by Darcie Chan
Karen shrugged. “Father O’Brien knows what’s going on, and I’ve talked with him quite a bit.”
“Maybe you should go see him now,” Emily suggested. “I can drive you over to the church on my way to the mansion, if you’d like.”
“Maybe I will go see Father O’Brien,” Karen said slowly. “I don’t need a ride—my car’s outside—but thanks.” She rose from her seat, and Emily quickly grabbed up the napkin and pressed it into her hand.
“Don’t forget this,” she said. “I’m serious about you calling me if you need to. Are you sure you’re okay right now?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” Emily didn’t look at all as if she believed her, so Karen forced a smile as she stuffed the napkin into her jacket pocket. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
Karen left enough money on the table to cover her bill and then some. Ruth was waiting on several people who had come in around the same time, and Karen was able to slip out of the bakery without another conversation. Instead of going to her car, though, she walked next door to the hardware store, where Henry Turner greeted her and asked if she needed help finding something.
“I need a new dryer vent hose.”
“Oh, sure. They’re right over here.” Henry came around the counter and led her down one of the aisles. “Here you go. These are actually dryer duct kits. We’ve got ’em in eight-foot and twenty-foot lengths. Do you know how long of one you might need?”
“The longer, the better, I think. How wide is the hose?”
“They’re both a standard four inches. They come with two clamps, one for each end. The clamps should make the connections airtight, but you could always use a little duct tape around each end if you wanted to.”
“I have plenty of that at home. It’s what I got the last time I was here, actually.”
Henry nodded and took a twenty-foot duct kit from the shelf. “I’ll carry it up front for you.”
When she arrived back at home, Karen pulled into her garage and lowered the door. She left her purchase resting on the trunk of the car while she went inside and got her roll of duct tape. She also retrieved the two sealed envelopes—one addressed to Ben, and the other to her brother, George—that were sitting on her dresser. She then opened the duct kit and knelt on the floor of the garage beside her car’s exhaust pipe.
A half hour later, she climbed into the driver’s seat, laid the letters on the dashboard, and started the engine. The duct functioned perfectly. The end attached to the car’s tailpipe was clamped and taped, and she had made sure the area surrounding the end of the hose secured in one of the back passenger windows was also airtight.
Exhaust from the engine poured into the car. Karen inhaled deeply, her eyes closed and her head fully supported by the headrest. Her faith told her that what she was doing might prevent her from ever seeing Nick again, but her heart hoped to see him and hold him again, or at least for relief from the crushing burden of her life.
Chapter 30
November 1934
Michael sat with his uncle in the hospital waiting room. He’d been there over an hour, having arrived with his mother in Mr. Whibley’s truck. By the time they’d made it to the hospital, she’d started to bleed heavily. Michael had never felt so disappointed and helpless—disappointed that everything he had done to make sure she and the baby would be all right might not have been enough, and helpless to do anything to improve the situation.
Another hour passed, and then a nurse with a clipboard appeared and called, “Anna O’Brien?”
The two of them practically jumped off the bench. “I’m Frank Lynch, Mrs. O’Brien’s brother,” his uncle said. “This is her son Michael. Her husband is working out of state, I’m afraid.”
The nurse nodded and made a note on her clipboard. “Please follow me. The doctor would like to speak with you.” She turned and pushed open one of the double doors leading from the waiting room and held it for them to follow. She led them to a small consultation room in the maternity wing, where a doctor in surgical garments soon joined them.
“Anna is resting comfortably,” the doctor said. “She had a serious placental abruption, which means that the tissue connecting the baby to her body suddenly separated. We were able to stop the bleeding after we delivered the baby, although she needed a transfusion.”
The doctor paused, and the momentary silence in the small room was ominous.
“The baby—” his uncle began, and the surgeon nodded.
