found what I was looking for and folded the blanket in half, forming a triangle. I placed the baby in the middle. Bottom corner to the chin. Left and right corners tucked in under her back. It was automatic to me.

  I felt dizzy again and steadied myself on the mantel. I gripped the baby tightly so that she wouldn’t fall. She slept soundly, secure in her tight wrapping. Babies like the confinement. It reminds them of the security of the womb.

  Nestling her in the crook of my arm, I turned around, cautiously hoping that they were finished. The priest was standing now, his back to me, leaning over and blessing her head with his thumb. It was then that I noticed the ring on his right hand. It was gold, with a silver band running through it.

  I’d seen that ring before or, rather, one just like it. It was just a coincidence. It meant nothing.

  A sigh of acceptance escaped from Mr. Campbell’s lips, and he hung his head before speaking.

  “Thank you, Father—”

  “Father McCarthy.”

  At the sound of that name, my mind crumbled the useless barriers that I had tried to put up when the Latin stirred the memories. It hovered in the air, just like it had when the boy had spoken it in the truck.

  I shouldn’t have let it paralyze me like it did. There were thousands of McCarthys in the world, weren’t there? But it used to be my name, it used to be a beloved name. The sound of it on his lips seized my full attention as much as it would have if he had said, “Julianne.” I listened to their exchange, one voice sounding like a phantom to me.

  “Father Trammel was called elsewhere tonight. I am his houseguest and was available to help.”

  Mr. Campbell put out his hands, which Father McCarthy went to shake. But suddenly, overcome with emotion, he put both of his hands around those of the priest’s. “I know it meant a lot to Agnes that you were here.”

  Head bowed, Father McCarthy stayed where he was, his hands being held, until they were released.

  The moment was so touching, I was transfixed. My mind was clouded, battling the flashes of the past that kept trying to break through. I felt like I had already intruded too much, but I couldn’t move until it at least occurred to me that the baby provided the perfect reason to excuse myself. She was dressed, and her anxious siblings were no doubt sitting outside wanting to see her.

  And fervently awaiting news of their mother’s condition. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them. They should hear this from their father, not some ragged-faced stranger.

  Just as I took a step toward the door with the child, the priest stepped back and turned around. We were face-to-face at last.

  The eyes, the voice, the name. He was standing in front me. There was no doubt. I felt dizzy again.

  Kyle. My Kyle. Here. A priest, after all. A rare rush of joy flooded me as I realized that my sacrifice had not been in vain.

  I stumbled again and held the baby tighter.

  His hand took my elbow to steady me. As if anything could steady me. My chest was pounding, my breathing was quick and heavy, and my blood pulsed at his touch.

  “My fault,” he said—still, after all these years, so quick to claim blame for his own. But yes, he should accept fault for being here. For conjuring things that I had buried. For disrupting the plans I had to end this life of mine.

  But these were just the musings of a bewildered woman. And inside her was resurrected the spirit of an eighteen-year-old girl, flittering at the proximity of the man she loved. The girl overpowered the woman.

  He released me and stepped back when it was apparent that I was not going to fall. I stepped out of the room into the next, where several children continued to sleep and others were weary-eyed.

  “Your sister,” I said, knowing no words of comfort for the loss of their mother. Emily stood up, with tear lines staining her cheek, but she smiled at me as she took the girl from my arms.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and softly kissed the fuzzy head of the baby.

  I returned to the room to find the priest gathering his belongings into his little black bag.

  “Wait, Father.” The word left a strange feeling on my tongue, one that I didn’t care for.

  He turned to me, halfway through putting his hat on. I remembered the feel of his warm cap on my head as we strolled through rows of Christmas trees. He was so young then, so carefree. The man in front of me was weary.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve come all this way. I was going to make some tea. Why don’t you stay for a cup?”

  “I would like that, thank you.”

  Replacing his hat on the table, he walked with me into the kitchen.

  As I heated the water and searched for two cups, I stole glances at him. He was the same Kyle, almost. The sandy hair was now speckled with gray, and it made him look distinguished. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look scholarly. But his smile was missing. His ever-present smile.

  So much to say, none of which I could without letting on more than I wanted to. When had he heard the news about the Edge Hill bombing? Why did he decide to reenter the seminary?

  Unfortunately, I was limited to less revealing inquiries. “So, you are a houseguest here?”

  “Only for the week. Father Trammel and I are old friends from school. I came to see him before heading to my new assignment.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, isn’t Father Trammel much younger than you?”

  “Yes, but I entered the seminary later than most.”

