Immaculate Heart (31 page)

“And how's our intrepid young reporter this morning?” she asked as she delivered the French press and toast rack. “Did you sleep well?”

I could hardly get the words out. “I slept great, thanks.”

“It's today you'll be leaving Ballymorris, is it?” Mrs. Halloran replied as she hurried back into the kitchen for my eggs. “Will you miss us, when you're home again in New York City? I was there once, years ago.” The woman shuddered as she laid down my plate. “Give me the pace of this small-town life any day. Most of the time I can do without all the excitement, and when I feel up to it, I go to Dublin for the weekend.”

“I
will
miss it,” I conceded, but apart from that, there seemed to be nothing else to say. I brought the fork to my lips, but I hardly tasted the food. I wondered where Síle was now, and if she'd be able to get in touch with me later in the morning.

Where had she gone? Why hadn't she left a note? I found it impossible to believe she'd gone to her parents' house—they'd only drive her straight back to Ardmeen. I had no idea where she could be, and as I finished my breakfast, I felt a coil of anxiety tightening in my gut. Why hadn't I found any sign of her?

I packed my bag and shook hands with Mrs. Halloran, waiting until I was in the car to make the phone call. Dr. Kiely didn't even begin with a perfunctory hello. “Now,” she said, “it's my understanding that Síle's family wishes you to have no further contact with her.”

“Is she there? I don't need to speak with her,” I said hurriedly. “I just want to know if she's there.”

The doctor didn't answer right away. “And why wouldn't Síle be here?”

“Have you checked?” I asked. “Have you seen her yet this morning?” In that second before the doctor replied, I felt certain that what had happened last night was as real as anything else. Síle would contact me soon, and that evening we'd drive together to Dublin.

“I have, indeed,” said Dr. Kiely, “and she is just where I expected to find her.”

Yeah, right. “And where is that?”

“At her easel. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've patients to attend to.” She paused. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from attempting to contact Síle in the future. It's the best thing for everyone involved.”

The doctor was lying, that much was obvious. I got out of the car and turned the corner for the youth center. Tess was surprised to see me, but she seemed pleased.

“Síle's left Ardmeen House,” I said.

“You sound like that's a good thing,” Tess replied cautiously. “Did she get in touch with you?”

I nodded. “She came to the B and B last night.”

Tess averted her eyes, an automatic reaction. “Ah,” she said, and I thought of everything we'd talked about the day before and everything we hadn't.

“But I don't know where she went. If she gets ahold of you, you'll tell her how to reach me?”

“She wouldn't be likely to come to me. I haven't spoken with her in years.”

“She'd be even less likely to talk to her family,” I said. “So will you give her my contact info, if you talk to her?”

“I'll tell her,” Tess replied. “But sure, you must be all over the Internet. She'll have no trouble finding you.”

I gave her a hug in farewell, and she stood in the doorway and watched me as I walked to the end of the narrow street.

After our row Orla stopped coming up to the hill, and Declan's leaving for Australia today. It's only me and Tess now, but we haven't seen Her in days.

At first I thought Tess was just sad about the others, but today she said she didn't want to come any more. I asked her why and she said—Whatever it is, it isn't the Blessed Mother.

I looked at her and it was like I was waiting for her face to change, waiting for her to turn into someone else, because I couldn't believe the Tess I knew would say what she'd just said.

—You're wrong, I said.—What could make you say a thing like that?

—It's how She speaks of everyone else. The pilgrims. Father Dowd. Declan. Orla especially. Our Lady would never say such things, she said.—Never.

I was afraid to ask but I took a deep breath and went for the truth.—And me? What does She say about me, Tess?

—She never speaks ill of you, Tess said, and it pricked my heart to hear the resentment she was trying to hide in it.—You're Her pet.

—But She doesn't have favourites, I said.—She's always said God loves us different but equally. Everyone loved in equal measure, that's how She said it once.

—That's what She says. But She doesn't mean it. I read something in a book once about having a friend with two faces. That one could be smiling but you'd never know what might be coming out her other mouth. I keep thinking about that story.

—That isn't fair, I said.—It isn't fair to speak of Her like that. We have to trust Her.

—You don't understand, Síle. If you heard Her talk that way, you'd see why I'm saying this. But She doesn't talk to you like that—talking against everyone else—because you're Her favourite.

God forgive me, but when she said it that time, that I was the favourite, I wanted very badly to believe it. Everyone wants to think they've been chosen, that they've been set apart for something grander. But what I said was,—I know you're upset, Tess, and I'm very sorry for it. But whatever She said about Orla or Declan or Father Dowd, surely it must have been true?

She sighed.—I suppose it's all true, in a way. But if an ordinary person said those things you'd say ‘she's not being kind.' And who is the Mother of God without kindness?

—Tell me what She said, I said.—You're saying She was unkind but you have to tell me what was said.

—Think of all the unkind things you
could
say about Father Dowd, or Declan, or your sister. Whatever occurs to you, She's already said it.

—Tell me what She said about Orla.

Tess sighed.—I can't. It's disgusting.

—Tell me, I said.

—She says that they've … that they've sinned together. She called Orla a hoor.

As she said it I felt the cold worming up out of my belly, out of the place Declan had made. It was then I knew the Blessed Mother would never have given Orla or even Tess the chance to take back their sins. Tess was right. But I shook my head and said,—I don't believe it.

Tess looked at me.—Which part?

—No matter what they did together, She'd never call Orla a hoor. Never.

—You know I haven't imagined it, Síle. Suddenly Tess seemed very tired.—You
know
I'm not telling tales. I didn't answer, so she went on.—She has said things no good Christian would ever say, let alone the Blessed Virgin. So it can't be Her. It can't be. Tess covered her face with her hands, and I could see she was trembling.—It's something else. Something deceiving us.

