by Darcie Chan
Michael looked from the spoon to his uncle. “It’s important that she have it.”
“I understand,” his uncle said before he sighed heavily. “There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. You’re not an adult, Michael, which means someone has to take responsibility for your care. I wish you could stay here with me, in the rectory, but the diocese won’t allow me to assume custody of a child, even one as mature as you are. Your brother is in prison, and your mother isn’t able to care for you right now.”
“What will happen to me? Am I going to St. Joseph’s? The orphanage?”
“Not if I can help it. I don’t believe that’s a safe place for children, although I can’t voice that opinion openly. I’m working on having your father’s body transferred here from New York, and I’m planning to have a joint funeral Mass for him and Grace this month with a burial in the spring. In early January, I’ve arranged for you to enroll in the minor seminary at my alma mater, the Cathedral College of the Immaculate Conception. I’m good friends with the rector there, and he’s arranging financial aid to cover your expenses. You’ll board there, which will keep you out of the orphanage. We’ll also seek legal emancipation for you—that means we’ll ask a judge to declare you an adult legally. Either way, once you come of age, you’ll be free to decide whether to stay on or take your life in a different direction.”
Michael bowed his head, willing himself to keep control of his emotions when everything else about his life had escaped his grasp. At last he managed to look his uncle in the eyes. “Where is the Cathedral College?”
His uncle’s voice was almost apologetic. “New York City.”
—
The Vermont landscape was snow-covered in early January. Michael sat in a window seat on the train, watching mountains and forests and farms he had never seen fly past. He couldn’t help but think of his father, how he and Seamus must have traveled through some of these same places on their way to New York nearly ten months ago. His own journey was bittersweet, not like the wide-eyed adventure for which he had wished back in March.
He had said goodbye to his mother two days ago. The Brattleboro Retreat had indeed been good for her. Physically, she looked well. She recognized him now, though she was fragile and prone to bouts of memory lapse and despondency. She had been happy to hear that Michael would continue his education. In time, with the help of the doctors and nurses caring for her, he was hopeful that she would find herself again.
The train had stopped in the southern city of Rutland and was now picking up steam as it left the station. A few miles farther south, after the train passed through rougher terrain and over a lengthy trestle, he caught sight of a tiny village in the distance. It was nestled in the hills and, like so many in Vermont, barely more than a cluster of houses with snowy roofs and smoking chimneys. There was a tall steeple, too, sprouting up from a stone church in the heart of the town.
For some reason, the village fascinated him. He had never laid eyes on it before, but the sight of it was comforting, as if it beckoned to him with the promise of home. It seemed to be something out of a storybook, the kind of magical place made of love and hope that he would never forget.
Michael clung to that feeling as the train continued on and the village disappeared from view. The events of the past few months had left him numb and nearly bereft of emotion. He didn’t know what lay ahead of him or what path his life would take, but the tendril of warmth he felt at seeing the little town seemed to push through the numbness and stoke what few embers of feeling he had left. He knew then that he would somehow find the strength to build a new life for himself. And someday, as soon as he was able, he would return to Vermont and find that lovely little village again.
Chapter 33
At the marble mansion, Emily stood with Ruth and Fitz as she unlocked the back door. “Are you ready?” she asked with a huge grin.
“Are you kidding?” Ruth asked. They all laughed as Fitz took Ruth’s hand and followed her into the house.
The kitchen hadn’t changed much since Ruth had seen it last, but it was new to Fitz. He glanced around at the gleaming new cabinetry and appliances and nodded with approval. “Sure looks like you could do some damage in here, Ruthie.”
“I fully intend to,” she said with a smile. “And look! This door goes right into the dining room, so it’ll be easy to serve meals!”
Emily led them into the great room, where the couple gaped together.
“Oh, Emily, this is…this is wonderful!” Ruth said. “Everything is so new and bright, and the lighting fixtures, and the— Oh, Fitz! Look at that gorgeous chandelier! I’ve never seen it lit up like that!”
They went through each future guest room, some of which were partially furnished. Emily nearly held her breath as they looked into the bedroom where she’d drilled into the pipe. No damage was visible, as she’d replaced the drywall and ripped up and relaid a good portion of the wood floor.
Fitz’s face lit up when they entered the owner’s suite. There was a large living room and kitchenette, a separate bedroom, and the bathroom. “It’s only one bedroom, but the rest of the space is more than we have in our apartment!” He rubbed his hands together, as if he were planning some mischief. “I’m thinking that corner right there would be the perfect place for a new TV. A big flat-screen with high def.”
Ruth and Emily laughed. “I can see it, too,” Ruth said. “Plus, having one bedroom here in the suite is no big deal. If the girls and their families want to come visit us, we’ll have plenty of other rooms where they can sleep!”
Emily smiled as Ruth’s words reminded her of her own childhood in Mill River, of growing up with Rose and her mother and Aunt Ivy in their snug little houses. She could see, too, how Ruth missed her own children and how her face lit up at the prospect of them coming to visit. It was the same way her own mother looked, even after months of Emily pushing her away every time they saw each other. It had been her mother who’d insisted that Andy would have wanted her to find happiness in her life. She’d continued to repeat that to herself since then, and strangely, with Matt, she felt it beginning to happen.