“The baby survived, but she’s very small, not even four pounds. She wasn’t due for a few more weeks, from what I read in Mrs. O’Brien’s medical records. The early delivery, and the sickness that Mrs. O’Brien suffered for a good part of her pregnancy, probably kept the baby from reaching a normal size.”
“Will she survive? The baby?” Frank asked.
“She could. It’s hard to say. She’s in the nursery, and I can assure you she’s receiving the best of care.”
“When can we see them?” Michael asked.
“Your mother is unconscious from the anesthesia. I expect it will be tomorrow morning, at least, before she’s able to receive visitors. There’s no reason why you can’t see the baby, if you wish. I can ask a nurse to escort you there.”
“Yes, please, Doctor. And thank you for all you’ve done for Anna,” Frank said, extending his hand. “Our prayers have been answered tonight.”
The hospital nursery was conveniently adjacent to the maternity wing. Through a glass window, Michael could see rows of wheeled bassinettes, many of which were occupied. The nurse who had walked with them went inside and spoke with one of the pediatric nurses, who nodded. Instead of going to a bassinette, she approached a large, boxy structure against one of the walls. The front of the structure was open and divided into three small beds.
“What is that?” Michael whispered.
“An incubator,” his uncle said quietly.
The pediatric nurse bent slightly and lifted a tiny bundle from one of the incubated beds. Carefully, she positioned the baby in one arm and walked over to the window. The nurse who had escorted them to the nursery came back out the door and stood with them to see the infant.
Michael could scarcely breathe. His baby sister was a delicate vision. Although her eyes were closed, he marveled at the tiny perfection of her facial features. Her minuscule eyelashes matched the slight wisp of blond hair on her head, and her clenched fists were no bigger than the end of his thumb. The rest of her was hidden, well swaddled in a receiving blanket.
“Well, Michael, you’re a big brother now,” his uncle said quietly.
She has to survive. She will survive, Michael thought. Somehow he had done it. He had seen his mother through, and he would continue to do anything he could to make sure his sister grew and thrived. Michael wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and grinned up at his uncle, who was smiling, too.
“Uncle Frank, we have to call Father. I promised we’d contact him if anything happened with Mother or the baby.”
“I’ll do that as soon as I drive you back to the farm. You’ll need to tend to the livestock, yes? Will you be all right alone for the night?”
Michael nodded.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll come get you for another visit. Hopefully, we’ll be able to see your mother then, too.”
The next morning, Michael was ready to leave the house at ten o’clock, when his uncle had promised to be there. When Frank hadn’t arrived by ten-thirty, he started to pace around the kitchen. The Colchester parish sedan finally turned into the driveway at five minutes before eleven, but the expression on his uncle’s face as he exited the vehicle kept Michael from saying anything about his tardiness.
“Michael, something terrible’s happened. Please come back inside with me for a minute.”
Michael focused on his uncle’s eyes, which were uncharacteristically watery. They sat down at the table.
“I tried to call your father last night, but I couldn’t reach him.
I figured it was late, that there was no one in the company office at that hour. This morning I tried again. I got through to one of the foremen, and he passed the phone to one of the managers. I don’t know how to say this…The manager told me that he was killed in an accident three days ago.”
Michael stared blankly, unable to find his voice.
“It was an accident,” his uncle said. “A fall. He was working up on one of the steel supports. Apparently, no one saw what caused him to lose his balance. They only realized he was in trouble once he’d slipped and was hanging on by one arm, and he fell into the river before they could get to him.”
“No. No,” Michael said. “Father’s so strong. He’d hang on, even if he did fall. And if it happened three days ago, we’d have heard before now. Someone would have called you or sent us a wire.”
“I know it seems like that’s what they would do. I said the very same thing. I guess it took some time to retrieve his body from the water and identify him, and the company decided not to try to notify us on Thanksgiving Day. They tried to call my office yesterday, probably while we were at the hospital with Anna. The manager sent a telegram for her to my office after we spoke by phone, said we should consider it official company notice.” Frank produced an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Michael to open. “I was late coming out because I waited for it to arrive. I knew you’d want to see it for yourself.”
