“DO YOU HAVE any secrets?”
A.J. looked startled. “Cara, that’s a really crappy way to start a conversation.”
“I know. My mom used to say things like that. When one of us would do something she would tell us to go into our room and contemplate our sins. We’d come out and confess to something, she’d tell us that she’d get us for that one later, and tell us to think harder. We’d confess everything we’d ever done and usually by the end started making things up.”
“Why would you want to do the same thing to me?”
“I didn’t want examples. I just wanted a yes or no.”
“So if I say no, you’re going to think I’m a liar, and if I say yes, you’re going to want to know what my secrets are. This isn’t a conversation that is going to end well, Cara.”
“You’re right. I know everyone has secrets, and I’m really not trying to make you confess yours. Let me start over.”
“Good.”
“I’m just wondering what it would be like to have someone in your family, someone who you assumed cared about you, if a person like that hired a private detective to try to find something to use against you, how sad would that be?”
“I’m assuming we aren’t talking about you and your family, because you aren’t the type to have secrets and your family wouldn’t hire someone to find them if you did.”
“True.”
“We aren’t talking about me, because even though I might have family members who would do something that cold — my parents — there’s nothing for them to find, and they know that, so they wouldn’t bother. Besides, all they would have to do is ask.”
It was all I could do not to ask him what Suzi had been talking about when she said that I needed to talk to him — but that felt too much like a setup, and it honestly wasn’t my original intent, so I let the opportunity pass. I took a few minutes and described my earlier conversation with Honey.
“Do you really think Honey is tracking Adeline? That seems a little too coincidental to me.”
“That’s what Teagan said.”
“Sometimes you just have to let life play itself out, Cara. You can’t control it even if it is about Adeline.”
“I know. I’m not trying to control it, but if you knew something like that about someone you cared about, and that someone was also your boss, wouldn’t you tell them?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Why make someone worry over something that is, at best, a guess?”
“Good point. But Adeline has more resources than normal people. If she’s worried, all she has to do is call Roland and get it checked out. Then if it turns into nothing, no big deal, but if it is something, then I did good.”
“You can’t walk through your life paranoid.”
“I never was. Not until all the stuff that happened in the last few months. Now I don’t really think I’m paranoid. I think the real world has punched me in the gut, and I’m paying attention so it doesn’t punch me again.”
“I can see that.”
Teagan called and said that she and Jessie wouldn’t be over. There’s something going on there, but I haven’t been able to figure out what it is.
There was a knock on the door.
The rest of the evening was spent with Suzi and the baby.
I love Suzi.
I do.
But I’m not sure that having her move in across the hall was my best move ever. I need some time with just A.J. and me, and I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon. But it was my bright idea to move her in across the hall, so it isn’t like I can complain.
It was about nine o’clock, Evelyn was asleep in the Moses basket, and Suzi had gone across the hall to take a quick shower when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Cara, it’s Honey. You still want to help?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“If I go out by myself, my husband is going to know something is up, and it’s gonna start a battle royale. If he thinks I’m going out with you, then maybe, if you don’t rat me out to your sister, I can do my surveillance and get this over with and be done with it and back to a normal life.”
“Who are you watching?”
“That old lady I told you about.”
“I’m in. What do you want me to do?”
“Where do you live?”
“Not far from Teagan.”
“That won’t work. I gotta be on the whole other side of town. Can you meet me closer?”
“I can meet you anywhere you want to.”
“Good. Okay. How about we meet at Bender and Blotspath?”
“When?”
“As soon as you can get there. Wear something dark. We’re gonna be snooping. Leave your ID in the car. Just bring your car keys. And you might want to wear a hat. Your hair is pretty recognizable.”
“I’m on my way in five minutes.”
“Thanks, Cara. Teagan is right about you.”
“I won’t ask what that means. See you in a few.”
I gave a quick explanation to A.J.
That’s a lie.
I told him I was meeting Honey, but I didn’t tell him why.
My mother and her damn sins of omission versus commission. Am I ever going to outgrow that?
I hope not.
I changed into black yoga pants, a black t-shirt, and black tennis shoes. I put a black baseball cap on, which looked ridiculous but would hopefully keep Honey happy, and headed for the door.
The look on A.J.’s face said he knew I was doing more than I’d described, but he didn’t ask why, which made me wonder what he’d been doing that he didn’t want to tell me about, but then I argued with myself that that is what humans do to each other, and I refuse to play that game.
I have a friend who always accused her husband of having an affair. It was because she’d met this really cute guy and really wanted to have an affair of her own and she was all twisted up and looking for a justification. Finally, the husband caught on and told her he wasn’t playing the game. One of the smarter people I know, actually. They weathered the storm and are happily married, but only because he was smart enough not to fall into the trap. Her too, I guess.
When I got to my car, I called Teagan. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
She interrupted. “Then why did you call?”
“No, listen. I can’t talk. I just want you to know that you owe me one and that if I get myself thrown in jail, it is on you to bail me out.”
“What are you doing? Don’t do anything stupid, dingle — ”
“I’m not. I’m just sayin’.”