She'd said it. The words were too sharp not to cut through everything that was, all that we'd known and trusted in before. We looked at each other and knew there was no going back.

—Are you saying it's the Devil? I asked.—The Devil appearing to us, pretending to be the Blessed Mother?

—I've been reading about other apparitions, Tess said.—They do say the Devil can disguise himself so well even the Pope would be fooled.

I saw the sense behind her words, but something was hardening inside of me. I knew Tess would never make things up and yet I knew she was mistaken.

—What will you do? I asked.—What will you say to Her, the next time She comes to us?

—There'll be nothing left to say, she replied.—You said it yourself that She's always with us. She's overheard every word we've said.

I thought I'd caught her then.—But if She's only a demon, how could She know our secret thoughts? How could She heal your mother's leg?

—Now, that I haven't an answer for, Tess sighed.—But it keeps me awake nights, remembering how my mam was healed, and to think I might have the Devil to thank for it.

I don't know what Our Lady will have to say to Tess after all this. But for my part, I believe in Her and I always will.

At half past ten I drove down Shop Street to the bookstore, and found Paudie already waiting for me outside. Brona was doing an hors d'oeuvres demo at the supermarket, and said she'd pay Leo a visit later in the day. “It's good of you to bring me,” Paudie sighed as he settled into the passenger's seat. “I don't drive if I can help it, and at my age, isn't it a public service?”

Johnny's phone rang as we were walking up the hospital steps, and I hung back to answer it. “I hear you had a chat with my mother the other night,” Orla said.

“Don't worry,” I replied. “She made herself perfectly clear.”

“Have you had any contact with Síle since then?”

I almost laughed. “No.” She didn't say anything more, so I asked, “Is that the only reason you called?”

“No,” she said. “There's something else. Something I'd forgotten about, and if you're going to write your story, I want you to include it.”

I probably didn't want to hear this, but still I said, “Fire away.”

“There was a crack in the wall beside her bed,” Orla began, “and she used to put her lips to it and whisper, like there was somebody listening on the other side. It went on like that every night for months.”

“That sounds like Síle.”

“No,” Orla said. “You don't get it. There was nothing endearing in it. It wasn't ‘cute.' Sometimes I knew she was waiting until I was asleep, and other times she couldn't wait, she was whisperin' away—urgent, like. Those were the nights I'd go down to the sitting room and fall asleep on the sofa.”

“It bothered you that much?”

“I was so ill at ease lying in that bed, listening to her whisperin' like that. There was no way I could sleep. I couldn't. I asked our dad to patch up the crack, but he gave in when Síle begged him not to.” She added softly, “I'd almost forgotten that.”

“Why did it make you uneasy? Lots of kids have imaginary friends. I don't see how it's any different.”

“It
was
different. I couldn't tell you why, except that it frightened me. And nobody cared that it frightened me.”

I waited for her to continue. Why did she want me to write about this?

“After a few months, she finally stopped,” Orla said. “When I asked her why, she said they'd gone away, only she'd never say who ‘they' were.”

“She never said who she thought she was talking to?”

“No. She never said.” I could hear Orla's baby crying in the background. “I've got to go now. I suppose I was only calling to ask you … if you're going to write about Síle … to show her for who she is, not just who she likes to think she is.”

“We're all guilty of that,” I replied, and my own words came back on me like the final slug of moonshine.

“You say that, but how many of us believe we've Mother Mary on the line?” Orla sighed. “It isn't harmless. She isn't any sort of ‘chosen one.' I suppose that's what I've been trying to say to you all along.”

I let the pause go on a beat too long. Finally I said, “Can I ask you something?”

“You can
ask,
” Orla replied.

“Was there another reason you wanted Síle put away? Something besides what you've told me?”

I'd never known a telephone silence could feel so oppressive. Finally she said, “Why would I tell you, when I've said far too much already?” She hung up then, and I stood there in the hospital foyer just looking at the phone in my hand.

When I went in, I found Leo looking considerably worse. A nurse was changing his IV bag, and he asked her irritably when that bloody tube was coming out of his arm. “You'll get used to it,” she replied with equanimity, and gave me a look—
he's all yours
—as she passed from the room.

Paudie seemed almost at home as he took the electric kettle off the table by the window and refilled it at the sink. “I'm makin' myself a cuppa,” he said over his shoulder. “Would either of ye like one?”

“No, thanks,” I said. I was sick of tea. “How do you feel today, Leo?”

He groaned. “Like I flew all night on a tour of Hell on the back of a winged monkey.”

“At least your tongue's still working,” said Paudie as he stirred a packet of sugar into his white cafeteria teacup.

“Go away wit'cha, if you've only come here to hound me,” Leo sighed. “I'd like to see
you
in this bed, Padraic McGowan. We'd all see then if you'd suffer it any better than I can.”

“I'm very thankful not to be in your place,” Paudie replied, soberly this time. “If you were me, you'd say the same, and I'd not begrudge you for it.”

“I'm not begrudging,” Leo murmured, more to himself than in reply. “I'm not begrudging.” Then he looked up at me and asked, “Did I ever tell you how Jack Brennan came to dance at his own wake?”

“No,” I said. The phone call with Orla had unsteadied me, so that I'd much rather listen than talk—and anyway it was too good a story not to hear a second time.

Leo's irritable mood vanished in a wink. “Now, I was only a boy when it happened, but I would have passed Jack Brennan in the street on occasion, and seen him at Mass on the Sunday. We all knew the man.”