Prior to the fall semester, Annie transferred out west to study geology. Rocks had always fascinated her. Rocks were hard, solid. They took forever to change.
In the years that followed, she saw little of Mercedes, brief unpleasant meetings during her sporadic visits home. Yet whenever Annie spoke with her mother on the phone from Calgary, Lucinda would say that Mercedes had been inquiring about her, asking how was she doing at university, did she have a boyfriend, and always, Mercedes wanted to know, was Annie happy?
Yet each time Annie came home to St. Jude, her mother would wonder aloud why, if Mercedes was so concerned over Annie’s well-being, why then did the woman always make herself so scarce during the visit. In fact, Lucinda complained to Annie, Mercedes saw far more of Gerry Griffin during his trips home than she did of her own niece. And each time Lucinda would ask if something had happened between them.
Annie never enlightened her.
PART FOUR
1999
20
The morning barely dawns. It’s a miserable day for a funeral.
The procession of vehicles makes its way along the road. In the black hearse at the front, Mercedes leads the way as, one by one, the cars fade into the fog.
At the gravesite, Annie stands next to her mother who, on her other side, is flanked by Dermot, Callum, Pat, Aiden and Joe. They are surrounded by family, friends and neighbours several hundred strong. Annie steals a quick scan of the crowd. She does not see him, yet just as she had in church, she senses his presence.
Father James, the handsome new priest, spends an inordinate amount of time on the virtues of forgiveness. Considering that he didn’t have much of an opportunity to get to know Mercedes, Annie thinks he is doing a fine job of sending her off.
On the opposite side of the casket stands Sadie Griffin. Her eyes are intent on the young priest’s face. The tip of her tongue darts out to moisten her mouth, which is slightly open; her hand comes up to graze her lower lip, then it slides down past her chin to her neck, where it rests. Annie turns her eyes away.
Father James makes the sign of the cross. The coffin begins its descent; the mourners huddle in. As the first shovel of dirt hits the casket, Annie hears a sharp intake of breath next to her. She offers her arm. Lucinda leans heavily on her until Dermot takes over and leads them all away. They’re a jittery crew, a few hungover, all full of the edgy darkness and nervous energy that comes from seeing one of their own off on her final journey.
At the house, Tom Kennedy is waiting for the family. He reads the will.
To everyone’s surprise, except perhaps Callum’s, Mercedes had sold the house before she died. The proceeds are to be shared among the nieces and nephews. As Pat’s name is read, his head shoots up. Annie smiles, then soon realizes her name is not on the list.
Next comes the property in Bay D’Esprits. Mercedes has left the smaller cabin to Callum and the larger one to Lucinda and Dermot, along with a substantial sum of money. Annie is grateful for the peace this will bring her mother. She is hardly paying attention when Tom Kennedy informs them that, except for several small bequests, the remainder of Mercedes’ estate is to be divided, one half going to The Meade House for Unwed Mothers, the other half to her niece, Annie Byrne.
Annie is blindsided. Her mind is numb. She knows she should have questions but before she can get her bearings, the meeting is over. On his way out, Kennedy asks her to meet him in an hour. Then everyone rushes to congratulate her, making a great noisy fuss as if she’s just caught the prize fish of the day.
When she enters Kennedy’s office, she has a sense of the familiar. She wonders briefly if she might have been here before, but then realizes it is the smell she recognizes, an earthy, spicy scent. Before she can identify it, Kennedy rushes in.
“Sorry I’m late. I was seeing one of your aunt’s beneficiaries, Gerry Griffin. Had to run by her house to get something she wanted him to have.” Without waiting for a response, he hands her a plain white envelope. “Mercedes left this for you, said she hoped it would explain things.”
Annie thanks him and slips the envelope into her pocket, preoccupied with the knowledge that Gerry had been in the office before her, that they might have bumped into each other in the waiting room, or in the doorway, or in the hall.