“Great. You’re stressed. That stupid ‘I’m just sayin’ thing you always do. Just stay home with the door locked, Cara.”
“No, I need to do this. I gotta go.”
“I swear to God, Cara, just tell me what you’re up to.”
“I can’t. Plausible deniability and all that.”
“Great. Don’t get hurt. Call me when you’re done. If I don’t hear from you, when should I hear from you?”
“If you don’t hear from me in an hour and a half, worry. If you don’t hear from me in two hours, panic. If you don’t hear from me in two and a half hours, pray for the repose of my soul.”
“Not funny.”
“Not meant to be.” I hung up, started the car, and tried to remember exactly where Bender intersected Blockworthy, which is the name of the street that I’m pretty sure Honey meant. I only figured I knew that because I’d been down the street before — when I was running errands for Adeline. That thought got my heart to racing.
So it turned out to be a good news, bad news kind of thing.
I found Honey sitting at the corner of Bender and Bouchard. Not even close to where I expected her to be. We parked in the lot of a sales office. Our cars wouldn’t get towed for a while if we left them there instead of on the street. That’s good. We hiked forever to the house she wanted to check out. It wasn’t Adeline’s. That’s good. We stood there like idiots, I’m sure we are on at least twenty security cameras, and I think it is little more than a miracle some guys with guns didn’t come to ask questions, but we left mostly okay.
The bad news. I stepped on a fire ant hill. Honey is all bitten up. I’m kind of bitten up. I’m allergic to fire ants, so I suffer the usual sting and itch but about ten times worse than a normal person. We didn’t get the information Honey was after. She was going back tomorrow, and I couldn’t talk her out of it.
Oh, the other good news is that I got back to Teagan before she called out the troops, which would include my mother, who would not be impressed that I was snooping around in other people’s business — most especially an elderly couple who seemed to me to be the height of all things good. Adding to that, I have enough fire ant bites on my right foot, my toes are swollen up like little sausages, and I’ve chosen to do the stupid thing and treat it myself instead of the smart thing and going to the emergency room. But after the whole Barry thing, I hate hospitals, and I never really liked them in the first place.
I still don’t know how they got so far down into my shoe — the ants — before I noticed and started jumping around. Once the first gazillion of them started biting, I took my shoe off and started picking them off me. Couldn’t I be attacked by a normal pile of ants? No. I get attacked by fire ants. You can’t just brush those puppies off. You have to pick them off one by one, and while you’re doing that, all their friends are munching on you. By the time I got those little critters off my poor foot, I really couldn’t get my shoe back on. It puffed up immediately.
I wasn’t throwing up or having problems breathing yet, so I decided to treat myself instead of a trip to the emergency room.
I stopped at the drug store on the way home. Got some antihistamine and an ice wrap. Talked to the guy behind the counter who suggested that I go home and soak my foot in ammonia and water. He said he didn’t learn that one in school; his mother taught him. My mother always said a paste of baking soda and vinegar.
Since I couldn’t drive with an ice pack on my foot, by the time I got home I could hardly walk. A.J. took one look at me, scooped me up, and said, “Ants?”
“Yep.”
“I’m not even gonna ask. I’ll get ice.” He carried me into the bathroom, sat me on the side of the tub and turned on straight cold water.
When there were a couple of inches in the bottom of the tub, I stood up, peeled my pants off — not sure how they got wet — and stuck my foot in the water. I was just contemplating how I was going to keep A.J. from noticing that a bunch of those stupid little critters munched their way halfway up my leg, when he walked back into the bathroom.
“There are bites on your leg.”
“Not that many.”
“You should sit in the tub.”
“It’s really cold.”
“That’s the idea. I thought we had a bag of ice in the freezer.”
“I had to take it out when I made food for Teagan’s mother-in-law.”
“Get in the tub. I’ll be right back. You breathing okay?”
“I’m fine. I don’t need ice.”
“I’ll be right back.” He walked out of the room. I would have stormed out if it had been me, but he’s better than that. Or at least he is more disciplined than that. He stuck his head back in. “I thought the reason we bought that little freezer to put in the laundry room was so that you could have extra space for things like that.”
“It was. It is. I got carried away.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I’ll be right back.”
I may have gone too far. A.J. doesn’t normally get annoyed like that.
He was back in record time. I’m not sure if it was love or vengeance, but he brought back three huge bags of ice with him and dumped them all in the tub.
About the time my foot was frozen enough not to hurt so much, someone started pounding on the door so hard I thought they were going to break it down. After all the work Roland and his people did to reinforce it, that would have taken some doing, but I thought the person on the other side of the door might just do it.
Teagan.
I heard her trying really hard not to yell at A.J.
Two seconds later she was in the bathroom, as mad as I have ever seen her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hello to you too, Teagan.”
“Cara, you have pulled some stupid stuff in your life, but this might be the most stupid ever. Why did you have to get in the middle of it? Why did you have to involve my job? I’ve never heard Mr. Fisher so angry. I literally thought his head was going to explode. And now she’s in jail. How the hell did you get away? And why would you leave her there to get arrested? What is wrong with you?”
“What?”
