The Girls on Rose Hill

by Bernadette Walsh

  "Believe it. My father was in the police academy with Bobby Connelly and later they were partners. Molly and Bobby even went to his wedding."

  "Wait a minute, this guy knew all this time that he had a kid and never came to see you?"

  "No, that's the strange thing. He didn't know I existed until I went to see him last week." I took another swig and finished the beer. "You want another one?"

  "Yeah, but let me get it." Paul reached into the cooler, expertly opened the bottles and handed one to me. "I can't believe you met him. So what's his name? Where does he live?"

  "Name's Denis Lenihan and he lives in Levittown."

  "Jesus, El. Remember we used to pretend he was an astronaut? I can't believe he was a cop from Long Island, although I guess being a cop is kind of exciting. So what's he like? Is he a hard ass like Uncle Bobby was?"

  The sun came out from behind the clouds. Whether from the heat or the conversation, my forehead was slick with sweat. I held the cold bottle against my head for a moment. "Broken is probably the best word I can use to describe him."

  "Broken? What does that mean?"

  "Just that, broken. His wife died last year, two of his kids don't really talk to him. He says he was a heavy drinker, an alcoholic really. He just stopped drinking this year."

  Paul looked like he unsure what to say. "Well, that's good El, that he stopped drinking."

  "Yeah, I guess it is for him." I stared out into the horizon.

  "So what now?"

  "Nothing." I didn't meet Paul's eyes. "He doesn't want to see me again."

  "No, Ellie, that can't be. Why wouldn't he want to have you for a daughter?"

  "He says he can't. It would upset his kids."

  "Oh, Ellie." Paul gathered me in his arms. "It's his loss, sweetheart. It's his loss."

  The stress of the last few months caught up with me and I began to cry. Paul stroked my hair while various fish stole his bait. We sat together for at least twenty minutes until I was all cried out.

  "Feel better?" Paul wiped away my tears with a rough paper towel as if I was his ten year old daughter Kathleen and not a forty-three year old woman.

  "I think so. I'd better clean myself up." I splashed metallic smelling water from the small bathroom below deck on my splotched face. When I returned, Paul had already re-baited the hooks and had the rods set up.

  "You still up for a little fishing, or do you want to head back?" Paul asked.

  "No, I don't want to go back. I don't think I can face the tour people yet."

  "Yeah, me neither. Another beer?"

  I smiled. "No. It seems to make me cry."

  "Ellie, if anyone had an excuse to cry it's you. I can't believe that bastard had the nerve to turn you away."

  "It's not really his fault, Paul. He didn't even remember meeting Mom."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It wasn't some great love affair like you and I imagined as kids. More like a one night stand."

  "A one night stand?" Paul shook his head. "No, that can't be right. Not Rose."

  "Well, you were around when she got pregnant. Do you remember her dating or even going out."

  "Not really. But, I was only seven and Kitty always sent me to bed by eight o'clock so how the hell would I know."

  "What do you remember, Paul? About Rose around that time."

  He paused for a moment. "Well, I remember driving with my mother to pick her up from the convent, after my dad got sick. She wouldn't talk to us all the way home. I remember her making me peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and I remember standing with her on Centershore bridge and throwing stale bread to the swans. I don't know I remember random stuff, you know, kid stuff."

  I swallowed hard and then asked him, "What about your dad, what do you remember about your dad?"

  Paul stiffened. "Why do you want to hear about my father? You never asked about him before."

  "It's something Mom said in her sleep a few weeks ago. She was really frightened when she saw Danny. She thought he was your father."

  "Frightened? Why would she be frightened of a bedridden man?"

  "I don't know, but he wasn't always bedridden, right? I think she was remembering something from before. When she was younger. Listen. Paul, just humor me. What do you remember about your father?"

  Paul took off his hat and scratched his bald head. The carefree fisherman who'd kidnapped me from the dock had been replaced by this pensive man. "Mostly I remember being scared of him. I don't know why, I mean, he couldn't talk or really move. He would just grunt and drool a little. But those eyes. He would stare at me with those eyes." Paul looked away for a moment. "I almost never went in to see him. I'd only go in if Rose told me to bring something in to him. And, God forgive me, I'd race out of that room as soon as I could. That's something I've always felt bad about as an adult. That I didn't spend time with him and allowed him to rot away in that room, alone."

