‘Jay, sit up beside your sister,’ she suggested.
He looked doubtful but Tom patted the spot up beside the pillow, Billy climbing in near him, careful not to disturb his sister or hurt her.
Beth was fighting to control her grief, her body shaking with the effort. Martha stood behind her and placed her hands on her pain-filled shoulders.
‘Cass, everyone who loves you is here, pet, your mommy and daddy and Billy and Jay and Nurse O’Hara. You don’t need to be afraid. It’s a lovely clear blue bright day outside with a hint of breeze, can you feel it, the air, the wind? I have never seen a sky like it!
‘Your daddy and mommy and brothers are all going to talk to you now, Cass, they know you can hear them.’
Martha stepped back from the bed, stepped back from the family. Cass’s breathing was even more irregular now as she struggled for air. In her heart, Martha wished her God speed.
She went downstairs. In the small cluttered kitchen she watched the plants out back in Beth Armstrong’s neglected yard dance as the wind tossed them, hearing the cry of grief almost twenty minutes later that racked the house as Beth realized her daughter was gone. Martha was glad in her own mind that Cass was finally free of all that she had suffered during her short life.
Tom Armstrong came downstairs, his face swollen and tortured with grief.
‘It’s over, finally over,’ he said, breaking down. Martha wrapped him in her arms, wishing she could remove even a tiny portion of the pain and anger he was feeling. He sobbed and cried, Martha doing her best to comfort him.
‘Tom, will I go upstairs to Beth?’ she offered.
‘No, Martha, no.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘Beth just wants to be left alone with Cass.’
‘Of course.’
Martha was concerned for the child’s mother, knowing how absolutely tragic and awful it must be for her. Perhaps it was time for her to go. The doctor was on his way to certify Cass’s death and the nurse had told her she was going to ask him to write up some kind of sedative for Beth.
Linda answered the door when the doctor came and showed him up to the child’s room. Beth came downstairs a few minutes later. Martha moved forward to console her, offer her sympathy, but was totally rebuffed.
‘Tom, what is that woman still doing in our house? Ask her to leave immediately!’ she shouted hysterically.
‘Please, Beth, I’m so sorry about Cass, truly I am.’
‘Bitch, get out of my home. You are not wanted here. My daughter thought you were her friend. Some friend!’
‘Beth,’ pleaded Tom, trying to reason with her. ‘Don’t go blaming Martha.’
‘I am blaming her! If that bitch had not come into our lives with her promises of healing and miracles Cass might still be alive.’
‘Cass was sick, dying,’ her husband reminded her. ‘She was a very sick little girl.’
‘If Cass was still in hospital she would still be alive, Tom!’
‘She was dying, Beth,’ he insisted.
‘We might have had another month, a week or two – a few more days with her. Another hour with her, even.’ Beth’s voice broke down and Tom reached forward and grasped his wife, both of them locked in that inconsolable grief of a parent who has lost a child.
Heartbroken for them, Martha gathered her jacket and purse and slipped outside to her car. She turned the key in the ignition, glad of the instant response as the engine started. Who was she to interfere and tell parents what was the right thing to do? Perhaps Beth had been right: if Cass had stayed in the hospital, surrounded by machines and monitors she might still be alive. Tears slid down Martha’s face as she drove and she was forced to pull off the road and stop in a lay-by as she gave way to the torrent of emotions she could no longer control.
Chapter Thirty-four
THE HOUSE WAS still and quiet when she finally got back; the family, in their beds, already fast asleep. Bone weary, she climbed the stairs, too exhausted to eat or drink, only wanting to crawl into bed and sleep.
She couldn’t get Cass out of her mind and a deep feeling of anger raged inside her at the loss of such a life, and that good people like the Armstrongs had been denied the joy of watching their daughter grow to be a young woman. What was the reason for it? Why had the Lord chosen Cass? There was no answer!