She started to yell, repeating herself.
“Teagan, I didn’t mean that I couldn’t hear you. You are plenty loud enough. I meant that I have no idea what you are talking about. What happened? Who’s in jail? Why? What’s it got to do with me?”
“According to Honey — the person in jail — you were with her earlier tonight.”
“I was. She said that she was going to go snoop on the person she is doing the detecting on, and I didn’t want her to go alone. I’m the hero in this. Look at my foot. I was nearly ant-ed to death, and you’re yelling at me.”
“Cara, why did you go snooping with Honey?”
“The person she said she was snooping on sounded like Adeline. It wasn’t. Thank God.”
“So you just left her there to get arrested. When they find your fingerprints, and they will, you’re going to be sitting right next to her.”
“What are you talking about? There won’t be any fingerprints. You can’t leave fingerprints on a palmetto…”
“Stop trying to be cute, Cara. This is serious. Breaking and entering is a crime.”
“Whoa. Stop. I snooped around, but I didn’t enter anything. I didn’t even enter that couple’s yard. I have no idea what you are blaming on me. We just met in a parking lot, found our way around the fence that holds out the minions, walked through a few fields, that were probably private property, but the truth is, we were probably on every security camera in the development, and we knew it. We didn’t do anything really illegal. When I was sure that it wasn’t Adeline Honey was snooping on, and Honey was sure that she found the right house and was kind of feeling sorry for the couple she was snooping on, we left. On the way out I stepped on an anthill, and I’ve been home trying not to go into anaphylactic shock ever since. What did Honey do after I left, because I swear to God, Teagan, that she drove off ahead of me? I wouldn’t have left her there alone. Not even if I’d let her call an ambulance, which is what she wanted to do when she saw my foot.”
“Your foot is a mess. Now I feel a little bit bad.”
“You should.”
“I said a little bit. Cara, you know Honey is crazy. I’ve told you a hundred times she isn’t thinking right. Remember? The whole ‘smoked herself stupid’ thing. Why would you do this? You know she’s married to my boss.”
“Partner.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, Cara.”
“Well, it kind of does. I’m sorry. That was the whole plausible deniability thing. You can honestly tell Mr. Fisher that you knew nothing about it. You can even pass a lie detector test.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“I know.”
“Cara, I don’t know what has happened to you, but you’ve lost it. You used to be, well, you used to be Cara. I don’t know who you are now, but I can tell you one thing for absolutely sure. This person that you are isn’t anything like the person you were, and I liked the person you were a whole lot better.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m not kidding, Cara. You used to laugh all the time. You used to put family ahead of everything else. You used to be sane.”
“You need to go home now, Teagan.”
“See? That isn’t a response the old Cara would have given.”
“Maybe I’m growing up. Or growing old. Or growing tired. Nobody stays the same forever. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“You’re right. But the core person, that doesn’t change. One of the things I’ve always respected about you, Cara, probably the thing that I’ve always respected the most, is that you live your beliefs. Other people don’t. You do. It’s rare. It’s something I truly aspire to. It’s something you have always done. Or always did. But lately, not so much. I don’t know what happened, but you aren’t acting like you.”
“Maybe I’ve finally started acting like me and not like the person that you and everybody else think I should be.”
“I don’t believe that, but it’s simple enough to figure out.”
“Okay, you’re so smart, what do you think is this easy way to figure it out?”
“Are you happy, Cara? If you are, then forget everything I said. But I don’t think you are. I think you let go of your happiness in the search for something else, and you forgot where you put it. I think all the stuff you used to do, you did because you were happy, but for some stupid reason you let life, or some unnamed person, or whatever, talk you into thinking differently. That just because you’re different, you’re wrong, or not right, or weird.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s my point. Cara, if you were really happy, no thought would be required. You’d know it. Down to your soul.”
“I said I’d think about it. What’s happening with Honey? How did she end up in jail?”
“I guess after she left you, she went back by herself. She broke into their house to get a quick look around. I don’t know. Mr. Fisher was so mad he didn’t make any sense. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”
“I will say one thing for Honey. She’s loyal.”
“How do you mean?”
“She didn’t tell anybody about you, and she made sure you were long gone before she broke in. But she did break in, and that’s a problem.”
“I’m sorry. But, Teagan, I doubt anything I did or said resulted in all of this. I don’t think if I’d called you and told you about it that it would have stopped Honey.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Let me know what happens.”
“You want me to fix you a cup of tea? Drive you to the hospital? That foot might have to come off.”
“Not funny. I have A.J. He’ll take care of me.”
“You better start showing a little appreciation for that, Cara. You guys are like two ships and all that. You have not made him a priority in your life. You know I’m right. I know you’re busy. I know he’s doing this whole thing with Old Town, but I’m telling you that you need to step up your game. That whole thing that lots of women do, where they justify their own basic laziness and blame the results on life or the guy or the kids? You’re starting to go there. Don’t do it, Cara. You’re better than that.”
“I’ll try not to be resentful of those comments — for myself and all women — and learn from the intent.”
