The Girls on Rose Hill

by Bernadette Walsh

  I sank into my chair. "I keep seeing his eyes, Mama. I keep seeing his eyes when I lay down at night."

  Mama went to the cabinet and took out a pill box. She handed me a blue tablet. "Take one of these, Rosie, every night after dinner. You'll close your eyes and you won't see nothing, trust me. Take it." I obediently swallowed the pill and chased it down with my lukewarm tea.

  "Now, there's my girl." Mama stroked my short hair. "There's my good girl."

  For decades I'd confessed my spinster sins to Monsignor O'Brien and his successors at St. Ann's: losing my patience with my mother, my white lies to Lisa during family functions. I never confessed anything real. Not my lies of omission to my daughter. Not my other grave sin.

  I finally gathered the courage to defy my mother's edict and asked Sister Elizabeth to arrange my confession with the young African priest. His English was marginal at best so hopefully he wouldn't ask me too many question. Maybe he wouldn't even understand me. Two Hail Mary's and then as my mother would say, "Bob's your uncle." Forty plus years of grief and guilt, poof. Gone.

  Father Whats-his-name was a nice young man. His large dark eyes seemed kind. With care he carefully enunciated a prayer before I started my confession. My voice low and husky with emotion, I said, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been forty-two years since my last confession. My last real confession."

  The priest's eyes got larger as I described for him in detail the bulge of Peter's eyes, the sound of my shoes on the old wood floor as I walked away from him.

  In his hesitant English, he said, "Miss Murphy, you are confused. Let me get the doctor."

  Forty years of anger and frustration poured out of me. "I've waited too long for this. I know what I'm saying. I killed him! I killed my stepfather!"

  He tried to shush me, but I wouldn't be quiet. Over and over I shouted, "I killed him. I killed my stepfather!"

  The door then flew open. Ellen's mouth moved but I couldn't make out what she said. It was if the world stopped. She came closer to me. She yelled at me. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Ellen eventually stormed out.

  The priest said nothing.

  Molly, in tears, sat by my bed. "Why did you say that, Rosie? Why? Kitty told my mother that she's the one that let him choke to death. Not you. It's not your sin to confess."

  "It is," I whispered. "It is."

  Chapter 21

  Ellen

  My heels clicked along the tiled hallway, my eyes unseeing, blinded with tears. I plowed into an attendant carrying a tray of food, orange jello soon decorated the hallway and my shirt. I mumbled a sorry and then continued my march down the hallway. I was about to push open the glass doors to the parking lot when I heard a sweet high soprano. I stopped for a moment. Almost against my will, I followed the organ music to a small chapel. The chapel was dark, lit only by a few wavering candles and the weak afternoon sun that fought through the narrow stained glass windows. On the altar Sister Elizabeth sang the mass' entrance hymn, her voice surprisingly strong for a woman her age. A young African priest walked solemnly up the narrow aisle. Sister caught my eye and beckoned me to enter.

  I sat among the half dozen members of the congregation and was silent. I didn't even mouth the refrains that, while I hadn't darkened the door of a church since my Granny's funeral, were still emblazoned on my brain. I sat with my tear-streaked face and jello-stained shirt and absorbed the lilting cadence of the priest's familiar words, my knuckles, white, as I held tightly to the well worn pew.

  "...look not on our sins but on the faith of our Church..."

  Look not on our sins. I wondered how God would look upon my mother's sins in a few weeks, or maybe even a few days, when they will presumably come face to face. Would forty years of manning the annual bake sale and decorating the altar outweigh a murder? What will she say? "Yes, Lord, I did have an illegitimate daughter and I did kill my stepfather, but how about those flower arrangements? What did you think of the lilacs? I grew them myself. Pretty impressive, huh?"

  At least my mother had faith and service to counteract her sins. What did I have? What would He say to me? "I tricked my husband into marrying me, abandoned my mother on her deathbed and conducted a hot affair with my neighbor. Oh, but I used to be my daughter's Girl Scout leader." Somehow, I didn't think that would fly.