She – the healer! the chosen one! – had been asked to help and heal the child and get her well again. There had been no cure. No miracle. For in truth all she had been able to do was to relieve some of the child’s pain and distress, perhaps provide some little support for her as she lay dying, but not nearly enough. Putting her head in her hands she gave in to the waves of despair she felt, self-doubt clouding her mind. She was stupid to have imagined that she could change anything!
Patrick was snoring softly when she looked in on him. His long frame almost off the bed, he’d managed to kick off his quilt. Martha pulled it back gently over him as she didn’t want him to get cold. Mary Rose lay hunched up in her room, curled in the foetal position as she always was, as if she was trying to protect herself from someone or something that could wound her. Why her daughter was so argumentative and set in her ways was beyond her. She seemed to make everything difficult no matter how much reassurance Mike and she tried to give her. Alice, in the other room, slept soundly, her long wavy hair spread out along the pillow. Martha couldn’t resist bending down to kiss her, and as she did so Alice stirred ever so slightly, a smile passing across her pretty face.
‘It’s all right, honey,’ Martha reassured her. ‘Mom’s home.’
Mike had the bedroom door closed; she always left it open so she could hear the kids, whether they came in late or just called out in their sleep or needed her. He was fast asleep, his reading glasses perched on his nose, his side lamp still on. Wordlessly she removed the glasses, putting them safely back on the bedside locker, then lowered the latest John Grisham novel to the floor before slipping into their bathroom.
Switching off the bedside lamp, she climbed in beside him. Mike felt warm, and she did her best not to disturb him. Lying silent on the edge of their bed she gave thanks for her husband and children, and thought of Tom and Beth and the agony they must be enduring during these long, lonely hours.
Tears burned in her eyes and she did her best to control them, reaching in the dark for the tissues on the shelf near the bed. Gradually the warmth of the bed and the comfort of her husband’s breathing lulled her into a sort of sleep.
Mike was gruff and annoyed with her in the morning as he shaved, showered and dressed.
‘What in God’s name time did you get home last night, Martha?’
‘Late.’
‘They don’t like you spending so much time with other kids, they resent it.’
‘Mike! She died.’
‘Died!’ Mike McGill swung around, half dressed, his cotton boxers and shirt on. ‘Died?’
‘Yeah,’ she added wearily. ‘Cass died. Did you know she was only two years and one month older than our Alice?’
‘Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’
‘I sat in the car for a while after, I don’t know how long.’
‘You should have called me and I would have come and got you.’
His sympathy nearly destroyed her. Martha longed for him to climb back into bed and enfold her in his arms and make everything seem all right again. She watched as he turned his back to her and continued dressing.
‘There’s a department heads meeting this morning over this new encryption strategy we’re testing and I have to be there. I’m late,’ he explained, the scent of his splash cologne lingering in the bedroom even after he’d gone.
Slowly Martha got herself out of bed and into the white-tiled shower, the hot water sluicing down her as she lathered chestnut gel into her skin and tension-filled muscles, trying to revive and wake herself up.
Patrick and Mary Rose gave her the freeze treatment the minute she stepped in the kitchen, not even bothering to look up as she passed th
em fresh-squeezed orange juice and made toast. Deliberately she put the peanut butter jar out of reach to see if Mary Rose would ask her for it. Instead her daughter got up and walked around the table.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday, about having to get home early and not being back for dinner, it couldn’t be helped.’
Alice tried to keep her eyes concentrating on the bowl of Rice Krispies. Ignoring the traitorous glances of her siblings, she asked, ‘How’s that girl, Mom?’
For an instant Martha debated the merit of keeping it from them but then decided it was better they knew the truth.
‘Cass died yesterday evening, Alice. She was very sick and weak.’
‘Jesus!’ Patrick let the word slip out. ‘Jesus! She died?’
Mary Rose’s eyes met hers.
‘You were there with her, Mom?’
Martha nodded.
‘And still you couldn’t save her?’
Martha didn’t know what to say.
‘No, Mary Rose, I couldn’t. The healing doesn’t work like that, not always.’ She could see a look of disbelief flicker across her daughter’s eyes but chose to ignore it.