“I really don’t care if you resent the truth, Cara. I’m not saying the attitude is your fault; it’s the way of our society right now. Look back just twenty-five years. People didn’t walk around looking like slobs in the name of comfort, and they didn’t have their house looking like something from a television docudrama because they had to buy so much stuff they could no longer be bothered to take care of it or put it away. All I’m saying is that you’re creating an outcome you aren’t going to want, and that’s totally unlike you. You aren’t being true to yourself. That’s all I’m saying. And I get to say that because I’ve put just about as much energy into your life as I have my own, and I don’t want to sit back and watch you mess it up. It’s your life, you can mess it up if you want to, but I’d hate to see it.”
I couldn’t decide if Teagan was losing her mind because of work or home or a combination of the two, but she was definitely not being very Teagan-ish. I could have argued, or asked what was going on, but I decided to just let her go. Sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing.
I doubt that she was out the door before I was out of the tub and limping around on my poor foot. I was beginning to think that there was a possibility I was going to lose a few toenails. My feet were so swollen it felt like they were going to pop off. Due to the swelling of my left foot, I decided to inspect a little bit and found lots of white bumps on that foot as well. Turns out I was so busy picking fire ants off my right foot that a whole other flank of the little critters worked their way into my other shoe.
I’m proud to announce that I didn’t die in my sleep last night. I know it’s kind of obvious, but looking at my foot, I’m surprised.
It might be time to go to the doctor.
Of course, if I didn’t die already, I probably won’t.
Wonder how many people drop dead after thinking that?
I hobbled into the kitchen. There was a note on the fridge from A.J. Cara — Call me when you wake up. You need to go to the doctor.
I texted A.J. that I was awake and alive. A bit redundant, but I wasn’t totally recovered from all the antihistamines I took last night.
I didn’t really get the chance to sleep them off, because I didn’t really sleep. I dozed a little, but mostly I stewed about what Teagan had said. I hate it when that happens.
I made myself a cup of tea and popped a couple more pills.
I checked my emails and found there were no emergency situations I needed to deal with for Adeline.
I figured I’d hear from Teagan when she was calm enough not to yell at me, which might take a while, but really I don’t even feel guilty because I didn’t do anything wrong.
I am allowed to go snoop with anyone I want, and if that person is dumb enough to go back after I leave and do something irresponsible, it doesn’t create responsibility for me.
I kept repeating that to myself.
I have a problem with responsibility.
I seem to take on everybody else’s.
I took a shower, which just about killed me. Turns out warm water on fire-ant-munched feet is a no-no.
I decided I was not going to the doctor. Since I wasn’t dead, I’m not going to die, so why pay the deductible?
I refuse to admit that I all but have a panic attack around doctors and hospitals since the whole Barry thing.
I think that reaction is normal and will pass with time.
I hope.
I did the next best thing to going to the doctor. I called my sister. She is a nurse after all. Why have a nurse in the family if you can’t abuse her for knowledge now and then? The reason I say abuse is that she is smart enough to hate to give any kind of medical advice. She really hates giving it over the phone, not having seen the problem and having to trust that I’m relating the information properly when I have no medical training at all.
The baby is fine. Growing, which is a really good sign.
I’m gonna live.
I need to make sure that the bites don’t get infected.
I can’t scratch. I can’t pop the stupid little blisters. Normally I do, because it helps with the whole itch thing, but there are so many, I think I’m gonna do what I’m told.
I soaked my feet in water with some bleach in it, careful to rinse really well so that I don’t have bleach footprints on my carpet.
I limped back out into the living room and put my feet up.
On the coffee table.
Which is actually that stupid trunk with glass on top of it.
I let out about three frustrated huffs, went in and fixed a cup of tea, and was back out pulling the glass off the table before my tea cooled enough to drink.
It seems to me, at least today, that my life was going pretty damn well until the trunk came to live here.
I’m not saying it’s cursed.
Not out loud anyway.
I opened the lid.
How could something that smells so good be bad?
I pulled out a tissue wrapped package.
Held it for a minute and waited for the memories to come flooding back.
Nothing.
I sniffed the citrusy smelly good stuff.
Waited.
Nothing.
I crinkled the tissue paper.
Nothing.
What the hell?
I’m finally ready to unleash the demons, and I get nothing? Bupkis? Teagan used to think that word was butt-kiss.
Teagan. It’s her fault I’m even trying to get to the bottom of all this. I erased her from my brain.
Or at least I tried.
The harder I tried, the more she clung to the outer edges of my consciousness, which, I might point out, is just like Teagan.
I got more frustrated.
Then I got mad.
Then I got all the way to irate.
Why were people always messing with me? I have — or had — a happy little life, and now look at me. My toes are all purple, and I have a headache. My blood pressure is probably higher than is healthy. I’m thinking about blood pressure! What the hell?
I don’t know why, but I lunged forward, dumped everything in the trunk on the floor, and all but screamed — even when insane I didn’t want to freak out Suzi, and she would probably have heard me — and before all the tissue-wrapped torture devices could hit the floor I decided that I was just going to throw it all away.
Okay, not throw it away, that would be wrong, but get rid of it.
Maybe just have Teagan pick it all up.