Michael took the envelope and opened it.
WESTERN UNION
1934 DECEMBER 1 AM 10:13
DEAR MRS. O’BRIEN,
I DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND, NIALL MICHAEL O’BRIEN, DIED AFTER FALLING FROM A STEEL SUPPORT TRUSS AT THE TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE CONSTRUCTION SITE. A LETTER OF INFORMATION FOLLOWS.
OTIS P. MACARTHUR, MANAGER
TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE AUTHORITY
Michael looked up with tears welling up and spilling out of his eyes. “Why?” he asked his uncle. “Why would this happen to us right now, after everything? Why would God let this happen?”
Before Frank could answer, he’d dropped the telegram and was out the door, running, running through the fresh snow. He cleared the back pasture and kept going, not knowing where he was headed or when he would stop.
In every difficult situation he’d experienced since his father had left, he had figured out a way forward. Now, though, he couldn’t think. He didn’t know where to turn or what to do. He was lost.
Chapter 31
Once Karen had left the bakery, and before she herself went up to the marble mansion to begin the day’s work, Emily stopped at the counter again to speak with Ruth. The morning rush had cleared out, and Ruth was putting on a fresh pot of coffee.
“I have some good news,” Emily told her with a grin. “I think the house is about ready for you and Fitz to see. I’m going to be installing the stained glass window today, and I’ll probably swap out the fixtures on the antique tub we kept for your guys’ bathroom, but after that, we’ll be all set.”
“Oh, this is so exciting! I’m sorry I haven’t been up there recently, but it’ll be better to see everything you’ve done all at once. When do you think we should come?”
“How about Wednesday afternoon, around three o’clock?”
“That’ll work for me. Rose will be here to cover the counter. Let me just call Fitz at the station and see if that time’s good for him.”
Emily waited while Ruth phoned her husband, who sounded equally thrilled to see the mansion.
“I’m really pleased with how it turned out,” Emily said, “but don’t forget that we can make adjustments in the future if we need to.”
“Kyle and Claudia’s wedding should give us a good opportunity to see how the space works for guests. Maybe it’ll give us some more ideas.”
“Sure.” Emily paused and took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing I wanted to talk with you about. While I was refinishing the floors in the former master suite, I found a briefcase hidden in the closet. I probably shouldn’t have opened it before telling you about it, but it was locked, and I wanted to see if I could open it without damaging the locks, as a favor to you. The whole briefcase was filled with letters between Mary McAllister and a lady named Anna O’Brien.”
“Anna O’Brien? Any relation to Father O’Brien?”
Emily nodded. “His mother. I read some of the letters. I shouldn’t have done that, either, but I’m thinking that even though the briefcase was in the mansion and technically yours, it should go to Father O’Brien. If you agree, that is.”
“Absolutely,” Ruth said. “If the letters were between Mary and his mother, my goodness. He’d probably be so grateful to have them.”
“Good. I’ll take the whole thing over to him today. I really am sorry for opening the briefcase, Ruth. It wasn’t any of my business.” And when I see him, I can make sure he knows about Karen and how fragile she seems, Emily thought.
“Don’t worry about it, Emily. Chances are, if you had brought it to me locked, I’d have asked you to open it. And both of the people who wrote the letters have passed. If we get them safely into Father O’Brien’s hands, I don’t see that there’s any harm done.”
—
In the parish house, Father O’Brien hung up the phone and pulled on his coat. He glanced at the briefcase that Emily had brought over. Although he hadn’t quite wrapped his mind around what it was and what it contained, he couldn’t focus on it. Far more important was Karen’s well-being. She hadn’t stopped by to see him, as she’d told Emily she would, and she still wasn’t answering his calls. He was so worried that he thought it best to go see if she was home.
Halfway from the door and his truck, he felt an odd sensation. It wasn’t dizziness, but more like the ground under his feet was uneven. No wonder, he thought. I hardly slept last night. The sensation passed quickly, though, and he felt fine as he got behind the wheel.
