by Luanne Rice
Oh, Tom, John thought. Bernie had confounded everyone. Followed her deepest calling. Somehow Tom had stuck with her in friendship, sublimated his love for her, choked it down. He wouldn’t ever tell Bernie, but John wondered whether Tom’s denial of his strongest needs had killed him in the end.
Suddenly John heard something shattering—the sound was violent yet somehow delicate, coming from down the hill. He looked, saw Bernie standing in her black habit and veil, between two enormous holly trees, holding a long-handled pole, striking each tree once—letting sheets of ice fall from the glossy green leaves and clusters of red berries and tinkle to the ground like broken glass, coming down all around her.
Twenty-Eight
John walked down the hill from the stone wall to the holly grove to meet his sister. She glanced up, saw him coming, didn’t speak or greet him at all. She just continued to prod ice down from the tallest branches of the intricately gnarled and twisted old holly trees.
“What are you doing, Bernie?” he asked.
“This ice is going to destroy the holly,” she said.
“No, it won’t,” he said. He saw the way her bare hands gripped the wooden pole—her fingers were red from the cold and looked as if they were frozen in place. “Leave it alone—get inside and warm up.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “These bushes are very old. They were planted by Tom’s great-grandfather. Their branches are so fragile…. I have to protect them.”
“Bernie,” John said gently, alarmed by the look in her eyes. “The ice will turn to rain any minute now. It will all melt, and the holly will be fine.”
“Tom always came out in bad weather,” she said. “When they were covered with snow, he’d knock the snow off. And during ice storms…he tended them personally, as if he knew and loved them. John, did you know that holly is either male or female? There has to be one of each to produce berries…. Tom told me that. He knew so much about the land—about every single thing growing here.”
“He did know a lot. He loved this place,” John said. He held himself back from saying and you most of all.
“Francis X. Kelly himself planted these bushes…or had them planted. What would he have thought if he knew his great-grandson was the gardener here?”
“How could he not be proud?” John asked. The words rang in the air; John watched Bernie, her face so full of tension.
“How will we go on without him?” Bernie asked, her eyes red-rimmed. “How will we know what needs to be done as the seasons change?” As if John weren’t even there, she raised the pole again, jabbed at a few icy leaves; but her heart had gone out of it.
“He always knew when the roses needed pruning, or when the young boxwood needed to be covered in burlap; he knew how to take care of the oldest plants here, like the holly, and the mountain laurel—the ones planted when Francis X. was still alive; he cherished them so much, because they were a connection to his family.”
“We were his family, too.”
“But these bushes,” Bernie said, frowning, blocking out John’s words, “they’re so old and rare. What will we do if the storm damages them?”
“Bernie, we can’t worry about that right now,” John said gently, reaching for the pole.
“But we have to worry about it today,” she cried, pulling back. “Because it’s icy today! If I don’t take care of it now, this holly tree could split and crack—and be destroyed! Oh, John, I can’t let that happen! Not after what I did to Tom!”
John tore the pole from his sister’s hands, let it clatter to the ground. He pulled her close, let her shudder and sob against his chest.
“Bernie,” he said, “you can’t do this to yourself.”
“I think he died of a broken heart,” she howled.
“A heart attack,” John corrected. “It was sudden and terrible, but it wasn’t your fault…. Think, Bernie: he died knowing that he’d brought Seamus to America, helped him find Kathleen. You’d all just been together—that was just as Tom wanted it.”
“It was,” came an Irish voice from behind them.
Holding Bernie, John turned around. Seamus stood there, under a black umbrella. He stepped forward, holding the umbrella over Bernie’s head.
“Seamus,” Bernie said, shocked and raw, staring at him.
“Your brother’s right,” Seamus said. “It was just as Tom wanted it.”
Bernie hurried to dry her eyes. She straightened herself up, and John watched her pulling strength out of nowhere, for Seamus. She was still trembling, but her eyes were focused on the young man. As much as John wanted to hold her up, help her back to the convent, he could almost hear his old friend Tom whispering for him to leave them alone.
“Hello, Seamus,” he said.
“John,” Seamus said.
“Look, Bernie, I’d better go. Honor needs me back at the house.”
She nodded, barely glancing at him.
John looked at Seamus shielding Bernie from the ice; his throat tightened, thinking of how often he’d seen Bernie and Tom walking in the rain under a black umbrella. He could almost hear Tom laughing with pleasure over his son’s gallantry. And once again, John heard Tom Kelly telling him to get the hell away, leave Bernie and their son alone.
So he did.
“Seamus,” Bernie said, “you should go inside. It’s icy out here.”
“I looked out the window,” Seamus said, “and saw you attacking this bush. I wanted to see what you were doing.”
“I was just knocking the ice off. It’s old, and Tom always took care of it,” Bernie said. Staring into Seamus’s eyes, she forgot about the holly. It had seemed so important, but it wasn’t anymore. “Never mind…let’s go in.”
They walked along the winding path, moving slowly. The ground was slick, and Bernie kept slipping. Seamus held the umbrella over her head; after a few more steps, he moved closer to her and reached for her arm, slid it through his.
“So you won’t slip,” he said.