Or my mom.
I stood up to get some garbage bags, my mangled foot reminded me who was actually boss, and I landed on my butt right next to the only thing in the trunk that wasn’t wrapped.
Crap.
Why did I have to notice that now?
My nosiness kicked in so fast, I didn’t even think. I opened the journal — a rich burgundy leather with a bright green ribbon to use as a marker — and saw the inscription on the inside front cover. It was written in Bernie’s distinctive hand.
My Dearest Cara,
I started this memory book when you were but sixteen. I recount my life from that age, the age at which I believe I started to live.
These ramblings are as near as my memory will allow, although at the heart of it, I am quite certain there is a poetic moment or two when my recollections have been tainted by time or romance. Please indulge an old woman.
I know the occasion will arise when you sit with a cup and ask yourself why I collected these treasures and why they are now yours. The answer that comes to me most easily is that you, my child, are the one most like me and it is you that I wish to witness the whole of me.
I have yet to decide if I will be living or passed as this old trunk is given you, but it is my fondest hope that in the telling of the story I will live on. Perhaps that is just the Irish of me, but you, dear child, will best understand.
Blessings and my love,
Bernie
Oh. Dear. God. There is no mystery at all. The trunk is just full of Bernie’s memories. Things that have nothing at all to do with me. Why did I ever think anything else?
I reread the inscription.
I couldn’t decide if I was let down or relieved.
Before I could come to that answer, I started to cry. I cried for the loss of the adventure that I thought the trunk represented. I cried for all the drama that it had created in my life. Wasted time. Wasted energy. Allowing myself to be so stupid for so long.
Stupid?
Really?
I wasn’t stupid. I made assumptions. Based on the very limited information I had at the time. But then, I didn’t do anything to get more information, which is a kind of stupid.
I tried to decide if I wanted to open a treasure or start to read the book.
Maybe the book would explain the treasures.
Maybe the treasures would define the book.
I decided to take a look in the journal first.
Then I’d have a childish fit and pack it all up to send to my mother or my sister or some charity.
I did not consider myself to be one of the altar ladies. They were older, more settled, and much more sophisticated. If I force myself to be candid, a trait I admire but often fail to attain, I did ache to be like them. Each was married. Most had children. They wore lovely clothes and nice shoes and always had a smile and a kind word.
I slapped the journal shut. This is so not good. I was so ready to be rid of all this. I had convinced myself that whatever is in the trunk had nothing to do with me and that any and all trauma I thought I’d suffered was little more than screwed up memories of a little kid. It’s true that Bernie had me around some weird people and stuff was going on around here, but I really didn’t need to read the story of her life. Not that interesting. I’m not interested. I’d let Mom have that honor.
Good pep talk. But I opened the journal again anyway.
My day to be like these lovely women would come. I was convinced of it.
At the minute, I had one day free from my responsibilities each week, and cleaning the church (and sometimes the rectory) was how I chose to spend my idle time. My mother, bless her soul, had convinced me when I was but a slip of a thing that idle hands were the devil’s workshop. I was far from home with not a single personage with whom I could tether my heart, and I was convinced the situation did not afford me freedom, but rather, burdened me with a responsibility beyond my years.
I believed my work for the church would repay the kindness of the parish priest, as he had saved me from homelessness and I owed him all but the lot of it. Further, it would keep me out from underfoot of my new benefactor.
Father O’Conner had seen to it that I would be safe and warm in a circumstance very close to the one I had originally agreed to. Not with family, but with a lovely older woman who needed companionship and care.
I knew that my mother had been horrified when she had received my letter describing the situation only days after my arrival. Mamaí wrote back immediately. So concerned she was that she paid for a wire telegram. She was kind but clear. The family regretted my misfortune but was unable to piece together the necessary funds for return passage. The unfortunate circumstances were unforeseen. Mam told me to contact the local priest and see if he might be able to help. I did not need to be told more. The family would scrape together every coin for as long as it took, but for the time, I was without a home or my people.
I went straight to the church property, summoned every bit of gumption I possessed, and knocked on the big, intricately carved door to the parish rectory. I kept myself dignified and truthful. I explained that I was in need of information. I explained that I was well and truly able to provide a service that would fairly support myself through room and board; I simply required such a station. A simple request, what I needed was the name of a family in need of such service. Simple enough, to be sure, but my very existence depended on the answer. I listed each of the services I was capable of. Cooking. Cleaning. Governess. I had no choice but to sound a bit boastful claiming that I was smart. I learned quickly. Most importantly, I did not shy away from hard work. At the end of it, I swallowed my pride and asked for help.
Help he had. The kind old priest, who had not lost his brogue in all the years he had been away from home, listened to my sad story, made comforting sounds. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he had a plan before I was finished with my story. He saved me — heart, mind, and soul. His actions would determine my life’s path. I would work in the church for the remainder of my days as a sign of gratitude to his kindness, but neither of us knew that at the time.
While he sat in his big chair behind a desk in the parlor of the rectory, I, mortified by my circumstance, poured my heart out in a combination of confession and innocent supplication.