“Annie?” Kennedy is looking at her, waiting for something.
“I said I have to witness you read it. She was very specific about that.”
“Oh.” Annie’s fingers fumble to open the letter. There are two pages, written in Mercedes’ strong hand.
“Dear Annie, I am so sorry for the pain that I have caused you.”
Annie’s heart beats faster. After all they’ve been through, why now is Mercedes sorry?
“You have suffered more than anyone else because of something that happened to me many years ago. I will not rest unless you know the reason why.
“Gerry Griffin’s grandfather, Paddy Griffin, was your grandfather too. I am Lucinda’s mother. Paddy Griffin was her biological father.”
Annie hears herself gasp. She can feel Tom Kennedy looking at her. She stands and walks to an open window before continuing. “Callum and his late wife adopted Lucinda at birth but we were never allowed to tell anyone. Judith threatened that she would make Callum’s life a living hell if he ever breathed a word. She kept the threat alive even after she was dead. The only other person we have ever told is Lucinda. She had a right to know, as do you.”
“When I saw you and Gerry together, I panicked. Sharing a grandmother was bad enough, but I assumed you had both come to terms with that as well as with Sadie’s connections to the family. But sharing a grandfather too, there could be no getting around that, not in your hearts, not in the eyes of God.
“All these years I have steadfastly kept the past where it belongs, knowing it was the only way to protect Callum and Lucinda. It never occurred to me that by doing so I could cause you such heartache. I could not bring myself to tell you in person. I couldn’t bear to see the look in your eyes when you found out the truth.
“So I told Gerry, some of it anyway, and begged him to trust me when I said it could cause you irreparable harm. I traded on our friendship when I made him swear to leave you and to keep my secret. Gerry has always kept that promise. He has been a true friend to an old unhappy woman.”
Annie’s hand shakes as she moves on to the second page.
For so long she’s been tormented by the fact that Gerry and Mercedes’ friendship survived, flourished even, despite what happened. How was it that they had been able to forgive each other but not her, or her them? Until this moment, she’s always felt the blame must lie with her.
“As I have watched you from afar, it has been my greatest fear that you will grow old, alone and bitter, and become the woman that I am. You have a right to know why Gerry left and that it was not your fault. The rest, how it all came to be so long ago, is no longer important. It is best left buried.”
A dull ache settles in Annie’s throat.
“As for the abortion, it was the only thing you could have done, Annie. It was not a union to produce a healthy child.
That was why I goaded you into it. I believe that God has forgiven us. It is time for you to do the same.”
The tears come as the truth of the letter hits home. Breathing deeply of the fresh salt air that sweeps in through the window, she glances outside, up the hill to the graveyard where Mercedes lies. Her grandmother.
“The only person who has all the answers is Callum, the man who has always been your grandfather. Believe me when I tell you he has good reason not to share them.
“As for the money, I pray it brings you freedom and happiness.
“Finally, your mother. Be good to her, for me. Let her into your life.
“I have always had the greatest faith in you, Annie. I wish I could have told you that. Perhaps I should have.”
It was signed, simply, “Mercedes.”
Annie refolds the pages and slips them back in
to the envelope. There are so many questions, so much unknown. But she decides that today is not the day to look for answers. Today, she will respect Mercedes’ wishes.
After finishing with the paperwork, Kennedy sees her to the door. Outside on the sidewalk, she takes a moment to gather her thoughts. Eyes closed, she leans her back against the brick face of the building, trying to absorb all she has learned. So much has changed.
Footsteps approach. Instinctively she knows.
She opens her eyes. He stands before her, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady on her face. She remembers the familiar aroma in Kennedy’s office.
She glances away, off to the side, anywhere but at him, wanting only to escape.
Then he says her name. “Annie. Please don’t go.”