  "For the residents of St. Francis," Sister Elizabeth said from her lectern. "That they find comfort for their pain and can find joy in the prospect of Heaven. Let us pray to the Lord."

  "Lord hear our prayer," chanted the middle-aged couple sitting next to me.

  "For the families." Sister Elizabeth stared at me. "That they find the strength to forgive, and the strength to love. Let us pray to the Lord."

  "Lord, hear our prayer," I whispered.

  Sister Elizabeth nodded slightly.

  I began to get into the rhythm of the ritual. Sitting, kneeling, responding from some place within me that had been silent for a long time.

  "Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.

  Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, Have mercy on us.

  Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace."

  Peace? Was peace possible for the likes of me? For the likes of my mother?

  The priest lifted the chalice above his head and calmly conducted the almost mundane mystery of transforming the bread and wine. I shook my head when Sister beckoned me up to the altar to receive this sustenance. She walked down from the altar, linked my arm and guided me up to the priest.

  "The body of Christ."

  "Amen." I opened my mouth.

  I returned to me seat, knelt awkwardly, my hands clasped tightly together, my mind a blank. When I was young I always knew what to pray for: an A on a history test, a new dress for a party. To my childish mind, God was like a giant gum-ball machine in the sky. You plugged in the obligatory Our Father or Hail Mary and out came the requested treat. But God hadn't granted me my wishes for quite some time. I remembered sitting in Dahlgren chapel in Georgetown soon after Veronica's Holy Communion, begging Him to save my family. The little family that I worked so hard to create. I pleaded with Him to make my husband love me and honor me as he promised he would in that very chapel. I bargained with Him: I'll be a nicer to my mother, I'll attend mass every Sunday. But, as I found out when I followed Brendan and his blonde whore into the Four Seasons, God doesn't always answer our prayers.

  But what should I pray for now? I knew I should ask for help, help in dealing with my constant anger. I knew I should beg for forgiveness for how I've treated my mother. Her sins didn't excuse my own. But, I was tired and I couldn't think. So I sat. Sat and listened to the tinny sound of the small organ and I let the music and the incense ease my frenzied mind.

  After mass, Sister Elizabeth walked me to my car, still linking me as she would for one of the elderly residents.

  "Allow Him to help you, Ellen. Allow Him to provide you with the strength and grace you need."

  "Strength?" I fumbled through my bag searching for my keys.

  "The strength to forgive your mother. The grace to forgive yourself."

  I nodded mutely and climbed into my ostentatious car.

  An hour later, I sat on the dock. My bare feet dangled over the side and skimmed the water. I shivered in the cool, almost autumnal afternoon breeze. Footsteps, hollow against the old dock's boards, roused me from my reverie.

  She kicked off her white sandals and groaning slightly sat down next to me. "Damn arthritis."

  I said nothing as I stared out into the harbor.

  "He beat her," she said. "He beat the hell out of your mother. Your grandmother too."

  "Please, Molly. I can't take much more today."

  Molly ignored me and continued. "Kitty hid it. Denied it. But every time Rose came to my house she was covered in bruises. Broken fingers. Missing patches of hair. Kitty told my mother that Rose was just an active child, but Rose was timid. A bookworm. My mother
never believed Kitty and neither did I."

  I said nothing.

  "He was a vile, nasty man. To hit a woman, a child. Who would do that?"

  I finally turned to face her. "And that justifies murder?"

  "Murder? Who even knows if there really was a murder. If Kitty and your mother really wanted him dead, why would they wait two years to do it? Your mother fed him, cleaned him, wiped his ass. I saw her with Peter. She cared for him tenderly, with kindness. More kindness than that bastard deserved. And she never complained, not once. I don't believe she murdered Peter. I don't."

  "Well, then why did she say she did? She's told me so many half truths all my life that I don't know what to believe anymore."