Her children were standing beside her awkwardly, not knowing what to say when confronted by raw grief and pain.
‘Come on you three, hurry up or you’ll be late!’ she urged, swallowing hard.
Patrick grabbed his bag and jacket and hugging her briefly pushed out the back door, Mary Rose following on behind him in a helter-skelter of scarves and bags and long untidy hair as they ran for the school bus.
Fifteen minutes later she and Alice set off. Looking in the mirror she could see the sombre expression on her youngest child’s face.
‘You OK, Alice?’
‘Yes, Mom.’
‘Sure?’
There was no usual ‘for sure’ back.
‘What is it, honey? Is it about yesterday?’
Alice pushed her chin down. ‘I’m just sad about that girl.’
‘Cass, that was her name, Alice. It’s all right to say it and it’s all right to be sad about it cos I’m real sad too.’
When she stopped the car outside Bishop Delaney’s, she pulled Alice onto her lap. ‘Did I tell you that you are the best girl in the whole big wide world, Alice Kathleen McGill?’
Alice looked up, understanding in her eyes.
‘Mom, you are the best mom in the whole big wide world too.’
Of all days that was the day she needed to hear it most. Profoundly grateful, Martha took Alice’s hand in hers and walked as far as the school entrance.
Today she knew she couldn’t face it: the faith and trust of those who expected her to heal and chase away the demons of pain and depression and channel energy into their bodies. She had no energy, nothing to offer them. Drained and defeated she could not face the upstairs room and those waiting for her. She called Evie at the store and asked her to cancel the first two appointments. The rest of the people she would try and contact herself.
‘Are you sick, Martha?’ asked Evie, concerned.
‘Cass is dead,’ she said simply, almost breaking down.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I know how attached to that kid you’d got.’
‘I knew she was going to die from almost the first instant I saw her, and that there was nothing anyone could do, Evie, only maybe help her prepare for it.’
‘You saw that?’
‘Felt it, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t go blaming yourself, Martha, it isn’t your fault.’
‘Beth Armstrong thinks it is.’
‘You know deep inside you helped that little girl, no matter what her mom says!’
‘I pray so.’
‘Now listen, don’t worry about things here, I’ll sort it out. You try and get some rest and I’ll talk to you later, OK?’
Mid-morning, when she tried to place a call to the Armstrongs, young Billy answered the phone. She could sense his embarrassment when he told her that his mom was unable to take the call, and that his dad was off meeting the funeral director. Hurt, she sat there not knowing what to do, wondering what the funeral arrangements would be.
Chapter Thirty-five
THE NEED TO escape was strong and as Martha drove over Sagamore Bridge she felt that immediate rush of freedom that a trip to Cape Cod always brought. Off season, the journey from Boston on Route 3 had taken half the time it normally did during the summer.
Beth Armstrong had broken down, cursing Martha when she’d called to find out about Cass’s funeral arrangements. Martha was deeply wounded by the fact that neither parent wanted her to attend. She couldn’t abide the thought of sitting around pretending nothing was going on as the child she had grown close to was laid to rest. Desperately she wanted to clear her head and get out of Boston. She needed time to think, to consider all the changes in her life. Packing a small bag she decided she had to get away on her own for a few days, something she had never done before, leaving the kids and Mike to look after themselves.
‘They’ll not starve or pine away,’ Evie had assured her.
Martha did her best to believe that, and left everything as organized as possible.
Mike had barely said anything when she told him of her feelings, explained her need to escape for a few days.
‘If that’s what you want, Martha,’ was all he’d said, not even offering to come with her. ‘A few days’ rest will probably do you good and we can talk when you get back.’
Martha relished the thought of just getting in the car and driving as far as she could. Numb after Cass’s death, she was tired and badly needed some time away. Since that very first time when she’d been called to heal, there had scarcely been time for her to unwind or think, or decide what was the right thing for her to do. She had acted on instinct and impulse, and where had it got her?
