Immaculate Heart (19 page)

I knew then that no matter how I prompted her, she'd say nothing more about that notebook. “In, I don't know … more practical ways, perhaps? I imagine it must be very difficult, being a single mother.”

“I raised Declan with no one's help, that's true,” she said. “You may have heard that his father was killed in an automobile accident when Declan was only a wee lad.”

“I didn't know that,” I replied, and I was pretty sure it wasn't true, given what Father Lynch had told me. “I'm sorry to hear it.”

“Sure, Our Lady had Her husband Joseph to support Her, hadn't She?” Mrs. Keaveney glanced up at the statuette on her mantel and crossed herself with a sigh. “But She did say, She told Declan, that my reward in Heaven would be the greater for all the hardships I've borne without complaint.”

I wondered just how many mothers made their lives more bearable by telling themselves the same thing. My mother never complained either, and look at her now: every inch of her as frozen as her low-fat TV dinners. I shook my head. “What else did the Blessed Mother say? Did she ever speak to you directly?”

“'Twas an even greater blessing, to hear Her words on the lips of my only son. She and I have that in common, you see. She was always tellin' Declan to remind me of that.”

“What sort of messages did she have for Declan himself?”

“Ah, I'll let him tell you that now, when he comes.”

I wouldn't hold my breath. “Are you in touch with any of his other friends?” At first she looked at me blankly, and I went on, “From his school days?”

“There are still a few of them in town, but sure, you don't want to be talkin' with the like o' them.” She shook her head. “You'll want to speak to Declan himself, when he comes. Didn't you say you were writing a story about him?”

I hadn't said so, in case she wouldn't want to talk to me, but it seemed that even those who kept to themselves were up-to-date on the local gossip. “That's right,” I said. “I'm writing a story about the apparition.”

“For a newspaper in America?”

“A magazine, yes.”

The woman nodded. “I always wondered why the people stopped coming,” she said. “Why the miracles seemed only to fade away after those few wonderful months.…”

“Miracles?” I asked. “Were there others, besides what happened with Mrs. McGowan?”

“Martina's was a special case, that's true,” she admitted. “But they came away changed. Sure, there's more than one way to be healed! Everyone who came left the better for it.” She sighed. “I thought my Declan and the others would be known throughout the world for the message they brought. The lives they touched.”

“How did Declan react when that didn't happen?”

“Ah, they none of them wanted the limelight—apart from the Gallagher girl, Orla's sister. You could see how she thirsted for it.”

“Síle is very theatrical,” I said. “I can see how people would confuse that with attention seeking.”

Mrs. Keaveney was staring through the carpet again. She hadn't heard me. “Our Lady told him things,” she said softly. “Strange things, wonderful things. About how his life would go, and all that he'd do with it.”

“He'd come home and tell you what she said to him?”

“Aye,” she whispered. “We'd pray together, and afterwards he'd tell me all that She'd said.” The woman tilted her head, her eyes losing focus, and I thought back to the boy on the hill.
Listening.

I shivered. “Did she tell him he should go to Australia?”

At the mention of Australia, Mrs. Keaveney's demeanor changed abruptly. Whoever else she thought was in the room with us, she was no longer paying attention. “I hope you don't mind, but I really must be getting on with making supper. I'm sure Declan can answer the rest of your questions, when he comes.”

*   *   *

I was letting myself back into the B and B when I remembered a book on the shelf in the breakfast room I'd only noticed in passing. The hallway smelled of cabbage and onions, and from the kitchen at the back of the house, I could hear Mrs. Halloran humming to herself as she prepared her husband's dinner.

The tables were already set for the following morning, though as far as I knew I was the only guest. I took the worn green clothbound copy of
The Catholic Dictionary
off the shelf and flipped to the H section.

HOLY SOULS.
These are souls who have died in a state of grace, but have not yet completed punishment for their venial sins. Their eventual place in Heaven is assured, but first they must suffer in Purgatory in proportion to the magnitude and severity of the sins they committed in life. This term of punishment may be somewhat shortened by the prayers and good works of the Faithful, if performed in the name of a soul in Purgatory.

It was just a coincidence. The poor deluded woman believed the restless dead were whispering in her ear, writing down the names of people she'd seen interviewed on television a week or two before.

*   *   *

The next few passages in Síle's diary were of the nearly illegible variety, but they weren't making my head ache now that I'd had a bit of practice deciphering them.

She was your mother's sister but little warmth there was between you, it was expected that you would do anything that needed doing as if you hadn't a life of your own. One day you were in the shed and you found the jar with the money in it, with her fingerprints in the dust on the lid. You took two punts and waited for her to accuse you. A week went by, you took a fiver, still she said nothing, and then you knew she wasn't counting what she put away. So every week you took from the jar and when she died you took all of it and no one ever suspected. You think of it every time you go to Confession but you never tell and you never will—

I thought of Mrs. Keaveney's notebook, of my sister's name in a stranger's handwriting. Síle and Mallory in their pink and purple bathing suits, holding hands as they cast themselves into the surf. What
was
this? Why had she wanted so badly for me to read it?

*   *   *

“Terrible news,” Paudie said as I slid into the snug that night. “Terrible. One of Tess's lads.”

I passed a fresh pint across the table and he nodded his thanks. “Tess's lads?” I asked.

“One of the lads she mentors at the youth center.” He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “The boy went and hanged himself last night.”

“Jesus!” I thought first of the boy at the grotto yesterday. Chances were it was somebody else, though—Tess did work with a lot of kids. “I'm so sorry. She must be devastated.”

“She is,” he replied darkly. “She's gone home to her parents' for the night, the poor lamb.”

The front door swung open, and Leo came in. I hadn't touched my pint yet, so I gave it to him and got up to buy another. “Terrible day,” I heard him say as I approached the bar. “They say poor Aileen Gerrity found him in the closet.”

