Once we were in the small town, we followed the GPS as far as it could take us, but then fell off the grid into uncharted green zone. Kind of like when you’re on a ferry and all around is just blue. This time, all around was just green.
One lonely green road led us to St. Mary’s.
Paul parked the car along the empty roadside, bordered by stone walls and ivy, and we walked the short way toward the complex. We passed a few scattered bungalow homes, all white with red doors, children playing in the yards, and dogs roaming freely.
Curious eyes watched us with precision as we moved closer to our destination, as if protecting what they felt was theirs—sheltering the secrets they lived next to and the sacred lands their children played upon.
Unsettled, I looked away. We didn’t belong here. This wasn’t ours to see. I kept my eyes down and continued to move forward, remembering my cousin, Brigid. Then, remembering the babies, I held Paul’s hand like a vice grip. He kept his steady gait and moved me along through my insecurity.
“There it is.” His flat voice stopped me in my tracks.
I stared at the large white cross on the front gate, warding me off like every other ogler, rather than welcoming me in. It led into a high-walled yard, sparse of any landscaping. A shiny black granite plaque drew my eye. It marked the nearby area in memory of the babies buried there, and sent an icy shudder through my spine.
High up, beyond the grassy yard stood the structure referred to as “the home” by locals. Shutter Island came to mind as I surveyed the gray walls of the building and its uniform tall, narrow windows, dark gray roof, and lack of any other notable features. Stark and bare. Just gray.
Off to the side, hidden in overgrowth, was a statue of Jesus in a long robe, reaching out with his open palm, blessing the area. My lips pursed to the side at the contradiction.
Paul pushed the rickety, squeaky gate open and we took our first steps onto the long, black drive leading up to the institution. A solemn darkness hung over the building, and its still silence added to its creepiness. I couldn’t be sure if anyone was even inside.
A white door in the middle was the only visible access and “decorative” steel bars covered all the lower level windows giving an actual appearance of security restraints. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? I reached for the aged buzzer and hesitated, having hoped for a more appealing novel reference, like Gone with the Wind.
“Go on.” Paul nudged me with his chin.
I pressed the doorbell and flinched from the loud, angry clanging it created inside.
I looked at Paul with worry, praying no one was home. The seconds dragged by raising my hopes with each measurement of time.
A moment later, the door pulled open, causing my heart to flip.
“Can I help ya?”
An older woman, thin but with strong posture, maybe sixty-five, held the door and waited for our response with a pinched face. Her solid stance filled the doorway, blocking our view, as if she protected what was held within.
My words were lost in panic as she sized us up and prepared to close the door in response to our silence. I bit my lip and stepped forward to address her.
“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for someone.” I choked back tears that threatened to interrupt my voice. “I’m Maeve O’Malley and this is my friend, Paul McGratt. We’re looking for my cousin.”
The woman looked us up and down with one eye squinting and her lips pressed together in a white line, like we were stupid.
“There’s no one here anymore. Are ya daft? Good day.” She moved to close the door.
“Wait. Please. Her name is Brigid. Brigid O’Malley. I need to know where she went. What happened to her. Please.” The crack in my voice exposed my desperation.
The woman hesitated. She opened the door again and poked out with narrowed eyes. “Who are you?”
“Maeve O’Malley. My grandfather left Ireland for Boston when he was eighteen. I’ve just learned of his niece, Brigid. She was sent here long ago, when she was a teenager.” My rambling threatened to close the door again. “Maybe forty years ago. I need to find her.”
“Why? What business have ye?” The door closed a little more.
“I want her to know she has family. Me. And I have something important to tell her. Something she needs to know.” I stepped closer, as a strange confidence rose within me. “Do you have any information on her? A register or log book. Anything that might lead me to her?”
The door opened a little wider, then stopped. Then it opened fully as she took another close look at us.
“Cup a’ tea?” she asked through a sideways glance.
“Yes. Yes, please. Thank you,” I stammered.
She stepped to the side, allowing us full entry into the foyer.
The stark emptiness was disrupted only by an enormous crucifix on the wall, full of graphic detail and suffering. Thorns, bleeding puncture wounds, despair, and pain. My eyes grew wide with concern and I peered at Paul. His smile proved he was holding back a chuckle from my unsettled response to Jesus on the cross.
We followed her to the back into an industrial kitchen. Shiny stainless steel counters and island, deep sink with huge spray hose, and an ancient stove that she lighted with a match. We sat on metal chairs at a wooden table and watched her move about the kitchen.
The windows opened out to an inner courtyard that had a kitchen garden with rows of potatoes, herbs, and lettuce. I recognized them all from my grandparent’s garden back home.
“You have a lovely garden. You grow your own vegetables?” I asked.
“Hmm? Yes. Not many of us left here for such a large facility. The few of us keep it going for now. The garden keeps us busy. ’Til they shut us down, anyway.”
She filled a silver pot with tea bags and hot water and brought it to the table. I helped her bring the mugs over.
“The history of this place has it tainted, ya see,” she added. “I think the people just want to see it gone. And take any bad memories wit’ it.”
