The Memory of Us: A Novel (31 page)

“I was glad to be able to stand in for Father Trammel. Have a good evening.”

He left, and my heart was afire with anticipation. I was moving back to Liverpool. And I was going to live with Kyle.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In a fairy tale, I would tell Kyle who I was. He would kiss me, and his kiss would be a magical one, restoring me to a more enchanted time, one in which we would live happily ever after.

Of course, I knew that this was just a fantasy. I did not make this move with some misguided hope that we were going to be together. Kyle was a widower, as far as he knew, and now a priest. I was to be his homely housekeeper, a safe female attendant for a man living otherwise alone. I was being given an enormous reprieve from heaven, a stay of execution. Kyle had told me once about purgatory. Maybe that was what this was after all: a place to atone for my sins, but always with the knowledge that paradise was waiting one room over. Not the hell that I’d deluded myself into. It would take the kind of fatherly God that Kyle believed in to make this reunion take place.

I came home and flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet, grateful that I hadn’t taken any more than the three. I drank four glasses of water in rapid succession, hoping to dilute whatever remained in my system and quell the dizziness that the first few had caused.

I left for Liverpool the next day, determined to make up for every day that I had lost. I found lodging in a shabby boardinghouse that was willing to take on a tenant for two weeks and even my dog for only a few pence more. Ellis was used to a nomadic existence, and he didn’t seem to take notice that this might be any different. He would love the grounds at All Souls. So much open space. I rubbed his ears, and he wagged his tail in response.

My first stop was Newsham Park and the proud manor that sat on its border. It appeared to be undamaged from the war, unless repairs had been made that I couldn’t see.

It took two days of walking by at all hours before I saw either of my parents. I saw my mother on a Monday morning as she met her gardener and pointed out her instructions. She was such a creature of routine. Mondays were gardening days, even now.

Mother herself appeared little changed. She had the same bony frame. Still smartly dressed, she was only an older version of the one whom I remembered, even from a distance, I could see that wrinkles had set in. I was tempted to talk to her, and I even took a step forward. But I hesitated. It was too painful. So I just watched her instead as a passerby. Before long she left in her car. It was older than I would have expected—she and Father had always enjoyed the latest things. I had heard that the war was very lucrative for the docks and warehouses in Liverpool, but in the last decade they had seen a sharp decline due to increased air travel. The father I knew would have found a way around the problem, even starting a brand-new business if he had to.

After the gardener left, I slipped through the gate and walked the grounds. The gazebo was neglected, in need of a fresh coat of paint, but it was beautiful to me. I ran my hand down one of the beams, closed my eyes, and inhaled the memory. Kyle holding me as we cried in each other’s arms. Kyle kissing my neck and moving his way up to my lips. I recalled the sensation that had run through my body as if it were happening now.

Waking from that dream, I walked around the flower gardens, and my eye rested on a large, engraved stone. It read:

I
N MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER
, H
ELEN
J
ULIANNE
W
ESTCOTT

B
ORN
3 M
ARCH
1920

D
IED
29 N
OVEMBER
1940

M
AY SHE REST IN PEACE
.

It’s not every day that you read your own memorial. It only made sense that they would have done something like that, but to see what was essentially my own tombstone felt rather macabre. And yet I had not been Julianne Westcott in so long that it seemed as if the monument belonged to someone else. It had not escaped my attention that the name inscribed did not have McCarthy added to it. Nor did it surprise me. The charade had been maintained. If they couldn’t accept who I was then, how could I expect them to do so now?

On another day I visited Albert Dock. They did, indeed, look as if they had seen busier times. I strolled by Father’s warehouse, hoping to see him as he left for lunch, but I did not. The third day brought some success, though. He came out around noon, carrying a sack lunch, and sat on a bench overlooking the water. My heart was overwhelmed with love for him. He hadn’t been a perfect father, but he had tried. Recklessly, I approached the bench.

