All That I Leave Behind

by Alison Walsh

  June cleared her throat and, as he looked at her, Pius realised that she looked awful – big, dark shadows under her eyes, mouth pulled down. ‘I have some news that I want to share with you all.’ He looked at Mary-Pat in surprise, because she was normally in charge of these things. June’s hands were shaking as she reached for the envelope which had been sitting in front of her, a pale blue flimsy thing with a foreign-looking stamp on it. She opened it and said, ‘This is very difficult,’ and then her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sorry.’

  Mary-Pat reached a hand out and squeezed June’s. ‘It’s all right, love. Whatever you have to say, just say it.’ June nodded and sniffed and accepted the tissue offered to her by her older sister. She tried to compose herself, fanning herself with her hand and taking in a deep breath, before exhaling again. ‘OK, it’s OK,’ she said to no one in particular. Then she straightened her shoulders and shuffled in her chair until she’d regained her composure. ‘Sorry, everyone, it’s all been a bit overwhelming.’

  What was overwhelming? Pius had that all-too-familiar feeling of having come in halfway through a conversation and having to work out what subject was being discussed. He shot Mary-Pat a look but was surprised to see that she didn’t have her usual know-all expression on her face. Instead, she looked worried, and Pius felt a jolt of panic. If Mary-Pat didn’t know anything, it must be bad.

  ‘It’s, well, it’s about what Daddy said at Rosie’s wedding …’ June blushed a deep red, glancing briefly at Rosie, who gave no indication that she was actually listening. ‘Mammy had an old friend, Maeve. She lives in Bray and they went to college together. I … ehm, thought she might know something about what Daddy said, so I asked her. And, well, it’s difficult because it involves something I haven’t told you all.’

  At this, Mary-Pat removed her hand from June’s and sat back in her chair, before rummaging around in her handbag, producing a cigarette which she lit, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke up to the ceiling. The smell filled the air, as usual – they were all used to it at this stage – but Rosie looked up and said, ‘Mary-Pat, could you just put it out? It’s making me feel really sick.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’ Mary-Pat took one last drag then ground the cigarette out on a saucer, which already had a little pile of butts on it.

  ‘Rosie, do you want to go outside for a bit?’ Pius said, eyeing the kitchen door, an escape for both of them.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s OK.’

  Mary-Pat tutted impatiently. ‘Go on, June.’

  For a moment, June’s face crumpled and Pius felt sure she was about to cry again and he wished she’d stop and just spit it out. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am. I didn’t know, I really didn’t.’

  Rosie was sitting up now, her tiny face like granite, jaw set, eyes pale. Pius noticed that she’d let go of the mug and instead she’d gripped the edge of the tablecloth which she’d twisted into a tight knot.

  June dropped her head and looked at the letter again. ‘Years after Mammy … went away, Maeve called me. I had no idea who she was and when she told me she was a friend of Mammy’s, I honestly didn’t want to know. I was living in Dublin and it was ten years then, and I’d forgotten …’ Her voice wobbled again. ‘Anyway, she asked if I’d meet her and I did and she gave me a letter. A letter from Mammy.’ June’s voice was barely a whisper, but it sounded like an explosion in Pius’s ears, as if she’d lobbed a grenade right there into the kitchen. She ploughed on. ‘I didn’t read it for ages. I tried to forget about it, to get on with the life I’d been leading, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t seem to get it started again, knowing what I did. It just seemed so pointless, just a big lie. So I read the letter.’

  When no one responded, June continued. ‘I just needed to know … she seemed to vanish in a puff of smoke. I mean, we knew that she’d gone to England somewhere, because Daddy found out, but nothing after. And then I got this letter and it was as if she was there with me again, do you know? In the room, telling me one of her stories. She asked how you all were and what you were doing and she told me she’d gone far away to a place where people needed her more than we did.’ At this, her voice broke.