Paul nodded while I sat silent. It was all so new to me that I hadn’t formed an opinion yet.
The woman’s sideways glance looked as if it were searching me for an impression, or a judgment, maybe.
“Sure, we’ll be out on our ears by year’s end, so we’re told,” she continued. “Nowhere to go. Who’d want us?” She paused, then reanimated. “Milk?”
She poured some into the creamer from a large glass bottle. A line of solid white at the top stopped the pour at first. The cream had risen. I wondered if the cow was anywhere nearby.
She poured the tea and sat in awkward silence. I looked around the room, anywhere but at her.
Finally, she spoke.
“I’m Mary. Head of household. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She nodded at both of us. “We don’t get many visitors, mind you. Just gawkers. Hoodlums and the like.”
She looked into her tea.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mary. It means a lot,” Paul said.
“Ah, sure, yer Irish. Figured you for a Yank as well.” Mary smiled for the first time. “Sounds like a Dublin accent.” She tilted her head.
“’Tis.”
“I come from Bray me-self. Used to run up Bray Head as a girleen.” Her eyes twinkled when she looked at Paul.
“I’ve done the cliff walk there. Beautiful place.” He shook his head, remembering it fondly.
“Ah, sure. So you know it.” Her smile took her back to her youth.
She topped up our cups with hot tea.
“Tell me now, Miss O’Malley, about your cousin, Brigid.” She crossed her hands on the table and leaned in to me. “Whatcha want to know?”
On the spot, I had no idea what I wanted to know. Everything, I supposed. I wanted to know if she was okay. Was she treated well? Did they think she was crazy? What did they do with her? Was she alive? Where was she? Was she here? My mind raced with questions.
“I want to know if… if she survived all the�
� the crazy. I need to meet her. To tell her she wasn’t alone with her... troubles. Do you know where she might be?”
My direct tone must have been off-putting but I couldn’t help it. Desperation was rising in me.
“Now, I’m not sure how much you know about this place. Much of it has been soiled with ugly lies and exaggerations. But much of it is also true. You will latch on to the bits you choose to believe. Much like everyone else.” Mary seemed well used to judgment.
“Do you have a registry? Or a book of some kind that kept information on the girls?” I ignored my tea and only stared at Mary.
“Yes. I think I can help you, Miss O’Malley. But I need a moment. Will you give me a sec to have a look-see?”
She stood and straightened her apron, wiping her hands down its faded gray and white checkering.
“Of course. Yes, yes. Thank you.” I nearly fell out of my seat.
She left the kitchen through a small passage at the back, behind the industrial-sized fridge.
I turned to Paul with my hands pressed into my lap, nearly bouncing in my seat. His expression didn’t match mine and he continued to look at the passage she left through.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s like time is standing still right now. We have no idea what information she’ll come back with. It could be good news. It may be bad. We have to be prepared for anything.” He took my hands in my lap and held them tight. “Are you ready for this?”
“I always think yes, then crazy wind comes or screaming pirate queens, so maybe this time I’ll say no. No, I’m not ready for this, but here goes anyway.” My attitude gave me power and strengthened my focus.
I smiled at Paul.
“Okay. Deep breath,” he said.
Time crawled. Tea grew cold. Daylight began to wane. Paul’s fidgeting bugged me and I’d picked my cuticle to the bone.
Then, footsteps.
Mary was coming back.
Paul and I stood at the same time and waited at full attention for her report.
Mary stood in the passageway before entering into the kitchen. We watched her every movement.
“Maeve. Paul. I would like you to meet Brigid O’Malley from the O’Malley farm on the Drumlin Road.”
Mary stepped into the kitchen leading a sallow, withdrawn woman into the room. Her oversize gray sweater swallowed her up and the heavy dark shawl finished her off.
My breath sucked in sharply, making a sound I couldn’t hide. My hand flew to my mouth to stop it as I stared at Brigid.
Her eyes glued themselves to the floor and she slouched enough to make it look like she wanted to be the floor. Her appearance made her look as if she were ninety years old.
“Oh my god. Brigid.” My words took on their own life. “Mary. Thank you.”
Mary reached for Brigid to encourage her farther into the room.
“She’s a shy one, aren’t ya, Brid?” She nudged Brigid farther. “Go on now, go see your cousin from America. Come a long way to see ya now.”
Brigid shuffled her slippers across the floor without allowing any space between her sole and the tile. Mary brought her to the table and sat her down.
“There now. I’ll make fresh tea and we’ll all get acquainted.” Mary smoothed her apron again and went to light the stove.
Paul rubbed my knee as we sat too.
“Hi, Brigid.” I bit my lip. “I’m Maeve. From Boston. I’ve been dying to meet you.”
Brigid continued to stare at the table top while rubbing her hands on her thighs.
“My grandfather was your father’s big brother. He left Ireland when your father was sixteen. Told me he was a big man, learning the ways of the farm.”
Brigid snuck a peek at me with one eye as Mary stepped out into the kitchen garden.
“Then I learned about you from some men in Warde’s Pub. They remembered you.”
“Who?” Her head jerked up and the question hit me like a stone.
Her voice was rough and jagged.