Perhaps Mike was right after all and she should walk away and turn her back on the gift. Too much of her life was being sacrificed for an ideal that she might never achieve.
From the minute she passed over the Canal, everything changed, the Cape’s tempo dictating she slow down and relax as she drove along roads flanked by forests of evergreens, striking winter-stripped woodland and the haunting views of Nantucket Sound. Any of the large drive-in hotels and motels that were still open had vacancy signs up outside, and unbelievable discount occupancy rates in the hope of tempting the winter traveller like herself.
Deciding to drive to Hyannis, she pulled the car up along the harbour where the ferryboats for Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket set sail. The fishing boats had returned from their day’s work and were being hosed and washed down, the seagulls screaming as the fishermen worked.
The chill air felt good and she pulled her windproof jacket on, gulping in the tangy sea breeze as she walked all along by the shore and Marina. The big hotel on the waterfront was still open and she thought she would see if they had a room. The receptionist, a plump young woman with a welcoming smile, was delighted to sell her one, and tried to hide her disappointment that it was only a single for two nights. Walking along the wooden decking she noticed the pool was shut for the season, and many of the rooms had their heavy curtains closed over. Opening her room she was pleasantly surprised by its comfort and magnificent view. It was tempting to just kick off her shoes and crawl into bed, but she decided to get something to eat before retiring. The quaint seafood restaurant on the corner was still serving till eight and overcoming her embarrassment about being on her own, she sat up at the counter and ordered the house special, which consisted of an assortment of tasty fish pieces, lobster, crab, calamari, served with a tangy sauce and baked potato with sour cream. A television in the corner was tuned to the news and she watched that as she ate. Mike would have loved this place, and she stifled the momentary pang of regret that he was not with her.
She was cosied up in bed by 9 p.m., her curtains drawn, the TV switched off, as she rolled up into a ball and wrapped herself in the heavy yellow and blue comforter. It felt good n
ot to have to answer to anybody and to be able to switch off the light and lie in the darkness with the sound of the ocean outside her window as she fell into a deep and heavy sleep.
In the morning she momentarily forgot where she was, waiting for the sounds of the household to wake her up: Patrick in the bathroom, Mary Rose drying her hair, Mike putting on the local TV news for the traffic and weather report. Instead there was silence, broken only by the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner and the chugging engine of a boat. Turning over she ignored them, not waking again till 10.30.
How had she slept so long! She wasn’t used to sleeping in and being lazy like this. She’d missed breakfast but after a quick shower got some coffee and a muffin down near the harbour.
Martha had stayed in Hyannis a few times when they were kids, in one of the cheap motels up near the roadway, her father making a big to-do about the vacation. They swam in the pool and spent hours on the beach playing football and chasing each other, their fair skin freckled and dry, scalps itchy with sand, wearing constantly wet swimsuits. One summer she had got burned on their first day on the Cape, red as a beet, refusing to believe that the sun could actually cause such damage, her shoulders and backs of her legs so painful and sore that she could barely walk for the rest of the two weeks. She’d had to lie in the darkened motel room for three precious days of the vacation, her mother covering her in cooling yoghurt and keeping her company, both of them miserable as her brothers and father went off fishing and swimming and enjoyed themselves.
Her father, an out and out Democrat, prided himself on going to the same part of the world as the Kennedy clan, those tanned and big-teethed rich kids regularly spotted in the distance going back and forwards in a legion of sloops and sailboats and power racers. He took enormous pride in the Irish emigrant Catholic family who eventually saw their son named President of the United States. ‘Anything is possible in America!’ he would say again and again to them all. He’d wept like a baby on hearing of the shooting of Jack Kennedy in Dallas, inconsolable at the loss of the man and the dream on that November day. Now a memorial park overlooked the beach and water. Martha stood there watching the seabirds wade giddily along the shore, boats bobbing on the distant blue swell; she remembered her father in his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and grey trousers and his grand belief in them all.
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