  "Misplaced guilt? I don't know, Ellen. I don't. But, at the end of the day, does any of this really matter? There are only three people who know what happened. Two are dead and one's about to be." Molly stroked my hair, as she would her young daughter. In a softer voice, she continued, " I think what you need to ask yourself is are you're really so horrified by her admission or are you just using this as an excuse not to deal with your mother, not to deal with her death."

  "My head is spinning. I swear to God, Molly, my head is spinning with all of this."

  Molly dug through her purse and produced a pack of cigarettes. She lit two and handed one to me.

  "But I don't..."

  "You do today."

  We silently smoked our cigarettes. I choked mine down like a thirteen year old sneaking her first smoke; Molly with the relish of an unrepentant smoker. The sun was low in the sky and the midges had begun to bite, but neither one of us wanted to move. Molly stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. I slapped a mosquito.

  "My mother died two months before my wedding. We fought over the seating chart the night before she died. A seating chart, can you believe it? But, I was only twenty-one, she was barely forty-five. Neither one of us dreamed that she wouldn't be there to dance at my wedding."

  I said nothing.

  "That might be one reason why I've never had patience for your attitude towards your mother. Look, I know it probably wasn't easy for you growing up in that house. I know things weren't perfect. But Rose loved you and she was there. She was there for your wedding. She was there when your children were born. She was there any time you needed her, any time you wanted her."

  "I know."

  "And now you have the opportunity to hold her hand as she dies. To be with her. You have no idea how much I envy you that. My mother died of an aneurism, alone in the bathroom. This time with your mother is a gift. Don't waste it." Molly stubbed out her cigarette, patted me on the back and awkwardly stood up. I watched her walk slowly back to the street.

  I sat, almost frozen, on that dock for another hour. I didn't cry, didn't think, didn't pray. I just sat and allowed my limbs to be the mosquitos' dinner. I think I would've slept there if Billy hadn't found me. He lifted me up and led me like a child back to my mother's house.

  Chapter 22

  Rose

  Monsignor Ryan held my hand as I made my confession. His deep Brooklyn baritone filled the room as he calmly granted me absolution. Only one Hail Mary and two Our Fathers to expiate my sins. We said the prayers together. After more than forty years, my soul was finally clear, whole. I now had God's forgiveness. At least I hoped I had God's forgiveness. I supposed I'd find out soon enough.

  But, will I have my daughter's? I didn't know. I knew I didn't have much time left. The morphine drip I'd fought for so long was now permanently attached to my arm, pumping sweet relief into my veins. The jagged edge of pain kept at bay, along with hunger and thirst although I had no desire for any sustenance now other than my daughter's love.

  Love. What a funny word for what our relationship was. I'd made mistakes, God knows I'd made mistakes, but there was always love. On my end, there was always love.

  But, was it enough? Sadly, I didn't think so. Despite my best intentions, the poison in that house seeped into the next generation. Maybe Ellen's right. Maybe I should've tracked down the charming Denis, shamed him into doing the right thing by me. Make an honest woman of me. Honest, like a band of gold could do that after what I'd done.

  Then Ellen would've had a daddy who loved her, who made her feel special. She would've had the white picket fence, happily-ever-after life that she's spent her life searching for. Instead, she was raised in that house, caught in the constant tug of war between myself and my mother. Always the pawn. No wonder. No wonder Ellen hates me.

  But, the thought of some man's hands on me night after night. His sour breath on my face as he pounded away at me. A constant reminder of that bastard, that bastard who stole my innocence. A constant reminder of those times in the shed. No. I couldn't do it. I couldn't give up the safety of my spinster bed. Not for Ellen. Not for anyone.

  And so now I had to pay the price of putting my own desires ahead of my daughter. If only a Hail Mary and an Our Father could atone for that sin.

  It was late afternoon when I woke from my opium induced slumber. A late summer storm raged outside my window. The room was dark and without my glasses I could just make out that there was someone standing by the window. Her heels clicked on the tiles as she walked to me, her bright hair glowing in low light from the window. She handed me my glasses. "Hello, Mom."

  "Ellen, you're back."

  "I am." She stroked my hair. "And I'm not leaving again. I promise. I'm here to the end."