  Pius didn’t move to help her, to offer her a tissue or to put a consoling arm around her shoulder, because he felt so angry. He felt that he was looking at a woman he didn’t recognise, who would keep something to herself that could have helped them all. All the years of wondering why she’d left. Wondering where out there in the world she might be, wandering. Wondering if she was happier now without them all and trying to build a life without her. And June knew. She knew and yet she kept it to herself. How selfish, because she wanted to be the important one, the one with the secret. She was sick, Pius thought, just sick.

  Mary-Pat spoke the words that were on his mind. ‘Why the hell did you never tell us? Why did you let us go on wondering, when all along you knew?’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Mammy made me promise not to tell. She said that if I let you all know, she’d stop writing, because she couldn’t be responsible for the way you’d all feel when you found out.’

  The three of them all looked at her in baffled silence, a silence which June mistook for permission to continue. ‘When Daddy said what he said about Rosie, you see, I worked it out. Maeve wouldn’t tell me the truth, but I remember now what happened that summer.’ June’s voice tailed away into a whisper. ‘You see, when Daddy said that Rosie wasn’t his, he didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean that he wasn’t her father. He meant that …’ June shook her head.

  Mary-Pat rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, June, now is not the time to be coy. Spit it out, seeing as you know it all. What did Daddy mean? Put Rosie out of her misery once and for all. C’mon, you started this, so you can finish it.’

  June said quietly, ‘You know what he meant, Mary-Pat.’

  Mary-Pat opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again, her pale blue eyes alive with rage. ‘I do not.’ She spat the words out, like bullets.

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. I know you didn’t know about the letters. But you do know why Daddy denied Rosie. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. We all know that she was his favourite, which is ironic really, given that she came from, ehm, another relationship. That’s it.’ June looked satisfied that she’d found the right words to describe it. ‘We all know that Rosie is Daddy’s. We know that. But you also know who Rosie’s real mother is. You know you know, so don’t deny it,’ June said, trying to look dignified, dabbing at her nose with a folded tissue.

  Mary-Pat sat back in her chair. ‘You absolute bitch. You keep this from us for nearly thirty years’– she pointed to the letter – ‘and you have the nerve to pin it all on me?’

  Pius expected June to crumble then, to fall apart. She always did when Mary-Pat got bolshie. She wilted under the stream of her sister’s sarcasm, but to his surprise, she refused to budge now, her jaw set. ‘I don’t think you have the right to throw stones, Mary-Pat. Face it, I’m not the only one who kept a secret now, am I?’

  ‘I did it for the right reasons,’ Mary-Pat muttered. She seemed to be scrabbling for the right words. ‘I did it because I knew the woman was no good, that she was just bad news and Rosie needed to know that she had a family. That we were her family.’ As she said the word ‘family’, she slapped her hand on the table, her face creased into a tight scowl.

  ‘And what gives you the right to decide that?’ June spluttered. ‘I mean, you always were a bossy cow, but who do you think you are to play God like that, not to tell Rosie the truth about where she came from?’

  ‘Oh, so we’re talking about playing God now, are we? Well, that’s rich, coming from you, Junie. You always did suck up to Mammy, so I suppose you’re delighted with yourself, aren’t you? June O’Connor, the Chosen One.’ The pair of them were facing each other now, like fighting dogs, eyes bright, teeth bared in rage.

  Pius watched himself do it in slow motion, his fist coming
through the air and connecting with the pine surface of the kitchen table with a loud thud. Did I just do that? he wondered, even as his sisters jumped back in fright.

  ‘June, I’ve had enough of this. I don’t care what you do or don’t know, and I don’t know what the hell difference it makes now anyway, or who you think you’re helping, but this isn’t the way to do it, dragging Rosie in here when it concerns her and then talking about her as if she isn’t in the room. It’s not right.’ And he turned to take Rosie by the arm, pulling her half out of the chair. She didn’t resist but instead went limp in his arms.

  June blustered, ‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’

  ‘The right fucking thing?’ Pius roared, turning on his sister, Rosie hanging out of his left arm, which was killing him. ‘Do you know what, June, you’re thicker than I thought you were. I can’t see what any one of us is going to get from this … this mess.’ He pointed to the letter. ‘And you of all people, Mary-Pat, should be ashamed of yourself. I know you resented having to look after Rosie and the rest of us and it wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry about it, but this is low, it really is. You had a responsibility to tell her the truth, and you shirked it.’