“Um, Padraic, the pub owner, and another man from the bar. Donal, I think. He remembered you well.”
I watched her shoulders relax and her breathing slowed.
“I remember Donal. Took me to a dance. Didn’t speak a word the entire night.” She smirked and looked at me for the first time. “What do you want?”
Her question was as direct as an arrow.
“Well, I wanted to meet you. I don’t have much family. And you’re part of my family.” I swallowed. “I guess I wanted you to know that you have some family too.”
“No.”
Her word carried more weight than a full dissertation.
“What?”
“No. You want something. You came for something. What do you want?”
She stared into my eyes as if looking straight through me. Like she had me figured out. The transfer of power was dizzying.
I turned to Paul, lost at how to answer. I was still unsure about her sanity, basically, and needed to know more about her.
She started to get up.
“No, wait. Please. Okay,” I begged her to stay.
I watched her sit back down and stare straight at me, waiting.
“Okay. So, I have these strange visions. Like dreams, while I’m awake. There’s wind, fear, screaming….” I watched her for a reaction, but saw nothing. “There’s a pirate queen. Grace O’Malley. Do you know of her?”
Brigid didn’t move. Her face reddened. Then went purple. She pounded her fists on the table and hollered, “Mary!”
Her response made me jump in my seat and Paul sat back like a blast of wind shot through him.
“Mary! Mary! Mary! Mary!” She screamed while smacking her hands on the table and shaking her head.
Mary flew in from the garden with pure alarm splashed over her face and dropped her herb cuttings.
“What is it, Brigid? What is it?” Mary took Brigid’s hands to try to soothe her. “Come on, Brigid. Everything’s okay. No need to be upset.” She put her hands on Brigid’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed. Time for a rest, honey.”
Mary helped Brigid stand.
Paul and I continued to stare in frozen bewilderment.
“I’m sorry.” Mary turned to us. “It’s best you be takin’ your leave now. Brigid’s had enough.” She couldn’t hide her displeasure with us in her scowl. “See yourselves out, will ya now?”
And they disappeared through the passage.
I sank in my seat.
“What? That’s it?” My hands went up in question.
I looked at Paul for an answer. He was writing something on a torn piece of paper bag.
“What’s that?” I leaned in for a closer look.
“I’m leaving our mobile numbers in case they need to reach us. For anything.”
I watched him finish his writing and then pulled myself out of my seat.
“Let’s get out of here,” I murmured.
From deep within the home, Brigid’s muffled wails permeated through every wall.
“No! Mary! Help me!”
I covered my ears and raced past Jesus on the cross and burst out the door, as if I would have lost my mind if I stayed in there for another second.
Chapter Four
Blown to Bits
The silence in the car was deafening.
Flattened by the disappointment of Brigid shutting down, I clung to the miracle that she was even found. I had to admit that it wasn’t really a shock that she freaked out at my mention of the pirate queen. I mean, that’s not normal, right?
I looked out the window as the home faded from sight.
But it was normal for Brigid. And for me.
“So now what?” I pouted. “That’s it?”
I looked at my phone. Michelle had texted me.
Sooooo is she freaky like u
I shook my head and smiled as I typed back.
No quite normal actually
Brigid’s response couldn’t be used against her, really. How else was
she supposed to respond to someone who wanted to talk about pirate queens and basically the worst part of her life out of the blue? I probably sounded like the crazy one.
“Back to square one, I guess,” Paul said in a slow exhale.
His words flattened me. Square one offered nothing. I was in the dark again.
My phone rang. I figured it was Michelle, but it was an unknown number.
“Hello?” I asked cautiously.
“Maeve?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said again.
“It’s Brigid.”
I froze and turned to Paul. My panicked expression lightened his foot on the gas pedal.
“Come back.” Her voice sounded miles away, lost deep inside her head.
“Okay. Um. I can come back. Like, now?” I looked at Paul, and he was already turning the car around.
“Yes.”
Click.
My heart rate hit high gear in two beats.
“Oh my god. She wants me to come back. Holy crap!”
My hands shook as I wriggled in my seat. She had really freaked me out screaming Mary’s name like that. I had no idea now what to expect.
“This is it, Maeve. She’s ready. She’s gonna talk to you.” He nodded with raised eyebrows.
I blew my breath out through pursed lips, contemplating what I would say to her. I rehearsed different scenarios and brought myself to a frothing frenzy before realizing I just had to be honest and be myself. I had nothing to lose.
We parked closer to the gate with the white cross, but still far enough away to be respectful of the hallowed grounds, and walked up the black drive to “the home.” The white door was open before we reached it.
Mary greeted us with a smile.
“Thanks for comin’ back. Brigid’s calm now. I think you just surprised her. No one has ever asked her such questions. And so directly, mind you.” Mary looked down at her wringing hands. “She’s been… programmed, you could say, about her mental illness. She believes her visions are a sickness she should never speak of. Your questions frightened her.”
Mary led us into the kitchen. I scanned the room for Brigid, half-expecting her to jump out from behind the fridge, trilling a high-pitched wild woman call.
Inish Clare Page 4
