Brothers & Sisters

by Brothers

  When I return, dressed and fresh and clean from my musky soak, I watch as Mrs McGrath uses a sponge and a yellow basin to wash the white stuff from the baby’s head. She talks to the baby as though he can hear her. She tells him that she is giving him a ‘sluice.’ Mrs McGrath looks at the baby with loving eyes; she looks like the kind of mother that has so much love to give, a generous caring soul, the absolute opposite to my mother.

  ‘Mrs McGrath.’ My voice is weak, unsure of itself. The clothes that she has given me smell like lavender.

  ‘Yes, darling.’ Her voice is strong, confident, the type that would make you feel safe.

  ‘I was thinking.’ My wet hair leaves a patch on the back of the oversized jumper I am wearing and Mrs McGrath places another, dryer towel around my shoulders. I feel cold and sit at the edge of the bed, shivering.

  ‘Yes.’ She continues to busy herself, swiftly washing and then drying the baby, area by area, from top to bottom.

  ‘Can I give him a name?’ I say, afraid to have said something I shouldn’t have. I see a quick sliver of worry dash across her face. She pauses for a moment, unable to look at mine. ‘If that’s, okay,’ I add.

  ‘Do you want to?’ she says. Her eyes are only for the baby and they smile for him. She rubs his skin with oil and the baby seems to like it. The corners of her mouth meet her eyes as she coos at him. I think the baby feels as safe as I do.

  ‘I think he should have a name, maybe, so he knows if we are talking to him,’ I say.

  Mrs McGrath doesn’t answer. She folds a terry cloth like a triangle and decides that it is too big. ‘Just a minute, love.’ She places my hand on the baby’s belly and puts a towel over him. I stay in that position until she returns.

  I look at the baby and ask him if he is okay. He squirms and I pat the towel around him tighter.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mrs McGrath announces as she brings back a smaller cloth. ‘This will fit better.’ She takes charge again and folds the cloth around him and fixes it with a pin. She finds the smallest white Babygro from a black sack of baby boy clothes and she dresses him. ‘Now, my little treasure,’ she says and kisses him on the cheek.

  ‘Mrs McGrath,’ I say again and she looks at me.

  ‘Yes, Rose?’

  ‘How about Michael?’ I say, nervous but determined. I’m sure she doesn’t know how to respond to me.

  ‘For the baby?’ she asks and I nod my head, still slightly afraid to say something wrong. ‘Let’s see,’ she says and she places a blanket and folds it in a triangle in front of me. I am beginning to realise that there are a lot of triangles. She takes the baby and swaddles him tightly inside. He looks like a caterpillar with just his face exposed. She cuddles him closely and then returns him to my lap. ‘What do you think, Michael, do you like that name?’ she says to the baby and then smiles at me. I know then that Michael would love to have a mother who cares so much. Mrs McGrath’s eyes fill with tears and she looks at me. ‘Michael, it is.’ She leans towards me and kisses me on the head and then she kisses Michael. ‘You know, Michael is my father’s name,’ she says.

  ‘Oh!’ I say.

  She looks at the clock and then back to me. The clock reads a quarter to eleven and I realise she is anxious about the time. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but I would like a doctor to have a look at him soon,’ she says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Just as a precaution, he is a very small baby and he might need to be seen to, just to make sure,’ she says.

  My stare wanders from the bundle in my arms to Mrs McGrath and then back to the powder-blue blanketed bundle on my lap. I study his nose, his closed eyes and I listen for his whimpers. His tiny breaths make his little nose move ever so slightly in sync with his rising chest. ‘Michael,’ I whisper, wondering does he hear me. ‘It’s me, Michael, Rose.’ I have been thinking and thinking and have been unable to decide, up until now. ‘Mrs McGrath,’

  There is silence in the room as she stands watching me from the end of the bed. I can tell that her heart is beating faster than it normally does, from the way she is breathing. As I speak she makes her way to sit on the bed’s edge.

  ‘I was thinking…’ I say. Her eyes are bright in the darkness of the room. ‘That maybe…’ I look at Michael and his eyes flicker, looking for me, and then they close again, ‘if it’s okay with you, maybe I could go to your school in Dublin.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, darling,’ she says, hoping I mean it.