I jabbered on that I was sent to America little more than a fortnight past my sixteenth year celebration to help with the children of a cousin. My cousin had been feeling poorly for some time and was all but bedridden. It was my assignment to come to this magical country to care for the children. This circumstance would lessen the strain of having to support me on the family farm — it was no longer providing the riches it once had — and further, it brought me to a land of opportunity in the safe bosom of my family. It was hoped that I might be able to glean just enough to bring over a sibling or two and together we might be able to bring the rest of the young ones.
I had always been homely. In my world that was an asset, as it meant that from an early age I had been able to sew and cook and provide all that was needed for a lovely home. I loved children, and they took to me instantly. We had all discussed it. Looked at every possibility. Lit candles. Talked to others who had done the same. It was an ideal situation. I was America-bound and could not be more pleased.
Until I arrived.
The man of the house, I will never utter his name, picked me up at the train station. I was quite proud I had made my way from a small village in Ireland to the shores of America, and further, all the way to the south where there were sights and sounds and smells I had only read about in books.
The problem was apparent almost immediately.
Even to an innocent like me.
As I write this, with years of experience in a world that has, at times, been less than kind, the man can most appropriately be described as a letch. I had no experience with such things. Back home I spent my time with family. I had yet to have my first kiss. I was perplexed but far from intimidated. I felt that with a complete lack of encouragement he would find it in his heart to do the Christian thing and honor the vows he made before God and man and be a faithful husband. I would simply fix clear of him until his sense got the better of him.
It was a good plan. It was the only plan I was capable of inventing in a foreign land, ill equipped and completely naïve. I truly believed it would work.
I arrived at the house, my virtue intact, my smile genuine, and more than eager to care for the children and my ailing cousin. My cousin, the one who had written so convincingly to my mother about being unwell and the need for familial support, took one look at me, and went as pale as she had purported was her usual countenance. Looking back at myself, I see a girl having stunning blue eyes framed by dark lashes, dark wavy hair pulled back into an intricate design of plaits that showed her graceful neck and flawless skin, not to mention a body any grown woman would be pleased God had gifted her with, but at the time I was ignorant of my appearance or the effect it had on those around me.
My cousin had a near miraculous recovery. She would not need my assistance after all. That very moment she informed me that I was welcome to stay for a short vacation, but then I was to find my way home.
I recognized that I was little more than a child in a land far from home without the support or protection of family. My first action was to feed and settle the children. When they were well installed, I sat at the desk in a room that I would never establish as my own and wrote to my mam explaining my predicament. While the children napped, I all but ran to post the letter. The postmaster understood the urgency and assured me that the letter would get to my parents with great speed.
Every moment between the time I asked for my mam’s advice and the time I received it seemed a lifetime.
Upon receipt of that advice, when Mam told me that there was nothing the family could muster and to seek refuge from the local church, I understood there was no malice in her words, but there was no help, either. I vowed to build a life for myself in this foreign land and have been doing just that ever since.
Four thousand miles from home, sixteen, and alone. The thought made me so sad for Bernie. At sixteen, I was spending weekends with a bunch of friends from school. Our house was the house everybody came to because my mother supplied outrageous amounts of food and just the right balance of freedom and promises of death and dismemberment should we cross the line, and that line wiggled just enough to keep us on our toes.
I got up and hobbled into the kitchen for another cup of tea.
Part of me just wanted to pack everything up and give it to my mother. I’d had enough of the weirdness that had come into my life since the trunk made its initial appearance, and although I don’t really believe in hexes and superstitions and all that come with them, if there was anyone in the family who could put a little voodoo on you, it was Bernie. For all her church stuff, the woman was an eclectic jumble of mismatched belief systems, and I was beginning to think I didn’t know the half of it.
I got my tea and shuffled back into the living room. I sat on the floor, in the middle of all of Bernie’s stuff. Put my foot up on the couch so that it would be elevated and drive the poison all those little critters injected me with straight from my foot to my heart. I don’t understand why humans do what we do.
I figured I’d drink my tea, then lie down — under the guise of keeping my foot up, not because I’ve become lazy — and read a bit more.
It seems to me in times of deep reflection that those decisions, the first made out of desperation, are the decisions that have formed every bit of the rest of my life. Reading this, you might wonder how it is that a girl of such innocence would later do the things that I have done, many I am not proud of, but it was those first days filled with fear and loneliness that would determine my life path. Perhaps it was only the alignment of the stars, but I believe that our lives are our own to mold, and I pray that just like those church ladies had a hand in the molding of my world, I had a hand in the molding of yours, sweet Cara.
What the hell? Is it just me, or did that sound a little bit creepy? Maybe it is because my memories are still somewhat scrambled. I have lots of bits and pieces, but I don’t remember everything about anything, which, you know I’m not a professional or anything, but I think that if you can’t remember your past, maybe there’s something in there that you don’t want to remember.
I’ve been complaining about my memory for all my life. My brothers and sisters would remember things that I never remembered. My mom always said that was just the way my brain worked and that it was silly for someone my age — I think I was in high school at the time — to worry about her memory. But I’m beginning to think there’s a reason my memory never worked very well. Maybe I didn’t want to remember.