I came back with my pint and sat down again, but tonight there could be no settling in for an easy evening. I thought of Mrs. Keaveney and that list of names in her little notebook, and my run-in with Orla at the coffee shop, and of what she'd said about Síle and Declan. It was just as well the conversation would go nowhere near any of that tonight. I turned to Paudie. “Is there…” Suddenly I felt very foolish. “Is there anything I can … do for Tess, do you think?”

“There'll be a vigil for Owen tomorrow night in the park,” he replied. “It would do her good to see you there.”

“Sure, we'll all go,” Leo said, as if we were headed to a ball game.

“They say it's becoming an epidemic in this country,” Paudie sighed.

“Suicide, you mean?”

“Aye, particularly among the young people.” Paudie took a long drink of Guinness before he went on. “For as long as I've been alive, there's been a hopelessness to living here, and all the days of your life you'd need to be vigilant about keeping clear of it. Day after day, not feeding yourself to it.” He looked at me, to see if I understood, and I nodded before he went on. “The feeling may change tenor from one generation to the next, but it's always there. These lads have everything given to them now, but they're no happier than we were.”

“We were happier, all right,” Leo chimed in. “What you hadn't got didn't matter so much as it does now.”

I didn't know what to say when old people started to talk like this—as they invariably did, once you spent enough time with them. I would have bet that back in the day, Leo would've cared quite a bit if he hadn't owned a single pair of shoes, but it did nobody any good to say so. Especially tonight.

“This is the first one she's lost, in her eight years at the center,” Paudie said. “And, please God, may he be the last.”

We only managed two rounds before calling it a night. I walked back to the B and B in the rain, left my jeans on the radiator and got into bed with the diary.

Last night the Blessed Mother came to me whilst I was sleeping, and we went for a walk along the Rathgar road and through the bluebell wood up to the holy well. She said there was such peace and loveliness to be found in the Irish countryside and that we must go down from the hill we know so well and see more of it together. The Blessed Mother wore Her blue mantle and even when we went up the hill She never got out of breath. Her feet were bare but there was never a spot of mud on them. I knew I was dreaming but still I'd put on my boots and I remember thinking I should wake up before it came time to wipe them off the way Mam's always making us do. Time stretched itself thin, so I couldn't tell if we'd been walking for minutes or hours.

When we came to the end of the bluebells Our Lady took my hand and looked at me, and Her eyes were dark like the deepest part of the ocean. I looked at Her and I felt the truest peace I'd ever known settling around my heart, soft as a kitten. For once I forgot all about Orla. I wanted to stay there with Her like that forever, but She said there was something She must show me at the holy well, so we went on.

As we walked side by side I asked Our Lady if She'd come to the others too but She said no, and it wasn't because She loved the others any less only She hadn't as much to say to them. I asked Her what did She want to say to me that wouldn't also benefit the others, and She said I was a good girl for not wanting anyone else to be left out. And I said,—Father Dowd says I'm not to go making myself into somebody special. He says I hold myself above everyone else, them who haven't seen You.

—When we criticise others, Our Lady said to me,—it's ourselves we should be looking at.

We came to the well and it looked different to the last time I'd seen it. The trees were decorated with all sorts of things, rosaries and Christmas ornaments and bright scraps of fabric and even a baby's tiny white leather shoe, and there was a wrought-iron votive stand under an awning to keep the rain off. The air grew brighter around us, little birds sang their sweet little songs, a gentle breeze blew through the ash trees, and the water came gushing out of the rock like I'd never seen it do in real life.

—You are made of water, the Blessed Mother said to me as She dipped Her fingers into the stream and gently pressed a wet thumb to my forehead in benediction.—You learned that in school, didn't you, Síle?

A tiny trickle went down the side of my nose. I knew I was dreaming but I felt the water on my face, real as waking.—Aye, Mother. We learned it in science class.

—And does it not follow that the water which has given you life will also heal what ails you?

—I don't know, Mother.

—Ah, but you will. Tomorrow afternoon I want you to bring Mrs. McGowan to this well. Have Mr. McGowan drive you in the car along with Tess and the others. When you come to the end of the road Mr. McGowan can carry her the rest of the way. Bring a stool and let her sit beside the spring, and then you must kneel before her. Carry the water in your hands and let it pour down over the knee and leg they've said she must lose.

I started to ask if Tess should do it, it seemed only right since we were talking about giving life, but the Blessed Mother shook Her head and smiled. Then I asked,—Will the water heal her, Mother?

Our Lady smiled.—Do as I have asked, and see. Whilst you are anointing Mrs. McGowan's knee with the water from the well, ask the others to pray for her.

—Will You be with us?

—My dear child, She said.—Whether or not you see Me, know that I am
always
with you.

She blessed me once more, the air around us began to shimmer, and then there I was back in my bed with the morning light streaming through the window.

—You were talking in your sleep, Orla said at breakfast.

—I went for a walk with Our Lady. She says we have to take Mrs. McGowan up to the holy well after school today. That the water there will heal her leg.

Orla just rolled her eyes and took my plate to wash it before I'd finished my toast. I wish the Blessed Mother would come to her that way too, maybe then she'll believe me.

 

This afternoon we did as She asked. Mrs. McGowan was afraid but tried not to show it, dear lady, and I knew Tess and her dad were willing to try anything if it might spare the leg. Orla and Declan kept themselves apart, sitting on the bench by the gate and praying quietly together whilst Mr. McGowan brought his wife over to the lip of the well and laid her down on the stool we'd brought. The air and the light and the smells weren't like how it was in the dream, the rag tree was gone, it was all very cold and ordinary and the water gurgled like a leaking faucet.