  ‘I do.’ I manage.

  Mrs McGrath can’t find her words so she nods, smiles and strokes my face.

  ‘Will you…’ I look at Michael and back at her. I think it’s an imposition to actually ask her if she will look after him. ‘Is it okay?’ I say.

  ‘It is, darling, he’ll be one of us, and I promise you that.’ She wipes away the tears that are streaming down her face, then, as she giggles, she takes the edge of the blanket and wipes away mine. ‘And I can say…’ she swallows hard, ‘I can say that both my sons were born on my bed.’ She tries to read my reaction, but there’s none, not yet anyhow. ‘That’s if you want.’

  ‘I do,’ I answer her. My eyes turn to the baby. ‘Hello, Michael McGrath, welcome to your new home.’

  Chapter 24

  Friday Morning – 2016

  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

  And treat those two impostors just the same…

  If you can fill the unforgiving minute

  With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

  Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

  And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son.

  Rudyard Kipling

  The sun had risen and in the sparkling of the dew, the grass woke gently with the breeze shaking off the moisture from the night before. There was always a moment, before the world was awake, that it was peaceful and poignant, Rose thought contentedly. Maybe there was a silver lining to sleepless nights. She topped up her cup from the pot of tea she had made earlier; it was exactly how she liked it, tar.

  All night she had tossed and turned with more questions than she had answers to. How did Patrick Fitzpatrick end up in the ditch? Who had put him there? Why didn’t anybody search for him in 1970? It was a testament to the type of man he was, she supposed. Tim had said they would have to bury him, but she didn’t want to return to Kilkenny, she had always promised she never would. What would happen to Tim?

  She opened her notebook and placed it on the table. Beside it, she put her silver Cross pen, a present from Lizzie. She had reached for it in the early hours as her legs jerked and her mind jumped, both afflictions disturbing her ability to close her eyes. Scribbling her thoughts, she realised, had been therapeutic and once she had started she had found it hard to stop. It hadn’t been her intention to structure her wishes in these letters, but in the early hours of the morning, she had a brainwave; sleeplessness had its moments. She wrote four letters in total.

  Retrieving her laptop from the living room, she booted it up and made her way into the kitchen. Her handwriting these days barely legible; she set about transcribing her scribbled notes onto her computer. The dexterity in her hands had long since been replaced by rigidity. Her muscles misbehaved in ways she couldn’t explain, betraying her commands. The events of the past few days were a stark reminder of how wrong everything could be. This was her chance to give her side of the story.

  The kitchen was cosy; Matt had painted it in a duck-egg blue – her favourite colour. The cupboards were antique cream and suited the classic feel of the house. Various photographs of happier days adorned the walls and the sideboard to the rear of the room. She smiled as she could hear her husband’s encouragement in her head. It was days like these that she missed him the most, her rock, her heart.

  Before she began to type, she studied the meticulously calligraphed, black ink letters, curling eloquently through the words of Rudyard Kipling’s poem on the front of her notebook, it was her favourite piece. As she rer
ead her notes, she tried to type, wiping away the tears as they fell. She had decided, sleeplessly, that it was time.

  Dearest Lizzie, she began. The late-night scribbles proved difficult to read but she persevered until she had written for her daughter her wishes for her future. She allowed her hand to type what her heart wanted to say. When she had finished she sat still and silent, satisfied that she had said everything. It had been wonderful to express her feelings as freely as she had. Building on the sense of relief she was feeling, she started another.

  Dearest Michael, she began. The words for the second one proved a little more difficult for her to find. When she had finally finished and typed the last kiss, she sighed with relief, feeling the pressure that she had been carrying all these years evaporate like the condensation on the morning window. The letters, she decided, would be confined to her solicitors for safekeeping. Only to be read on her instruction, or on her death. She folded the printed papers and placed them beside their envelopes. She lingered, knowing that the next time they would be opened, they would be in her children’s hands. She pulled out two more envelopes and left them ready on her desk.