“May I sit here?” I asked, taking the chance of meeting his gaze, though without fully facing him. Part of me wanted him to look in my eyes and see familiarity there. Part of me was afraid of it. Of course there was nothing to worry about. My green eyes had grayed over the years, dulled by hard work and loneliness, and God knew my face as a whole bore no resemblance to that of the beautiful young daughter who’d broken his heart. Ellis sat attentively at my side, watching the gulls on the pier.

“Um, yes.” He slid to the edge of the bench, leaving plenty of room for me, and never looked my way.

He didn’t say anything else, and I was afraid that I would cry if I opened my mouth. So we sat there, each staring out over the water. Its smell was unchanged, fish and industry, although both languished, along with my father. I could see that he, too, looked like an older version of himself, but not a sharpened version as Mother was. He looked like a man beaten by life, not even putting on the pretense of conquering it. Poor Father. I could imagine that he took my loss with great difficulty, and I recall thinking that he might have been the one person for whom my new appearance would have made little difference.

I wanted to put my arm through his, rest my head on his shoulder, and whisper, “Oh, Papa.” But of course I resisted for a dozen reasons, not least the fact that the shock of it might have killed him.

He ate noisily, or maybe I noticed it because we were otherwise quiet. When he was finished, he stood and, with a brusque “Have a good day,” walked back to the warehouse offices and disappeared through their revolving doors. My eyes remained on those doors long after they stopped turning.

I came by for the next three days, sitting in different places and watching him eat his lunch in supposed solitude. On the last day, I sent a kiss into the wind and asked it to find its way to him.

I played sleuth for the remainder of my time in Liverpool, looking for information about other people that I had known. Sometimes I found things in public records and old newspapers, and other times I found it by starting a conversation with someone.

Lucille’s grave was in the corner of the church graveyard. Several withered bouquets leaned against it. I added my own, a fresh one full of daisies.

I learned that Lucille’s father had passed away about ten years ago and that one of her brothers still lived in their house. Ben had returned from the war, missing one arm and his beloved bride, but was otherwise intact and decorated for his achievements. He had remarried in 1950 and had two little boys.

John was still the pastor of the church, and Maude had gained a pleasant, round shape after the births of three more babies, all boys.

Lotte never returned to Liverpool. She had made her way from New York to Hollywood, where she had landed some walk-on movie roles before finally becoming a publicist. How appropriate for her. She must have been in her element, being paid to talk and gossip. I wished her well.

Blythe had died during the war in May 1941.

All that remained was finding out about Jane and Lily, a task that reduced me to near immobility. Jane alone knew the map of the red-and-white scarring on my hands and arms, and that threatened my anonymity. And yet the opportunity to see my Lily was a stronger force than fear.

I sat by the lake in front of the hospital and took it in, delaying the moment when I would step through those doors. The building was engulfed in reddish-brown brick, with rows and rows of dormers and turrets looking down on me, its windows concealing the unseen eyes of the sick and dying. I had once been among them but was spared, a fact that I’d spent two decades resenting.

My legs carried me, just barely, up the steps and through the door to the main hallway. Its white walls enveloped me, and the sounds of hurry echoed from places above and around me. I approached the main desk.

“Excuse me.”

The woman behind the desk looked up, and her eyes took on the look of pity that I’d grown immune to.

“I’m inquiring about a nurse who once worked here,” I said. “Who might work here still. I was hoping that you could help me find out where she is.”

“Yes, of course. What is her name?”

“Jane Bailey. She worked here about twenty years ago.”

“Oh yes, Miss Bailey. I know exactly who you are talking about. Such a lovely woman. But no, she isn’t here anymore. Miss Bailey left Liverpool when her daughter graduated a couple of years ago. Let’s see—where did they go? Oh, yes, I think it was somewhere in London. Something about her daughter going to art school. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than that, though. I’m sorry.”

“No, that is enough. Thank you.”

I turned to walk away, but a thought came to me and I returned. “If I may ask. Do you know anything about her daughter?”

“Miss Lily? Oh yes. She’d come by now and then. A beautiful thing she is, so stylish.”

“And she was happy?”