  The anger had taken him now, a rage so vast he couldn’t contain it. It felt like electricity surging through his body, but he knew he couldn’t let rip any more. That would only be to dignify this charade, this travesty. Instead, he lowered his voice deliberately: ‘I suppose it felt good, Junie, to be the only one Mammy could trust and I hope you enjoyed the feeling. I hope it gave you something the rest of us didn’t get. Some hope, at least. Lucky you, June. I hope you think it was worth it.’

  If he’d thought his sister would dissolve in tears the way she normally did, to get her own way, so that they’d all gather round and tell her how sorry they were for having upset her, he was mistaken. ‘Well, Pi,’ June said quietly. ‘You know, it’s a bit rich coming from you. You’re in no position to lecture any of us on doing the right thing. You who’ve buried your head in the sand your whole life. Look at you. All you can do is grow those drugs of yours and mope around the place, feeling sorry for yourself that life hasn’t given you what you wanted on a silver platter. Well, it doesn’t work like that, Pi. You’re a coward, do you know that? No wonder Daddy couldn’t stand –’ Her face was white with anger, her lips a thin line, eyes glittering.

  ‘Couldn’t stand what, Junie?’ Pius said. ‘Couldn’t stand me? That’s not exactly news to me, you know.’ But did you have to say it, Junie, he thought. Did you have to make it real like that? That’s cruel.

  June’s lips were pressed tightly together, as if to keep any more words from escaping. Her hands were clasped together on the table, the huge emerald in her engagement ring glittering. ‘Yes, well, he didn’t like me much either. He really only liked Mary-Pat because she looked after him, and even then not as much as Rosie. You were the one he really loved, Rosie,’ June said, stretching her hand out to cover Rosie’s, who pulled it away and said in a tight voice, ‘Please stop. All of you.’ She was standing beside him and he could feel her whole body trembling. He put out an arm to steady her, but she gently pushed it away. ‘I’ve heard enough. I’m sure you all meant well, but I wish you hadn’t treated me like I didn’t matter. I’m not a child any more.’ And then she turned and walked out the kitchen door, leaving them all staring after her.

  ‘I’d better go find her,’ Pius said after a few minutes. It took all his self-control to quietly pull on his jacket and push his chair under the kitchen table, taking his tea mug to the sink and carefully washing it out. And then he turned to his two sisters, the two women to whom he’d been closest for his whole life, and he said, ‘You’re right about me. I am a coward. I know it. The dogs on the street know it, but at least I can tell myself that I’ve never lived a lie. I haven’t used someone else’s pain to feel better about myself.’ At this, June sat back in her chair, stunned, as if someone had physically assaulted her and Pius felt a flicker of regret, just for a second, but then he reminded himself of what she’d done. ‘I don’t care what she said in her letters or where she is or what she’s doing. She’s dead to me. Dead. Please don’t ever bring up her name again.’ And he turned and walked out the kitchen door.

  He thought she’d be halfway to Dublin at this stage, but instead Rosie was standing quietly by the Beetle, shivering. ‘I forgot the keys,’ she said, teeth chattering. She must be freezing, he thought, standing outside in November in just a sweatshirt, and he hurried around to the driver’s door, turning the key in the lock. ‘Hop in.’

  She stood there on the pavement, swaying, and he realised that she couldn’t hop anywhere. She was in shock. He ran around to the passenger side and opened the door, gently easing her into the front seat and strapping the seatbelt across her. She didn’t protest, just sitting back in the red vinyl seat, her head resting against the back, eyes closed. Her eyelids were blue and her lips almost grey. She looked so unwell, Pius wondered if he should call a doctor. He’d get her home first, he decided, and then he’d see how she was.