  She stared at the mug in her hands and considered the next words she would use. She imagined it being read and the impact it would have. Words flowed and her fingers typed as though they had a mind of their own. With every sentence, an ounce of torment lifted till eventually she felt weightless, floating almost. It hadn’t taken long to fill the pages and with her third letter written she left it to the side, addressed the envelope to Detective Kelly and then began to write the fourth, this would be the easiest letter of them all.

  Dearest Tim, she began and within minutes her thoughts about her brother cascaded onto the page. She read over all four, folded them in three and placed each of them in an envelope and sealed it. She was sure that it was time. If she was fearful at all, it wasn’t because people would finally know her secret, but rather the consequences of people not knowing what was in them. Rose’s conscience was clear and, as far as she was concerned, justice had been done, maybe not in the traditional way, but it was done none the less. She took the four envelopes and shuffled them in her hands, one for Lizzie, one for Michael, and on the third envelop she wrote, Detective Kelly and the fourth for her brother Tim. She placed the envelopes by her keys on the hall table and made a mental note to root for Tim’s whistle, to go along with his letter.

  By the time Rose had showered and prepared herself for the day, she was exhausted. Everyday tasks were becoming harder and harder and she was beginning to feel incapable. She would have loved nothing better than to take a stroll in the woods but she knew her muscles would let her down. She resigned herself to drift from room to room, touching the ornaments of her life and making a cup of tea instead.

  There were many years when she didn’t use the strength that she had been born with and now, for the first time, she regretted it. The current state of her health and the hassle with the Estate helped her put things into perspective. She was confident that the letters were the best thing to do. Adjusting to her illness had been hard for Rose but the heaviness in her legs was no match for the heaviness in her heart. She picked up her phone and scrolled for her solicitor’s details. Taking a deep breath, she dialled the number. He’d have her wishes safely in his keeping, providing there were no distractions, by the end of the day.

  *

  Tim sat poised in the set-down area on Friday morning outside the arrival gates at Dublin airport. He dutifully ignored the amplified message that repeatedly warned him that the area was for set-down only. There was an art to airport pick-ups and Tim was determined to master it. Timing the collection perfectly, Lizzie emerged pulling two bags behind her.

  ‘Hi Tim. I told you I’d get a taxi.’ She hugged her uncle tight and he lifted the first bag into his boot.

  ‘What on earth have you got with you?’ Tim said as he lumped her second bag on top of it. ‘It is just for the weekend, you know,’ he added.

  ‘Actually, I’m here for the week,’ she answered. ‘I realised, when you rang, that I haven’t taken any leave at all, let alone been home in months, so I took the entire week.’ She didn’t elaborate about the growing discontent she was feeling for her life in London, nor her tentative plan to come home for good in the near future. ‘I’m not going back till next Sunday,’ she said. And that’s just to hand in my notice, she added in her head.

  ‘Well, I’m glad I decided to collect you now, seeing as you have so much stuff with you,’ Tim said. ‘I’ve been tracking your flight on the tracker app so I knew you were ahead of schedule.’

  ‘I know, I barely had time to get my seat belt on and we were already descending,’ Lizzie answered, grateful to be home.

  Tim pulled out gently and they set off.

  ‘So, she has no idea that I’m coming home,’ Lizzie questioned.

  ‘None,’ Tim answered. ‘She’ll be delighted though. She misses you,’ he said.

  Lizzie knew enough to know that Tim was up to something but she was patient enough to wait for him to tell her. She was excited to be home.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Rose gasped as she opened the heavy front door. Unsure whether her legs were wobbling from rushing down the stairs or from the shock of seeing her daughter, Rose needed to sit down. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it.’ Her heart thumped. Her pale brown eyes widened. ‘What on earth is going on?’ Stunned, she looked at Tim and then reached for her daughter’s hand to steady herself. Lizzie squeezed her hand tightly in return and led her mother back towards the kitchen. A sense of excitement infected Rose as she regained her thoughts and her steadiness. ‘Ah, Lizzie,’ Rose pulled her daughter in for a hug. ‘It’s so good to have you home again.’