Hearing his voice, it’s impossible to leave. So she turns and faces him and gives herself a good long look at the man who has owned her heart for so long. His face is more mature, thinner perhaps, the cheekbones more pronounced. Otherwise he has not changed. As his deep, dark eyes look into hers for the first time in five years, she is suddenly struck with the fear that he might ever discover the truth. She shivers in the warm June breeze.
He reaches out. “Are you cold?”
She shakes her head, doesn’t trust herself to speak yet.
His hand hovers in the air. “I’ve thought of this moment so many times, and hoped for it every time I came home. But you were never here.”
Annie has purposely avoided him, coming home at odd times, mid-March, October, except for that one Christmas when she knew he wouldn’t be there. “I’m in Calgary,” she says. “I have to go. I have to help Mom.” She is terrified that if she keeps looking into those eyes, she will let slip something that can only cause them both more pain. “Sorry… I’ve got to go.”
He catches her wrist. “Annie, I have to talk to you, to explain what happened.”
His voice again, this time reinforced by the touch of his skin on hers, those warm strong fingers that press into her lonely flesh.
She turns and leads him silently up towards the hill by the graveyard. They sit on the same boulders she played on as a girl, hidden from the world by evergreens, surrounded by the unearthly security of nearby tombstones.
She takes out Mercedes’ letter and hands Gerry the first page. “Read this, then we can talk.”
She stares off into the sky’s fading daylight, his nearness and the warm scent of him opening the door to memories she’d long ago locked away. He is soon finished.
“Yes, finally I know too.” She manages to say it with only a tiny tip of bitterness. “I just found out in Kennedy’s office.”
“So many times I thought of writing to you and explaining everything. But I’d think of your aunt, the fear in her eyes, how hard it was for her to tell me what she did. And I’d remember the promise I made her.” He is quiet for a moment. “Then there was my mother. In the end, I had to make her a promise too.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“To never see you again.” His eyes shine with a film of tears.
“But honest to God, I didn’t really believe it would be this long before I did.”
“Never is a long time,” she says.
“Too long.” He waits a moment before continuing. “I’ve never seen my mother so furious as she was that night. It was like she was possessed or something. All she could see was the two of us together, me with Lucinda Byrne’s daughter. It sent her over the top. She threatened to ruin us all - you, Mercedes, even her own family, if I didn’t do what she said.”
“How? Did she know about it all?”
“The truth is, I wasn’t sure what she knew, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her. All I knew was that it was possible.
With Ma, anything is.” He pauses and looks off into the distance, then shakes his head and grins wryly. “It took me a long time to forgive her, but in the end I had to let it go.” His voice softens. “She’s my mother.”
“The things we do for family, eh?”
“Yeah. Like Pat.”
“Pat? What about him?” She keeps her eyes down, focused on the ground. Please, dear God, tell me he kept his mouth shut.
“It was the year you moved out west. I was home for Christmas and stopped in at the bar. And there were the Hann boys, feeling no pain. No sooner did Pat set eyes on me than he starts ranting on about what an arsehole I was and how it was all my fault you left. Aiden was right behind him too, with that stupid smirk on his face.”
Annie can picture it, Pat fighting mad, Aiden letting his older brother stir things up while he, as usual, stood back and enjoyed the spectacle.
“Then Pat mutters something about promising to break my neck and takes a few swipes at me but he’s too drunk to do any damage. Couple of guys hauled him away but I just went on home. Last thing I wanted was to fight with Pat, drunk or sober.”
“I really am sorry, Gerry. We always looked out for each other, you know, the three of us, since we were kids. They’re more like brothers than cousins.” The thought comes immediately - and you don’t sleep with your cousin. She forces herself to ask the question. “How did you feel about it, our being so closely related, after what we did?” She watches his face, so strong in its new maturity.
“I tell you, I didn’t feel ashamed.” His voice is defiant. “I know I was supposed to. I tried telling myself that what we did was wrong but I could never convince myself it was wicked or sinful or any of the words my mother used that night.”