She had a sudden urge to find her mother and give her a huge hug.
“Oooh!” Ruth said. “I want to have a look at my tub.”
They went through the bedroom to the owner’s bathroom. Every surface was clean and sparkling. For added reassurance, Emily had placed a vanilla-scented plug-in air freshener in one of the outlets. The antique tub sat regally against a wall with a shiny new faucet and hardware at one end.
“How beautiful! This is going to be fantastic in the winter,” Ruth said. “When the weather’s frigid, I’ll be soaking in warm bubbles.”
“For the last thing I want to show you, we’ll have to go outside,” Emily said. They went back downstairs to the front door and out onto the stoop. “This is my gift to you,” she said, pointing to the new stained glass window above the door. It was an image of several horses in a pasture, with a backdrop of vibrant autumn trees. “I wanted to create an image that paid tribute to Mary. The horses are colored like the ones she used to have on the property.”
“Emily, it’s stunning,” Fitz said, his voice rough with emotion. “I think Mary would have loved it and everything else you’ve done with her home.”
“Father O’Brien talked with me about the horses while I was in the process of shaping the glass. He remembered them well.”
For several seconds, no one spoke. Everyone in town knew what had happened to him.
“I pray he’ll be well enough to see it,” Ruth said in a quiet voice. “Claudia told me that the diocese will provide another priest to marry her and Kyle if Father O’Brien isn’t able to do it, but she was pretty cut up just thinking about it.”
Emily nodded. The elderly priest was so loved by everyone in Mill River. The little town wouldn’t be the same without him.
—
Father O’Brien was dreaming of spoons. They were everywhere—lying in clu
sters on his countertops at the parish house kitchen, in the drawers of his bedroom bureau, in the bathroom in the cup where he kept his toothbrush. None of them matched, but he didn’t care. Every one of them was beautiful.
He adored the spoon that he kept separately, in his desk drawer. It was Mary’s spoon, given freely to him, unlike the hundreds of others he had once stolen, those hundreds that he had shipped away to a soup kitchen months ago, that were cluttering his dream.
He longed for one spoon in particular, the petite sugar spoon he had saved for his mother from her precious secret flatware. It was a relic of his past, lost long ago in the maternity ward of the hospital in Burlington, or maybe after she had been transferred to Brattleboro. Every spoon he’d seen since then, every one he’d ever held in his hand or slipped up his sleeve, reminded him of that one he hadn’t seen in decades. Maybe the lost spoon and his emotional connection to it were what had triggered his horrible obsession in the first place. Had a part of him been searching for that spoon all these years?
In his dreams, he could feel it in his hand, a perfectly balanced specimen of elegance. He could see the delicate handle etched with clover leaves, the bowl with a spray of leaves and scalloped edges, the engravings from a grandmother he never knew. Every spoon was beautiful, but that one was unique and irreplaceable, a lost treasure from his youth.
At that moment, he became aware of strange, rhythmic beeping noises nearby and opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his bedroom or his favorite recliner in the parish house. His current bed was elevated with rails along either side. Father O’Brien turned his head and blinked.
Fred Richardson, Mill River’s longtime doctor and a close friend, was at his bedside. “Michael? Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Why am I in the hospital?” His voice was craggy, and he had to put more effort than usual into forming his words.
“What do you remember?”
“I was…I was at Karen Cooper’s. She tried to kill herself. Her phone went off, and I reached for it…” He looked down at his arm, the one he had tried to use to grab Karen’s phone. It hadn’t responded then, but he was able to move it now.
“You had a stroke, Michael, the kind caused by a blood clot moving to your brain.”
“How long have I been unconscious? What day is it?”
“Today is Wednesday, December fourth.”
“Two days.” Father O’Brien looked again at his arm and flexed his hand open and closed several times. “This arm wasn’t working so well two days ago.”
“You can thank Ron and Jean Wykowski and tissue plasminogen activator—tPA for short—for that,” Dr. Richardson said. “They realized right away what was happening to you and marked the time. When they got you here to Rutland, the doctors confirmed the ongoing stroke and administered tPA to dissolve the clot. It’s a drug that can be given only in the first three hours after stroke symptoms begin, but if you can administer it in that window, especially within the first hour, it often prevents permanent disability in patients.”
Father O’Brien remained silent for a moment. “It seems I was very lucky.”
“You were, but you’re not home free. I expect you’ll be here the rest of the week, at least. You’ll need to be monitored for brain hemorrhage, and we’ll start you on some sort of blood thinner to help reduce the risk of this happening again. You might also need a bit of physical therapy, although the fact that you’re moving that arm when you say you couldn’t earlier is encouraging. Your speech is quite good, too.”
“What happened with Karen Cooper?” He was afraid to hear the answer.
Dr. Richardson looked evenly at him. “She survived, but she’s still in a coma, in critical condition. The good thing about Xanax—that’s the drug she took—is that people often survive overdoses of it, even really large amounts. And Ron and Jean got her here quick, just like they did you.” Dr. Richardson shook his head. “The police report indicated that she’d tried suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning first.”