  “Why was that?” I was entering delicate territory, probing further and wanting to ask things that would be considered too familiar in this circumstance. He must have thought so, too, for he looked at me in a questioning way.

  Still, he answered. “I was in the war, and after that, I was—searching.”

  The words For what? started to form on my lips, but I held them back when I saw that it wasn’t a subject that he seemed to want to discuss.

  Searching. I pondered this as I turned the stove down and steeped the tea. Was he searching for himself in the life he had to create as a widower? Was he sear
ching for something—our home, our lost belongings? Was he searching for someone? I dared not to wish for that. He must have accepted the common belief that I was lost in the bombing in Liverpool. But without evidence, what if he had looked for me? How futile that would have been. I had made a clean break and not left any trails.

  I ached to reach out to him and tell him that I was here. Julianne was inside the shroud that he saw. But of course that was out of the question.

  As I pulled out a chair with my foot, he stood to take the scalding cups from my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “They are still very hot.” My right hand barely felt its heat, but the steam wafted ferociously above the rim.

  “That’s all right,” he said as he reclaimed his seat. He picked up a spoon and twirled it in the amber-colored drink, releasing the steam like incense.

  I wanted to hear his voice again. It sounded the same, just a little more mature, and I wondered if my voice sounded familiar to him. Though of course it wouldn’t, as the scorched vocal cords had taken on a deep, gravelly tone. Did anything about me stir up ghosts in him the way he stirred them in me? By the look of him, there was no hint of recognition.

  “Where is your new assignment?”

  “Outside of Liverpool, in a little church called All Souls.”

  All Souls! I remembered that place, of course. The remote little church attached to the sprawling cemetery in which we had laid his father to rest. Why was he going there? Kyle had told me that some priests liked it for the solitude while others were drawn to its ministry to grieving families, but either way, after a few years, they moved on, all too ready for a transfer. Had Kyle been assigned there, or had he requested the isolated place?

  Of course, I wasn’t supposed to know any of this.

  “Is it a large church?” I asked nonchalantly. I stirred my own cup.

  “No, it is a little country church.”

  “Oh, I like those. The ones made of stone, with a little rectory split in two for the priest and for a housekeeper.”

  “Yes, this one does have that, as I recall. But this one usually houses a groundskeeper, as it sits on many acres. However, I was told that the grounds are now kept by a professional company in the city, so I suppose I will be living alone.”

  “Will you not have a housekeeper?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. I’ve been told that there is not any money for one.”

  “I hope that you are a good cook.”

  He smiled—not a full smile, but one that showed he was at least somewhat comfortable with me. To me, it was the most brilliant thing I had seen in twenty years. The sunshine breaking through the gloom.

  “I can find my way around in a kitchen,” he said. “I can even darn my own socks!”

  “Well, a priest and a housekeeper for the price of one, then? What a lucky church.”

  “I suppose so.”

  A possibility entered my head. No, it was too, too presumptuous. Wasn’t it? But how incredible if it could happen. I couldn’t let the idea go unspoken. “You say that there is no budget for a housekeeper?”

  “That is what I was told.”

  “I have been thinking of coming up north to find work. But I am alone, and all that I really need is a roof over my head and food on my table. Would you consider taking me on as a housekeeper?”

  Perhaps that was too direct. He had just told me that there was no money. I needed to modify what I said. “Of course,” I added, “only temporarily, until I find other work.”

  There. Let him think that he was doing me a favor. I didn’t want him to know that I wanted this more than anything. That the seeds of hope, of a life, had been awakened in me.

  “I don’t see why not, if it’s only going to be vacant otherwise. I have to warn you, though, I am not very good company.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just want you to know that I am not usually one for talking, and it could be a very solitary existence for you.”

  “Well, seeing as it is just a temporary situation, I don’t suppose that it needs to matter much.”

  “So be it.”

  Then I remembered Ellis. “I have a dog. Do you mind? He’s not any trouble.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  He took a sip of the tea and then a larger one. He found a piece of paper and scribbled on it. “Here is the address of the church. I plan to be there in two weeks. You are welcome to come, but if you change your mind, I understand. I pray that you have a safe journey wherever you go, and I ask you to pray the same for me.”

  Standing up and finishing the tea in one drink, he put his black hat on and made his way to the front door.

  I spoke, hoping for him to linger for even one more second. “Thank you for being here for the Campbells.”

  “I was glad to be able to stand in for Father Trammel. Have a good evening.”

  He left, and my heart was afire with anticipation. I was moving back to Liverpool. And I was going to live with Kyle.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In a fairy tale, I would tell Kyle who I was. He would kiss me, and his kiss would be a magical one, restoring me to a more enchanted time, one in which we would live happily ever after.