  He had to stifle the urge to ram June’s Jeep on the way out, although it took every ounce of his self-control not to do so. They drove in silence up Main Street, which was festooned with bunting for the Monasterard Arts Festival, and over the humpback bridge over the canal. The trees had nearly lost all their leaves now, just a few scraps of rust hanging onto the branches, and a thick, silvery mist hung low over the water, which was like a long shiny mirror, not a ripple breaking its surface.

  He pulled up in front of the house, turning the key in the ignition so that there was a deafening silence after the roar of the engine. The two of them sat there for a bit, and then he turned to her to say that it was time they went inside, when Rosie said, ‘I knew anyway.’ Her voice was tiny, like a child’s, her face chalk white.

  ‘Rosie, please don’t … she didn’t mean it to come out that way … it’s all crap, it really is.’

  But Rosie interrupted. ‘It’s OK, Pi, I know you’re trying to help, but it’s all right, really. I knew the minute Daddy said. At least, I knew there was something. I think I’ve always known.’

  Pius was mystified. ‘But how, Rosie, no one ever said anything, did they, at least, not before now. I didn’t know anything –’ he added hastily, ‘or I would have said, honest.’ And then he thought of Mammy and Daddy in the car on the way to Rosie’s christening and the thought occurred to him that he had known something after all. He’d sat there in the back seat, Rosie’s carrycot balanced on his knee, looking at the little red-head inside, at the way her tiny fingers curled over as she lay there fast asleep, and he’d known, somewhere inside him. It was in the set of his parents’ shoulders as they sat in front of him, staring straight ahead, in complete silence, until Daddy had turned to Mammy and said, ‘Thank you, Michelle.’ And his mother, without looking at him, had said, ‘I will never forgive you. Ever.’

  He’d known. And like his sisters, he’d said nothing at all.

  ‘I know, Pi. But they didn’t have to say anything. It’s funny, because I’ve always felt a part of the family, but there was something. You were all too nice to me, that’s what it was.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I was just your annoying baby sister, but each one of you looked after me like parents and taught me all the things I’d need to know. I wonder if you all did that because you knew I wasn’t one of you, not really.’

  ‘Jesus, we were your family, Rosie,’ Pius said, mystified. ‘That’s what families do. And when Mammy left, it just seemed important. We looked after you because you were our sister and we loved you. It wasn’t any more complicated than that. And nothing about that has changed, love, no matter what your sisters have said, you have to understand that.’

  He’d expected her to nod, to say that, of course, she understood, but instead she just looked out the window, a faraway look in her eye. ‘I went up with Mammy to Dublin … the day she left.’

  Pius shook his head. ‘No, Rosie, you couldn�
��t have. June and Mary-Pat took you to the agricultural show in Mullingar. I remember, because it was the hottest day of the year and Mary-Pat had you in a big frilly bonnet to keep the sun off. I remember,’ he said again, as if trying to reassure himself. He did remember, he was sure of it.

  Rosie shook her head, sadly. ‘No … I know I was with her because we went on the train and we came out somewhere big and noisy. It must have been Dublin. I remember lots of traffic and seagulls. We had to walk for ages and ages and my feet were sore, and then we got on a bus. I don’t remember much else except that the bus was really smelly. And then I was sitting high up on someone’s shoulders on a beach. I wasn’t very happy about it because it wasn’t Mammy.’ She half-smiled. ‘It must have been Maeve, that friend of Mammy’s. Then later, Mammy was talking to Maeve. I remember because she was pouring coffee from a tall white coffee pot with bright yellow daisies on it and I thought it was really pretty, and Maeve said something like, “Are you going to put up with it, Michelle?” Something like that anyway, and then Mammy said, “She may not be my flesh and blood but that only makes me love her more.”’

  Pius didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just sat there, his mouth hanging open. Say something, you big eejit, he told himself. Say bloody something.

  ‘Ah, Rosie,’ Pius managed to find his voice, ‘I don’t know. It was such a long time ago and, sure, you were only a baby. Mammy could have been talking about anything at all.’

  But Rosie interrupted, ‘You see, Pi, she looks so like me, even in those awful power suits and that big hair. But it’s not just that, it’s the way she stands. It took me a while to work out, but we both stand the same way.’