“Yes. Her car was running in the closed garage. She’d rigged a hose from the tailpipe to the interior.”
“The woman must have nine lives. It’s tough to use car exhaust to commit suicide nowadays. Modern cars have catalytic converters to strip out almost all the carbon monoxide from the exhaust. Karen probably realized it wasn’t working and went back inside to try with her pills.”
“I should have gone to her sooner. I waited too long.”
“No, you didn’t. Look, Michael, I’m not her attending physician, but I spoke with him yesterday, and he’s optimistic that she’ll recover completely. What Karen will really need is some good psychiatric care and support from her family and friends once she’s discharged. And thanks to you, she probably will be. You weren’t too late—you were just in time.”
—
“Mom? Are you waking up? It’s Ben. And Uncle George. We’re both here with you.”
Karen opened her eyes slowly. At first the images she saw were nothing more than a blurry mass of light and color. Slowly, her vision came into focus. There were two faces nearby, both with expressions of combined worry and elation. She was having trouble forming thoughts, but the faces held her attention.
“Karen, it’s Georgie. Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear me?”
She became aware that her left hand was being held. Her gaze traveled down to their linked hands, and slowly, slowly, her fingers curled around to tighten her grip.
“Good! That’s really good, Karen! Ben, stay here with her. I’m going to go get a nurse.”
Her hand was disengaged as the larger of the two faces left, and the one that remained moved closer.
“Mom? Do you know who I am?”
Karen blinked slowly and raised her now-lonely hand to touch the cheek of the one remaining face. “Ben.”
“That’s right, Mom! You remember!” A grin nearly split the face in two, but at the same time, tears appeared in her son’s eyes. His lip began to quiver, and he quickly pressed his face down against her, draping an arm over her body to hug her as best he could.
Karen raised her hand to touch Ben’s head. A movement near the door caught her attention, and she shifted her gaze. “Georgie,” she said as her brother reentered the room, followed by a man wearing scrubs.
“I’m back, Karen. This is Ed,” he said, pointing to the nurse. “And your doctor will be here soon. We just called him.”
“Keep talking with her. Nothing too heavy or complicated, but encourage her to speak,” Ed said. He checked the IV line inserted into her right hand and the readings on several of the monitors surrounding the head of the bed and nodded approvingly. “Her vitals are good. Stable. The doctor will be pleased.”
Gradually, her perception and awareness improved. The grogginess was diminishing. It was then that she remembered what had happened, what she had tried and failed to do, and why.
Her face crumpled as she stared at her brother and son, saw the love with which they looked back at her, and realized how badly she must have hurt them. How could she have decided to go through with her plan when it would have inflicted unimaginable pain on these two people she loved with everything in her? What horrible mother and sister would do such a thing?
And yet there was still the darkness, festering inside her, made more painful by Nick’s absence. The tug-of-war between the need to fight for her life for others’ sakes and the desire to swallow twice as many pills next time was overwhelming.
“Karen, listen to me,” her brother said. “We’re not going to talk about why you’re here right now. The important thing is that you’re still with us and that you start helping us help you get better.”
“Nick—”
Ben nearly yelled as he interrupted her. “He’s coming home, Mom! Dad’s coming home! They found him, and he’s on his way right now!”
Karen looked at her son’s overjoyed face, then at the smile on her brother’s. Had she heard them correctly? Was it possible that they were lying to give her false
hope, to keep her from wanting to finish what she had failed to do? She was having trouble articulating everything that she felt and wanted to ask, but George read her face and answered her questions.
“Karen, today’s Thursday. Nick was located in Yemen last Sunday. He’d been kidnapped by militants, and the U.S. sent a commando unit in to rescue him. We didn’t get any sort of notification until Monday evening. Nick’s company couldn’t reach you, so they tried my number. He has some minor injuries—a broken arm, broken ribs, and some cuts on his face. The company rep didn’t have a lot of information, so we don’t know very much, but apparently, he was abducted in Saudi Arabia by a group of militants, part of an Al-Qaeda offshoot, looking to rebuild an American military drone they’d managed to shoot down. They targeted Nick because of his background in aerospace engineering and smuggled him into Yemen. There’s an investigation under way into how they managed to access that kind of personnel information, but that’s not important now. What is important is that he’s alive and on a jet heading home as we speak. He should be here tonight.”
“Oh,” Karen said. She raised her hands to her face, covering her nose and mouth as she was overcome by a rush of happiness such as she hadn’t felt in years. The joy was followed by deep shame. “What will he think of me?”
“Shh, sis, the only thing he’ll be is happy to see you, and Ben, too.” George took her tear-moistened hands in his. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve struggled with depression for a long time. Nick knows that, and he’ll understand. The stress of what you’ve been through would be tough for anyone to handle. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. I should have realized what you were dealing with and spent more time with you out here, especially after Dad got sick. You’ve been carrying our whole family for so long. I should have done better by you. But I promise you this: Ben and I, and Nick, when he gets here, are going to make sure you get all the help you need to get well. You’ve got a lot of life left and a lot of happiness ahead of you, and we’re all going to be there with you when it comes.”