“Happy?” She cocked her head just perceptibly at that. An odd question from an odd woman but, she seemed to decide, a harmless one. “Oh, my word, yes. Adores her mother, that one, and vice versa. There is nothing that Jane wouldn’t do for her. When Lily became interested in photography, Jane spared no expense to find the perfect camera for her. Then she moved on to painting, and Jane turned their parlor into a studio full of canvas and brushes and easels. Some children might turn rotten with so much attention, but not Lily.”

I smiled and felt a joy more profound than any I’d known could exist. My daughter was happy and loved and flourishing. It was all a mother could hope for.

“Do you have a forwarding address for them?”

“I’m so sorry, but I don’t. The administrator would likely know, but he’s on holiday right now. I could have him ring you.”

I declined, thanked the receptionist, and felt happy that at least this news existed among all of the sadness left behind in the hometown of Julianne Westcott.

Charcross lay ahead of me, and I hired a cab. It was still remote, although as we left Liverpool, I noticed how much the borders of the city had expanded. What had once been fields now boasted rows and rows of housing, bland little streets lacking the character of history but tidy enough to be home to some. Soon enough, though, the countryside came into view, lonely in comparison but so very welcome. As the steeple of the church appeared on the horizon, I realized that today was 18 August. Our wedding anniversary. I wondered if Kyle recalled such things as this, or if he’d immersed himself so thoroughly in his vocation that such things were no longer of significance.

Kyle met the cab and helped me with my bags, no more or less friendly than two weeks ago. He was clearly a little surprised to see me, as if he still didn’t understand why I would want to take this nonpaying position all the way out here, with the company of only a sad priest and the tombstones of the departed.

All Souls looked just the way I remembered it, and now it was going to be my home.

The first few days were uneventful. Kyle was still unpacking and organizing. He blew the dust off the books in the rectory and arranged the titles by some method of classification that I could not detect. He would get easily distracted when he pulled one from the shelf and thumbed through its pages. He had always loved to read, and these were going to be his companions for the duration of this assignment. He wore little spectacles now, and he peered closely at the books to see them better.

I was to live in the other side of the rectory, and it was clear that a woman had not been there in ages, if ever. Contrary to what I had told Kyle, I intended to be there for as long as he was. If I couldn’t be his wife, at least I could take care of him. I still loved him, achingly so, and would take the scraps that this chaste occupation offered just to be near him. And so I set to work.

As I beat out rugs and polished floors, my senses were ever aware that my husband was just feet away from me on the other side of a wall. I felt sprightly, like a new lover. How had I come to deserve this reversal of fortune?

His name was always present in my mind, which made me realize that I must be very cautious when I spoke. To Julianne, he was Kyle. To Helen, he must be Father McCarthy. In fact, to think of him in such a way might subdue the romantic feelings that I couldn’t help but harbor. It was as good a time as any, here in the beginning, to set that straight in myself. I made a concerted effort to think of him as the priest that he now was.

That was easier to do than I realized. Although he looked the same, with some extra years, this was not the dynamic young man that I had married. Kyle smiled all the time and was quick with a joke. Father McCarthy was strained, introspective, and private. I pitied him in this state, and every day I was more grateful that I was here to look after him. We had vowed to grow old together. And now, if the God who had given me this reprieve was indeed benevolent, we would.

Father McCarthy and Kyle did share one enduring quality. Both were exceptionally kind. Through the first weeks, as I tended his house and cooked his meals, he was always appreciative. He opened up his humble library for my use and never said anything that wasn’t amiable.

We settled into routines as we grew accustomed to life in Charcross. He celebrated Mass every morning in the chapel for the few residents that came by. On Saturday evenings, he prepared sermons with fervid dedication. I marveled at his passion for preaching, especially as there was almost no one to hear it. I made the habit of lingering over Saturday night’s dishes so that I could listen to him as he talked it out to himself. He would pace as he held the papers, a pen in his mouth, at the ready for a revision. I enjoyed this rehearsal, as I was not yet ready to attend Mass and see him in his vestments, fully inhabiting his priesthood. He was still Kyle enough in my mind that I couldn’t face that.