  Rose opened the double living room doors and led Lizzie and Tim inside. ‘This is such a surprise; I presume your Uncle Tim had something to do with it?’ She threw a knowing look at her brother and Lizzie caught it. Once Lizzie had been settled and the pleasantries were out of the way, Rose began to talk.

  ‘Right, there are two things.’ Rose wavered slightly as she placed herself opposite Lizzie in the armchair. Tim sat forward showing his support. Easing her daughter into the information was her strategy. Lizzie was childlike as she sat on the couch. ‘I’ve been a bit worried lately so I’ve been to the doctors to check it out.’ Lizzie inhaled deeply and held her breath, this wasn’t the news she had anticipated and she didn’t know what to expect next. ‘What they’ve said is I might have a condition, a neurological disorder.’ Rose explained as succinctly as she could. The details could come later, she thought. There was no sense in bombarding her with minute detail. ‘There are no definitive tests to determine what it might be, but the medical team has mentioned, Motor Neurone Disease and Parkinson’s as some of the possibilities.’

  Lizzie looked to Tim, his gaze resting softly on his sister. He hadn’t said anything, but it was obvious to Lizzie that he wasn’t hearing this for the first time. His breathing remained steady and his body was unmoved. There was strength behind his eyes, willing his sister to be strong. She looked at her mother and noticed her furrowed brow. Her dancing eyes still piercing behind her thinning lashes, now glazed with a coat of tears. Instinctively, Lizzie reached for her hand, noticing her draw a deep slow breath. She pressed her hand tight. There was a hopeless quality in her mother’s voice, forlorn at the bleak expectations for her future.

  ‘I’ll be with you every step of the way, Mum. Always and forever.’ Her own eyes beginning to glaze, Lizzie moved to sit beside her mother. She wrapped her arms around her small body and let her tears flow.

  A lump rose in Tim’s throat as a symphony of sobs and sniffles swirled in the atmosphere.

  ‘And before either of you say it; it wouldn’t have helped if we had known any sooner. There would have been nothing we could have done then, just as there is nothing we can do now.’ She rubbed Lizzie’s back from where she sat. ‘I’ve started on a myriad of tablets and drugs so maybe they might b
e able to help me cope in some way. But in the meantime, it’s business as usual.’ Rose was firm. ‘I’m not bad yet. Just a little slower that’s all. So we’ll play it by ear. Okay my lovely.’ She was attempting to smile. ‘I’m going to make a drink.’ Rose dragged herself forward in the chair and pushed herself into a standing position, steadying herself on the sideboard. ‘Who’s for tea?’ She made her way to the kitchen before they answered. It was then that she remembered the letters. She rushed to the hall and placed them carefully inside the console table’s drawer. The solicitors could wait till Monday, she decided. For now, even though she wouldn’t have asked her, she was happy Lizzie was home.

  Stillness had settled comfortably in the back garden as Rose looked down the lawn. A tiredness had taken hold and she felt sleepy. The lack of sleep last night and the stress of the past week had taken its toll on her.

  Tim came in to the kitchen.

  ‘Now, do you feel better that she knows?’ Rose wasn’t sure yet, so didn’t answer. Tim noticed her rubbing her hand. ‘I know you’re probably going to give out to me for getting her to come home, but, well, I just thought that you could do with seeing her’, he raised his eyebrows slightly not knowing what she was going to say. ‘And she could do with a little break’, he added trying to deflect from his intentions.

  ‘It’s fine, Tim, really’, her smile was small but genuine, ‘actually, it’s more than fine, I’m glad she’s here’, she glanced at the door making sure that Lizzie hadn’t heard them. ‘I really do miss her so much’, she whispered, her eyes tearing up.

  ‘I know you do, Rosie, I know’, he patted his pockets looking for a tissue to hand her and when he couldn’t find any he pulled a sheet of kitchen towel from the roll, folded it and handed it to her. ‘Will I bring in the tray?’ he offered.

  ‘No thanks, it’s all in hand,’ Rose answered. Her determination and resilience was never as evident.

  ‘It’s all in hand,’ Tim repeated as he laughed at the poetic irony. The pun was unintentional.