  "But what about before he got sick. Were you afraid of him then?"

  "I always remember being a little nervous around him. Danny says he was a severe sort of man. Very exacting. Always expected us to behave perfectly. I can't really remember much, but I do remember that. That nervous feeling when he inspected us on Sunday mornings before we went to church."

  "Don't get mad at me but I have to ask you, did he ever hit you?"

  Paul straitened up. "No. Never. I'd have remembered that."

  "What about Danny? Do you think he hit him?"

  "I don't think he so. Danny never said anything."

  "Okay, I'm sorry for asking all of this. I'm trying to make sense of Rose's nightmare."

  "El, that's probably all it was, a nightmare. Besides, she's not exactly thinking straight now, is she?"

  "I know, I know. It was probably nothing, but do you ever remember any strange noises at night? Before your dad had his stroke."

  "I don't know." He rubbed his temple for a few moments. He then looked at me and said, "I used to hear a banging, late at night. It was a thumping, really. I asked my mother about it once and she told me it was just the raccoons at the garbage. I remember thinking that it didn't sound like the thumping came from outside, more like it came from the house. But I didn't ask her anything else, and then whenever I heard it, I'd just turn over. Jesus, Ellen, I was a child. Maybe it was a raccoon."

  "Yeah, you're probably right. Listen, I'm sorry to bring all of this up. I'm trying to process all of this. How my ex-nun mother who never left the house all of a sudden decided to hook up with a drunk policeman and produce me. What motivated her? Who is she, Paul? I swear, I have no idea who either of my parents really are."

  Paul patted my hand. "She was a kid herself. She made a mistake, that's all."

  "But, it's so out of character. It doesn't make sense."

  "She loved you. Kitty adored you, and so did your two goofy uncles." Paul smiled. "That's all that matters. Who cares about the drunk cop? You don't need someone like him in your life now. You have your husband, your kids."

  "I know, Paul, I know. It's just that I don't have much time left with Mom, and I would like to understand. Sister Elizabeth told me that if I had any questions for her, I should ask them soon. Before she loses the capacity to answer them."

  "Hell, I don't know." Paul swallowed the last of his beer. "Maybe you should let it go. She's awfully sick, and well, shouldn't we just let her die in peace?"

  "But, maybe she's not a peace. You didn't see her that night. She was pretty upset and she's been agitated a few other nights as well. Maybe she needs to talk about her past, in order to be at peace."

  Paul shook his head. "I think that's just the tumors talking, not her past."

  "Maybe." One of the rods bent toward the water. "I think you've got a bite there, Paul."

  Later, after we unloaded the boat, Paul went into the boathouse to gut and clean the two fish he caught. I slowly walked back to the house and stepped aside as an elderly couple who were part of the house tour walked carefully down the stone steps
from the garden. As I climbed the steps to the garden, a car door slammed. I looked over to the Conroys. Billy's pickup rumbled as he started it. I caught Billy's eye and smiled. He nodded his head in acknowledgement as he backed down the narrow driveway and then drove past. I tried not to be hurt by his lukewarm greeting; there was only so much male rejection my poor brain could process at once. I continued up the steps, opened the screen door and prepared myself for Lisa's inevitable litany of complaints.

  Chapter 15

  Rose

  I stared at Danny's nodding head and fought the effects of the sleeping pill. It seemed as if someone was always trying to knock me out. I knew they only wanted to alleviate my pain, but why, why did they make me sleep away the precious time I had left? I'll be sleeping long enough.

  Sister Elizabeth stood in the doorway. "Rose, are you okay? Do you need another shot?"

  "I'm fine. Just thinking."

  She took the chair nearest my bed. "Is something bothering you?"

  "Besides, dying?" I gave her a weak smile. "No, Lizzie, nothing in particular. I was thinking about my stepfather. The older Danny gets, the more he looks like him. It's scary, really."

  "Scary?"

  "Maybe that's not the right word. Uncanny? Is that better?"

  "Rose, you shouldn't think about him. You did the best you could for him. He was a very sick man."

  "He was sick," I said. A sick bastard, I added silently.