  "To the end," I repeated faintly.

  "Yes, Mom. To the end."

  "Good," I replied. "Good."

  Chapter 23

  Ellen

  "She's fading," I said into the phone. "She's fading fast. I know you're excited about getting ready for orientation, but if you want to say good bye, you need to come up in the next day or so."

  "Timmy has to work tomorrow but he said he'd drive me up with me on Tuesday. I haven't spoken to Michael."

  "I spoke to him. He's at the Cape with his roommate but he's taking the train down on Wednesday."

  "Okay. Do you want me tell Dad?" Veronica asked hesitantly.

  "Of course. Tell him you're coming up. But, there's no reason for him to miss work for this." I tried to keep the flint from my voice.

  "But, it's Nana. Shouldn't he..."

  "Leave it, Veronica. Just leave it. He had his chance to say good-bye." He had his chance.

  "Are you sure? Because I could I ask him to come with me tonight and Timmy could drive down by himself."

  "I'm sure, honey."

  After I decided to put my doubts and anger aside and return to my mother's room, my mother was quiet but coherent. I spent the following handful of days reading the paper to her, reading the bible. She didn't seem to care what I read as long as I was with her, as long as she could hear my voice. But then yesterday something changed. She was agitated, her fingers constantly plucked at the bed covers for some reason. Short of knocking her out altogether, nothing seemed to calm her. Whenever she was awake she would look intently at the corner of her room, near the window. She nodded at it, murmured to it, as if she was speaking to someone. What upset me most of all was that she no longer recognized me. The forty-three year old Ellen, mother of three, was gone. In Rose's mind, that Ellen had been replaced by my grandmother.

  The word had gone out and now members of the extended family streamed through the room. Auntie Maura, her sons, their wives and children, Paul's children, Carol's sister. Some sat naturally and chatted about an upcoming family wedding or graduation, as if my mother could follow what they were saying, as if she would be there for the happy event. Others were uncomfortable and spent more time talking to me rather than addressing my mother. One distant cousin was so rattled that she spent her half hour visit filling vases with water, even a vase full of artificial flowers.

  Veronica and Timmy arrived around noon the next day. They walked into my mother's room bursting with youth and vitality, both their faces burnished with a thick layer of freckles. Timmy engu
lfed me in a suffocating hug. Veronica held back and offered me an uncertain smile.

  Rose had just woken from a nap and was relatively alert. "Come here to me," she croaked to the children.

  Veronica walked up to her and hesitantly took her hand. Timmy followed.

  "Hello, Nana."

  "Ellen, what have you done to your hair?"

  "I'm not Ellen, I'm..."

  "What has happened to your beautiful blonde hair?" She looked at me. "Mama, did you let Ellen dye her hair? Was it you or was it that devil Laurie Nolan?"

  "But, Nana, I'm..."

  "Red? Why on earth would you dye that poor child's hair red. I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

  I shot Veronica a look. "It'll wash out, Rosie. The girls were only experimenting."

  "Well, I should hope so," she huffed. During my own adolescence, Rose wouldn't have said a word if I had shaved my head. This new querulous personality of hers was strange and unsettling.

  "And who is this, Ellie? Is it your boyfriend?"

  Playing along, Timmy said, "Yes, I'm a friend from school." He contorted his face into an approximation of a smile, but I could see how upset he was. I sometimes forgot how young my children were, how sheltered. Their lives had been a whirl of private schools, sports, parties. Other than Brendan's remote parenting style, this death was probably the first bit of sadness to touch their unblemished lives. But, Timmy was brave. He filled the space with stories from his summer life guarding job. Rose nodded, almost pleasantly, as if she could follow his stories.

  It was Veronica I worried about. She shrank into the corner and stared blankly at her grandmother. I sensed that neither my mother nor my daughter could take much more, so I said, "Rose, it's time for you to rest. You can see the children later."

  "Mama, I don't need you to tell me what to do," Rose snapped. "I'm a grown woman, with a child of my own. You seem to like to forget that."