“She was that mad, eh?”
“Beside herself! You wouldn’t believe what came out of that mouth.”
“But that’s not fair. We didn’t know any better. Why was she blaming you?”
Gerry hesitates. “She wasn’t blaming me. She was blaming you, plus your whole entire family. She’s always had such a grudge, about Paddy and Farley, and about your parents, and that she was a cousin and nobody ever invited her into the fold.
She used to rant on about it sometimes, call you all mental cases, especially when she was drinking.”
Annie is not sure how to react. For one thing, the Griffins have always been the ones with the reputation for mental instability. For another, Sadie forever proclaimed to be a teetotaller. “I know what you’re thinking.” Gerry nudges her. “Them crazy Griffins, queer as three-dollar bills, them are.”
She laughs lightly. He takes her hand. Her heart leaps with the gentle pressure, the feel of his skin touching hers.
“Now it’s your turn,” he says. “How did you feel when you found out?”
His fingers caress the back of her hand. She fights the urge to tuck into him, to bury her face in the warm skin of his neck.
When she is slow to respond, he insists. “Come on, Annie.
There’s been too much time, too many questions. Can we just be honest?”
She moves her hand away. “You want honesty? Fine.” She is surprised at the anger in her voice. “Of course it was wrong.
It’d be worse than sleeping with Pat or Aiden.”
His face tightens but he says nothing.
“But it’s not the same, I know that. The thought of doing it with either one of them is just…I can’t even think about it.”
She shudders at the thought. “But I could never feel that way about me and you. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t.” Her voice has shrunk to a harsh whisper.
She slides off the rock and walks towards the trees, opening her eyes wide in an attempt to stop the tears. She feels him come up behind her.
His hand touches her hair. She knows she should move away but she is as rooted to the ground as the trees that surround them. His fingers stroke her cheek. He turns her gently and folds her in his arms. Beyond resisting, she inhales the familiar scent of his skin, feels again the safe, strong rhythm of his heart.
Wrapped in a world of sense and touch and earth and trees, they draw apart just enough to find each other for that last kiss, the one they never had, as she allows the years th
is one forbidden moment on a hidden hillside by the graveyard in St. Jude.
But for Annie, a moment is all it can ever be. The memory of what happened to her, to them, to a baby that still lived in her heart, is too much. A vital part of her will grieve forever over what she did, her belief in its necessity notwithstanding. She steps away from his reach.
“Annie? Isn’t there any way?” Tears glisten in his dark eyes. “What if we never had children, then couldn’t we be together? Nobody knows, right? We were lucky before, we’ll just make sure from here on out.”
She feels her body stiffen. He must notice for suddenly he grips her arms so hard it hurts. “Annie? What is it?” His anxious eyes search hers.
The grief strikes so hard it’s as if the abortion happened the day before. And suddenly, she knows. This is the intangible something that has been with her since that day, this empty ache, this blank space in her soul. This will always be between them.
“Annie? You were never pregnant, were you? Oh Jesus Almighty, tell me!”
She hears the fever in his voice, the guilt, the regret. It’s a story of hurt that is well known to her but not one she wishes on Gerry. In all the daydreams and nightmares that have come unbidden since the night he left her, she has never wished him such pain as that.
They have shared their final moment. She means to keep it, for both of them.
“Good God no, Gerry.” For the first time she empathizes
with Mercedes. Some truths should not be shared. Sometimes a lie is necessary. “It’s just that all my life I’ve wanted children.
I can’t give that up.”
His eyes hold hers and won’t let go.
She stands her ground.
Annie feels a measure of peace for the first time in years.
She has not been wrong about the only man she has ever been able to love, and she will no longer have to go through life constantly trying to hate Gerry Griffin. Reaching up, she lets her fingers trace his face, from his brow to his eyes, down his cheek to his lightly bristled chin, across his mouth to the fading scar on his lip.
Mercy of St Jude Page 26