  Of course, I knew that this was just a fantasy. I did not make this move with some misguided hope that we were going to be together. Kyle was a widower, as far as he knew, and now a priest. I was to be his homely housekeeper, a safe female attendant for a man living otherwise alone. I was being given an enormous reprieve from heaven, a stay of execution. Kyle had told me once about purgatory. Maybe that was what this was after all: a place to atone for my sins, but always with the knowledge that paradise was waiting one room over. Not the hell that I’d deluded myself into. It would take the kind of fatherly God that Kyle believed in to make this reunion take place.

  I came home and flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet, grateful that I hadn’t taken any more than the three. I drank four glasses of water in rapid succession, hoping to dilute whatever remained in my system and quell the dizziness that the first few had caused.

  I left for Liverpool the next day, determined to make up for every day that I had lost. I found lodging in a shabby boardinghouse that was willing to take on a tenant for two weeks and even my dog for only a few pence more. Ellis was used to a nomadic existence, and he didn’t seem to take notice that this might be any different. He would love the grounds at All Souls. So much open space. I rubbed his ears, and he wagged his tail in response.

  My first stop was Newsham Park and the proud manor that sat on its border. It appeared to be undamaged from the war, unless repairs had been made that I couldn’t see.

  It took two days of walking by at all hours before I saw either of my parents. I saw my mother on a Monday morning as she met her gardener and pointed out her instructions. She was such a creature of routine. Mondays were gardening days, even now.

  Mother herself appeared little changed. She had the same bony frame. Still smartly dressed, she was only an older version of the one whom I remembered, even from a distance, I could see that wrinkles had set in. I was tempted to talk to her, and I even took a step forward. But I hesitated. It was too painful. So I just watched her instead as a passerby. Before long she left in her car. It was older than I would have expected—she and Father had always enjoyed the latest things. I had heard that the war was very lucrative for the docks and warehouses in Liverpool, but in the last decade they had seen a sharp decline due to increased air travel. The father I knew would have found a way around the problem, even starting a brand-new business if he had to.

  After the gardener left, I slipped through the gate and walked the grounds. The gazebo was neglected, in need of a fresh coat of paint, but it was beautiful to me. I ran my hand down one of the beams, closed my eyes, and inhaled the memory. Kyle holding me as we cried in each other’s arms. Kyle kissing my neck and moving his way up to my lips. I recalled the sensation that had run through my body as if it were
happening now.

  Waking from that dream, I walked around the flower gardens, and my eye rested on a large, engraved stone. It read:

  IN MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER, HELEN JULIANNE WESTCOTT

  BORN 3 MARCH 1920

  DIED 29 NOVEMBER 1940

  MAY SHE REST IN PEACE.

  It’s not every day that you read your own memorial. It only made sense that they would have done something like that, but to see what was essentially my own tombstone felt rather macabre. And yet I had not been Julianne Westcott in so long that it seemed as if the monument belonged to someone else. It had not escaped my attention that the name inscribed did not have McCarthy added to it. Nor did it surprise me. The charade had been maintained. If they couldn’t accept who I was then, how could I expect them to do so now?

  On another day I visited Albert Dock. They did, indeed, look as if they had seen busier times. I strolled by Father’s warehouse, hoping to see him as he left for lunch, but I did not. The third day brought some success, though. He came out around noon, carrying a sack lunch, and sat on a bench overlooking the water. My heart was overwhelmed with love for him. He hadn’t been a perfect father, but he had tried. Recklessly, I approached the bench.

  “May I sit here?” I asked, taking the chance of meeting his gaze, though without fully facing him. Part of me wanted him to look in my eyes and see familiarity there. Part of me was afraid of it. Of course there was nothing to worry about. My green eyes had grayed over the years, dulled by hard work and loneliness, and God knew my face as a whole bore no resemblance to that of the beautiful young daughter who’d broken his heart. Ellis sat attentively at my side, watching the gulls on the pier.

  “Um, yes.” He slid to the edge of the bench, leaving plenty of room for me, and never looked my way.

  He didn’t say anything else, and I was afraid that I would cry if I opened my mouth. So we sat there, each staring out over the water. Its smell was unchanged, fish and industry, although both languished, along with my father. I could see that he, too, looked like an older version of himself, but not a sharpened version as Mother was. He looked like a man beaten by life, not even putting on the pretense of conquering it. Poor Father. I could imagine that he took my loss with great difficulty, and I recall thinking that he might have been the one person for whom my new appearance would have made little difference.