My butt had fallen asleep, so I got up, hobbled around for a minute until the pins and needles went away, then positioned myself on the couch so that I had the arm of the couch for back support, and I stuck my foot up on the back.
When I twisted to get the journal off the floor I was reminded that I’d broken some ribs not all that long ago.
It’s so hard to keep track of all that has happened. I think that’s why I’m OCD(ish). I keep things in order because I want to make sure I don’t forget anything. It also saves time. Once you’re organized, it doesn’t take any time to stay organized, but if you aren’t organized, you spend all your time looking for things. That’s Maeve.
Speaking of Maeve, I really need to call Valerie and see how she’s doing. Since she announced she’s pregnant, I haven’t been there for her at all.
Okay, I know that sounded weird, but Maeve and Valerie are close like Teagan and me, so when I think of Maeve I automatically think of Valerie.
And speaking of Valerie and Maeve, Teagan should have called by now to let me know she’s calmed down. If she doesn’t call in an hour, I’m gonna need to call her, because she has to know that the whole thing with Honey was not my fault.
Back to the journal. There was a picture taped to the next page of the journal. I held the book up at an angle to the light to try to get a better look at the detail in it. I flipped several pages, and there was another picture. Obviously, Bernie took a picture of each of the mementos in the trunk and then wrote a little bit about what it was. My guess is she started at the beginning, in the church where the church ladies were, and worked her way to the end. She wanted me to read the timeline of her life. With trinkets to remember each momentous event.
For some yet unexplained reason, that just made me mad. Bernie trying to control me from the grave. How spooky is that? I flipped pages until a picture caught my attention.
It was a picture of a pitcher. I think. It looked like it could be brass, maybe. From the picture, I couldn’t tell how big it was, but I bet it would be small(ish) because it was sitting on a white background that looked like it could be a quilt and the proportions seemed to scream small(ish). If memory served, and it has been getting back to normal since the whole Barry thing, the white quilt that the vase thingy was sitting on was the quilt from Bernie’s guest room.
The pitcher seems to be made out of metal because of the handle. That looks like a welded handle, not a ceramic handle. Right?
I should probably just go to the trunk and open all the stuff in there and take a look at it, but I haven’t decided if I’m going to do that for myself, or by myself, or at all.
Reading about one little picture of a pitcher couldn’t do any harm, and there was a tiny little part of me that was kind of happy that the nosey part of me, one of the things I considered to be a really me part of me, was back and biting at me.
I decided I’d fix myself a cup of tea, settle in, and read just one entry of Bernie’s journal.
Maybe she stole an altar vessel. That would get her in trouble with God. Stealing is wrong. Stealing from a church, well, that’s just asking for it.
I remember having glass vessels at church that looked similar.
Only one way to find out what it was.
So, I sat down with my cup of tea and read…
Cassia
I was frightened that night. It was my first night away from family, although I’d been away from home for weeks. The woman that I was to tend to was a kind soul, but her family was harsh and uncaring. Had they given a moment’s thought, they would have realized that someday they too would be feeble, and they were teaching those younger than themselves how they would like to be treated. I hoped their youngsters would learn those lessons well.
I spoke to her in hushed tones as she was so ill. Her time was near, and although it saddens me to admit it, I was as concerned about my future as hers. If she were to pass in the night, what would become of me? I, for the moment, had shelter and sustenance, but if this woman before me died, where would I go next?
Mam had told us from the time we were very young that were we to feel less than whole, we were to eat well, move about, and bathe. Even at the worst of it such traditions seemed best.
My charge had no schedule, nor did I, so it seemed to me that bathing her, feeding her, and seeing to it that she was repositioned often would be the most I could do to keep her comfortable.
She had savage sores from her long repose. Healing those would be my first mission. If I could rid her of the sores and put a bit of meat on her bones, I might be able to lengthen her life and, in turn, my current arrangement.
I searched the little cottage for things that I could use in my quest. I found a bit of red meat. Knowing that protein is needed for the body to heal, I went about preparing a nice stew. It would be soft enough for her to manage, and perhaps the nourishment would be of help.
While the stew simmered, I went about giving the poor soul a bed bath. Poor thing had been neglected so long that just the repositioning needed was painful and draining. I tended to the sores as best I could and vowed that at the very least I would make her time here on Earth a bit more pleasant.
It is no secret that the Irish have a rich history. Was it not Sir James Murray himself who used fluid magnesia on the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland so long ago? My kin had been using it for what seemed an eternity. It was a miracle product, to be sure. We found use for it from lesions on the farm animals to upset stomachs of the boys. Applied all the more for skin rashes to antiperspirant, I was convinced if I could find a blue glass bottle at the chemist, I would be on my way to helping my charge in a significant way.
It was well past four in the morning when we were settled for the night. I allowed myself a weak cup of tea just before I set myself in the chair to her right. I was concerned that the work of the night might have left her in crisis, as unaccustomed to care as she was.