  "Do you want me to sit with you until you fall asleep?" Elizabeth asked, the eyes practically falling out of her head. It was almost nine, and I knew Lizzie had been here since this morning.

  "No, that's all right. I have sleeping beauty here in case I need him."

  "All right. I won't be here tomorrow but I'll be back on Friday." She bent down and kissed my cheek. "Good night and God bless."

  Danny stirred slightly as Lizzie closed the door, his head tilted back, a small line of drool dripped from his open mouth. I remembered standing in the doorway of Peter's downstairs bedroom. His eyes, so full of anger and hate, stared at me and wordlessly commanded me to wipe the spittle from his sunken face.

  I remembered the front door banged, followed by the heavy clatter of Kitty's high heeled shoes. The noise woke my sleeping child. I suppressed a curse as I wiped Peter's battered face.

  "The child's crying, love. She sounds hungry," Kitty called from the adjoining kitchen.

  "I fed her an hour ago. You woke her."

  My mother stood in the doorway to Peter's room beside the kitchen. "I don't know, she sounds hungry to me. Don't bother with him now, mind your child. Isn't it wonderful, Peter, how our little Rosie has her own baba now. Oh, I know if you could you'd offer her your congratulations, wouldn't you now, Peter?" Kitty said in the tauntingly sweet sing-song she used whenever she addressed the lump in the bed. Peter's eyes glowed with anger and he gurgled in reply.

  "Sure, Peter, don't tire yourself now. We know you're happy for Rosie," Kitty said. "A baby is a blessing no matter what side of the blanket it's born on, don't you agree, Peter? Oh, Mrs. Hennessy had a few things to say about it, but I straightened her out, didn't I, Rosie?"

  I said nothing as Peter's face reddened with temper. Kitty turned to me. "That child won't feed herself. Go give her a bottle and I'll feed this fella lunch. It is time for his lunch, isn't it?"

  Surprised, I said, "Yes." In the two years I'd tended to Peter, I could probably count on one hand the number of times Kitty so much as touched him, never mind spoon fed him. But I supposed she could see how worn out I was by caring for a colicky infant. "There's chicken soup on the stove."

  "Fine, love. Leave it to me."

  Ellen drank half a bottle for me and after I rocked her for twenty minutes, she finally went to sleep. I laid down myself on my hard single bed, but was so overtired I couldn't sleep. I went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. While I sat at the kitchen table, a horrible hacking sound came from Peter's room.

  "Goodness, Peter, what is happening? Are you all right, love? You know, those old bats I used to nurse made that sound when they were choking. I used to turn them onto their side. I wonder if I should do that now, Peter, what do ya think? Aw, I'm an awful eejit, aren't I though. I can't really remember what I'm suppose to do. Stupid cow, isn't that what you called me, Peter, back when you could talk? Stupid cow. I am an awful stupid cow, aren't I?"

  I stood outside Peter's doorway. My mother stood by the window, Peter half sat up on the bed. His face was almost purple.

  "I couldn't find water in a well, isn't that what you always said, Peter?" my mother asked, almost casually, as she continued to stare out the window. "Stupid bitch couldn't find water in a well. But you're right of course, Peter. I am very stupid. So stupid that I can't remember how to stop someone from choking. So stupid." She turned around to face Peter and didn't seem to notice me in the doorway. "Holy Mother of God, you don't look so good. Would you like me to call the doctor, Peter? Should I call the doctor? What's that number again? Let me see. I can't seem to remember. I'd better go check the phone book. Now don't you worry, Peter, I'll find that number."

  The hacking from the bed slowed. Peter's eyes, filled with panic, begged me to help him. "Mama?"

  "Oh, Rosie, not to worry, I have everything under control." Kitty brushed past me and headed to the phone.

  I followed her into the kitchen. "Mama, I don't think he can breathe."

  "That's why I'm calling the doctor."

  "But.."

  "I think the baby's crying." She flipped through the address book.

  "But shouldn't we..."

  Kitty grabbed my arm. "Rose, go tend to your child. Now."

  I turned and looked at Peter's discolored face, his bulging eyes. Mother Superior's words rang in my ears: "Imagine you are caring for Jesus." I looked at Peter one more time before I turned and walked upstairs.