Karen’s home seemed empty as he pulled into her driveway. It was a school day, so Ben wouldn’t be there. He got out of the truck, intending to go ring the doorbell, but a humming noise coming from the garage caught his attention. He checked to see if his hearing aids were in the proper positions and then snapped his fingers on each side of his head to test them. The noise was definitely coming from Karen’s house.
Quickly, he went to the garage door and flattened his palm against it. It didn’t feel out of the ordinary, but when he pressed his ear against it, the sound of an engine idling inside was unmistakable.
Father O’Brien stooped down and took hold of the handle protruding from the lower half of the door, but he wasn’t strong enough to raise it manually.
He looked over at the Wykowskis’ house and noticed that there were two vehicles in the driveway. Ignoring the painful protests from his arthritic knees, he hurried across the lawn to Karen’s neighbors’ house and pounded on the door. “Ron? Jean? Are you home?”
Ron Wykowski, eyes baggy and half-open, came to the door in sweats and a T-shirt. His hair was mussed and standing straight up on one side. “Father? What’s wrong?”
“There’s a car running in Karen’s garage next door. I think she might be trying to kill herself.”
Ron’s tired expression vanished. “Jeanie! Jeanie, call 911, and come next door, quick!”
“What?” Jean’s voice sounded from another room in the house. “Did you say to call 911?” She appeared, dressed in her work scrubs, just as Ron put on his shoes. Rather than stay behind, she grabbed the handset of a cordless phone and followed her husband outside, dialing as she went.
Back at Karen’s, Ron also tried and failed to lift the garage door.
“She keeps a spare key taped to the back of her porch light,” Jean said with the phone to her ear. “Hello? Yes, I’m calling to report a possible suicide attempt.” While she gave the emergency dispatcher the address, Ron ran to the front porch, found the key, and let himself into Karen’s house.
Father O’Brien and Jean followed him into the house. Ron quickly went to
the interior garage door and threw it open. A huge, warm cloud of automobile exhaust engulfed him as he found the keypad and hit the button to open the exterior door.
None of them spoke as sunlight illuminated the inside of the garage and the exhaust dissipated. Father O’Brien made the sign of the cross. Karen’s sedan was still idling. It was obvious from the hose apparatus extending from the tailpipe into the rear window that she had indeed used the car as a means to attempt suicide. Strangely, though, the driver’s door was open, and Karen was nowhere inside.
“Why would she do this and then get out?” Jean asked. “Maybe she had second thoughts? Oh, please, let that be it.”
“We need to search the rest of the house,” Ron said. He came back inside, and the three of them spread out, checking all of the rooms.
“In here!” Jean yelled. Father O’Brien followed Ron back to the master bedroom, where Karen lay on the bed. There was an empty prescription bottle on the nightstand. “Xanax,” Ron said when he looked at it.
“I can’t get a pulse,” Jean said. As she and Ron began to administer CPR, Father O’Brien crossed himself again and began to pray. So much of this scene was reminiscent of how Mary’s life had ended, except he alone had gone to her home and found her. A siren in the distance was growing louder, and he hoped that somehow, with emergency help, Karen’s outcome would be different than Mary’s. Karen had suffered through a tremendous amount of pain, but she was young and healthy. She had a beautiful son who needed her. There was still hope that her husband would be found alive. It wasn’t right that she should die today.
On the dresser next to where he was standing, a ringtone sounded from a phone tucked in Karen’s purse. He didn’t know much about how to work cellphones, but the melody played over and over, and it was so loud that he was afraid it would distract Ron and Jean from their frantic efforts. Father O’Brien tried to reach out and pick up the phone, but his arm remained motionless. The strange sensation he had experienced before getting into his truck returned. It was much more pronounced, and the room was swirling. He felt his leg give way, as if the floor had disappeared out from under it.