At first light, I ran to the chemist and asked for fluid magnesia. I was gathering what supplies I thought would be of assistance when she walked in the door — a woman as lovely as I had ever seen. She was exotic with dark eyes and curled hair pulled under a dark wool cloak but escaping all the same. She had a list for the chemist, and although I had come into the establishment first, he set aside my order and went about collecting her needs. I wandered the close-set rows, knowing full well that I could not afford any further purchase. It was the last of the coins that my cousin had provided upon my departure that I used to obtain the fluid magnesia that I was quite certain would bring my charge relief if not complete healing.
As I rounded the far row toward the dried goods, the woman stopped me and looked into my eyes.
“Child, you look troubled. How may I serve?”
She was the first to show me kindness, other than the parish priest, and her voice spoke to my soul. I found myself unburdening all that troubled me. She listened. Kindly. By the time her order was complete, she had promised to come by the cottage and see to my charge. She explained that she had remedies that might help. Although I was not certain of her ability, I was quite comfortable that nothing could make the life of my charge any more dismal.
I stopped at the grocery, the butcher, and the produce vendor — each had an arrangement with the family of my charge — and while I was careful to keep a budget in mind, I was pleased that those expenses were not mine to bear.
It was Tuesday just after I had served lunch that Cassia arrived at my door. She carried a huge valise, and in it she had many small vials. She pulled the dark cloak away, and I saw that she was dressed in a flowing gown that reminded me of the gypsies I’d seen often, their caravans bringing them from one village to the next, trouble following close behind. I was concerned that I had happened upon a woman who was perhaps more exotic than I had understood and that there was a chance I’d introduced ill will into the home of my charge. Nothing more than a beautiful woman selling snake oil.
Cassia asked after my charge — a McCann from the county Armagh — and I shared that with the sores, her frail state, and the challenge of an uncaring clan, it was almost certain that the life of her was ebbing.
Cassia would hear none of it. She approved of the liquid magnesia I had carefully swabbed on each sore. She approved of the foods I had prepared and fed in such small quantities. She said they were grand first steps, but that we would need to take into consideration the whole of Mrs. McCann. We went about cleaning the entire cottage. We beat those rugs within an inch of their being. We tidied and dusted and washed down the window sash with bleach and water. I worked hard, as was my call, but Cassia worked just as hard for nothing more than the joy of helping others and a cup of tea.
When we had the house in order she went to her valise and told me that next we would treat the senses. She brought a number of vials to Mrs. McCann and asked her to smell each one. When they hit upon one that Mrs. McCann found pleasant, Cassia stopped, made a note of it, and stored all of her vials away. She told me she would be back soon, put on her cape with a flourish, and was gone.
Why does my phone only ring when I am busy? I didn’t even take my eyes off the journal. “What?”
“Are you alright, love?”
“Oh, sorry, Mom, I was in the middle of something, but I’m good. What do you need?”
“I was hoping that you might help me. Normally I would ask your sister, but she seems to be in a tizzy right now, something about her boss’s wife and criminal charges.”
“I have to call her about that. What can I do for you?”
“I would be grateful if you could do a little research and buy me a dancing pole.”
“A dancing pole? You mean a cane?”
“No, I mean a dancing pole. Like the strippers use.”
I held the phone away from my face to make sure it was actually my parents’ picture I saw there.
I had slipped into another dimension, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Can you do that for me, love? The sooner the better. If we can get a good price and they are sturdy and easy enough to install, I may purchase more.”
I know the O’Flynn family has been making big changes lately, but thinking about my mother wrapped around a pole in a boa and stripper heels was more than my brain could handle. I once saw a pair of those heels with the Lucite part a really pretty green with little shamrocks imbedded in there. I was going to get them for Teagan for her birthday and forgot all about them until just this second. Now they will forever be associated with my mother. That can’t be good.
“Mom, I don’t know anything about them. Where are you going to put it?”
“The first I think will go in the family room. If that works well, then we will install another in the bedroom. Perhaps another near the bath.”
“Wait. What?”
“Mrs. Ladner.” Like her saying that cleared anything up.
“Mrs. Ladner what?”
“As you know, her health has taken a turn in the last few months. She has had more and more trouble getting in and out of her chair, or her bed, or using the toilet. I gave it a great deal of thought. They sell a special device — that is little more than a pole — that you can reach for to steady yourself or pull yourself up. The devices I have seen are categorized as medical devices and are quite dear, but I am aware that they sell a dancing pole much more inexpensively. If I am correct, you are even able to find mobile poles so that there would be no need to harm her carpet or ceiling.”
“Okay, I got it. How much do you want to spend?”
“Whatever it takes. This will be a gift from your father and me.”
“So my father is giving his neighbor a stripper pole?”
“Won’t that just set the tongues to wagging?” My mother laughed good-naturedly.
“I’m sure it will. I’ll let you know what I find and if we can make it work. If not, we can always have the guys just buy a length of pole and some of those end thingies like they have on towel bars for the bath and make one of our own.”
“What fun would there be in that, love?”
“I’ll make sure there is a stripper on the box.”
“Very well. Let me know what you find.”
And with that she was gone.
I’ve stepped over a line.
I’m stripper-pole shopping for my mother.
I need tea.