  Danny's book fell to the floor with a thump and roused me from my thoughts. Danny jumped in the chair. "Rose? Rose, you all right?"

  "Yes, yes I'm fine. I was dozing."

  He walked over to me and peered into my face. "Then why are you crying?"

  Chapter 16

  Rose

  "Oh no, Molly. How could you?"

  Molly bit her lip. "She found a picture. What else could I do?"

  I shook with temper. "Tell her you couldn't remember. Lie. Anything!"

  "Don't you think I would have lied to her if I could? Ellen's not stupid. The resemblance was too strong. I had to tell her." Molly stroked my arm. She stared at me for a moment and then said hesitantly, "But that's not the worst of it."

  "Mother of God, what else?"

  "She drove to his house last week."

  I was silent then. I'd spent years deflecting Ellen's periodic questions about her father. I couldn't even remember the last time she'd mentioned him. Why? Why now?

  "Rose," Molly said, "believe me, the last thing I want to do is upset you and I wasn't even sure I was going to tell you. But, I want you to be prepared."

  "Prepared for what?"

  "For Ellen's questions. Apparently, the visit did not go well. I only got this second hand from Paul, but Denis doesn't want anything to do with her. Paul said she's upset, and you know how Ellen can be. If she brings it up, or starts attacking you the way she does, I want you to be prepared. And if it's too much for you, I can make sure that you're never left alone with her."

  "I don't need to be protected from my own daughter," I snapped.

  Molly sighed. "Rosie, it's me you're talking to. I know how Ellen is. I know how she treats you."

  In as strong a voice I could manage, I said, "She's been excellent daughter. She's dropped everything to be with me. And we haven't fought once."

  "I know," Molly said in a more conciliatory voice. "She's been wonderful. And I want her to continue being wonderful."

  "This is all your fault!" I shouted, close to tears. "You've ruined everything! Just get out. I want to be alone."

  "Calm down."
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  "Oh sweet Jesus, can I not have ten minutes to myself? Leave me alone, Molly. I mean it."

  Molly, her face mottled with emotion, walked out and closed the door behind her.

  My throat parched from the unaccustomed shouting, I reached over to get a glass of water. I silently cursed as my now unreliable hand knocked the glass from the bedside table. I hoped that the crash wouldn't bring Molly or an attendant into my room; I needed a few minutes alone. I'd had a solitary life, especially since my mother died, and all this constant company drained me. The small talk drove me mad. At least twenty times a day someone asked me if I was all right. I had terminal brain cancer. The daughter I adored was in a constant state of agitation or anger. I had some hard things to say to her, things I hadn't had the courage to say for the last forty years, and now I was running out of time. So no, I felt like telling them, I wasn't all right.

  But of course I never said this. I'd say "I'm fine." Fine. I'd tell the teachers who eyed my constant bruises that I was fine, just clumsy. I told my aunt my first few months home from the convent that I was fine, that I didn't mind nursing Peter. I told my mother when I was suffering from morning sickness that I was fine, that I must've of caught a stomach virus.

  Fine. I should have "she was fine" engraved on my tombstone.

  Molly forgot to lower the shade and the afternoon sun filled the room and hurt my eyes. The small gnawing pain that this morning's demerol shot had made manageable, had grown in intensity. I hadn't asked for another shot; Ellen was due this afternoon and I needed to remain lucid.

  Oh, how I longed for one of my mother's hot toddy's. Whenever I had a cold, she'd wrap me in the old quilt her mother sent from Ireland and make me a hot toddy with the Irish whiskey she hid from Peter. How I loved the soft oblivion it provided. The world was a safe place as I drifted off while my mother stroked my hair. Until that St. Patrick's Day in 1966, Kitty's hot toddies and communion wine were the only alcohol that had ever passed my lips.

  St. Patrick's Day. I almost didn't make it to Brooklyn that night, but at seventeen Molly was too young to be let out on her own. Molly badgered her own mother for a month to be allowed to attend the St. Patrick's Day party her older boyfriend was throwing with his fellow police cadets. Auntie Margaret told Molly that either her father would accompany her to the party or me. Margaret always viewed me as a steady sort and thought I could be trusted to chaperone her flighty young daughter.