“Do you have ice storms like this in Ireland?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “The weather is generally more temperate. It’s pretty, though, the ice.”
“I suppose it is,” Bernie said, looking around the campus as if she could see it through Seamus’s eyes. Every surface glistened, from the tall blue spruces to the slate rooftops, from the sweeping driveway to the yew hedges. She was shaking inside, but she couldn’t let him see. Had he come to tell her he was leaving? They had barely spoken at all. She’d hardly seen him with Kathleen. She imagined his whole world turned upside down, and she didn’t know what she could say or do to help him right now.
“Seamus,” she began.
“It’s hard,” he started.
“I know,” she said, her heart pounding.
“I heard what your brother said,” Seamus said. “Back there, at the holly trees.”
“What did he say?”
“About Tom,” Seamus said. “That it was as he would have wanted…that last day, when we were all together for a little while.”
“Do you think so?” Bernie asked, staring at him. Waiting for his reply, she heard ice hitting the umbrella. He didn’t speak for a few seconds, and his eyes looked so guarded.
“You weren’t there when he came to see me in Dublin,” Seamus said harshly.
“No,” Bernie said. “He didn’t tell me he was going.”
“He told me some things.”
“I know there was so much he wanted to say to you.”
“He didn’t get much chance,” Seamus said. “I punched him.”
“I know he loved you,” Bernie said, gazing up into Seamus’s eyes. “And he did from the day you were born. Before, even. He wanted…” She took a deep breath. “Tom wanted to keep you.”
“He did?”
Bernie nodded, bowing her head so her veil fell across her face and he couldn’t see her eyes. “More than you can imagine,” she said.
“And you didn’t?”
“It wasn’
t like that,” she whispered. “I had a calling, Seamus.”
“A calling to give me up?”
“No. To love and serve God; to become a nun.”
Seamus closed his eyes. What was he thinking? Bernie’s heart raced as she heard the words she’d just spoken. They came from her heart, but how did they sound to her child?
“Tom and I lived with my choice all these years,” she said. “It turned out…well, not to be easy for either of us. We never stopped thinking of you, praying that you were happy and loved.”
The storm blew steadily, and gusts of wind nearly turned the umbrella inside out. Seamus got it under control, without saying a word.
“Seamus,” Bernie said, “I know that it was terrible for Tom. That’s something I have to live with. But more than that, beyond words…I’m just so sorry that you suffered for my choice. I never wanted you to be alone. I thought you’d have a good family….” Her voice trailed off, thinking of what Sister Eleanor Marie had done; she’d gotten a letter from Sister Theodore, saying that Eleanor Marie had been relieved of her duties as Superior, summoned to answer by the order’s investigative body.
“Good family?” Seamus asked. Bernie tensed. Was this the moment he would tell her he was leaving? She’d seen such torment in his eyes—even now, fighting the umbrella, he seemed so agitated. She thought of all he had gone through over the years—no mother or father, no happy holidays…She thought of him and Kathleen as babies, toddlers, children together…. The disappointment he must feel in her right now might be fueling him as well.
“Seamus,” she whispered.
He gazed at her, and she felt her heart thumping; she wanted to take his hand, make him stay. If he left before his father’s funeral, something would always be unresolved. Her blood had pumped through his body; her love for him was so enormous, yet she knew that she had to let him go if he wanted to.
“There are different kinds of good families,” Seamus said softly.
“What do you mean?” Bernie asked.
“I had the Sisters,” he said.
“And you felt loved by them?” she asked, tears searing her eyes.
He nodded, giving her the greatest gift.
“By them,” he said. “And Kathleen.”
Bernie swallowed. She wanted so badly to ask him what his plans were about Kathleen, but she wasn’t sure she had the right. She had placed them in rooms in separate wings, across the Academy courtyard from each other—just the way Sister Anastasia had back at St. Augustine’s Children’s Home. She had thought they might wave to each other across the divide, but she was afraid of what Kathleen’s announcement about her pregnancy might have done to ruin their relationship even before it had the chance to resume.
“How is Kathleen?” Bernie asked.
“She’s beautiful,” Seamus said, and Bernie felt startled.
“I haven’t seen you together much,” Bernie said hesitantly.
“We’ve been keeping out of the way,” he said. “With all that’s going on…”
“The times I’ve glimpsed you, in the refectory and walking the grounds, you’ve looked so upset….”
“It was a shock,” Seamus admitted. “To find out she’s going to have a child.”
“Yes,” Bernie murmured, thinking back to when she’d told Tom.
“It wasn’t what I’d expected, but…I’m not sure that matters. We belong to each other.”
“Do you mean…” Bernie began. “Will you stay with her anyway?”
“I love her,” Seamus said, his eyes fierce and proud. “I want us to stay together forever.”
“Oh, Seamus.”
“No matter what.”
“Have you told her?”
“Of course,” Seamus said. “I couldn’t have her worrying.”
“You’re a good man,” Bernie said. “Tom would be so proud.”
He shrugged; his expression had softened, but his gaze remained steady. Fighting the wind, they had circled around from the seaward side of the Academy to the courtyard. Cobbled with paving stones imported from Belgium by Francis X. Kelly, it glistened under the icy veneer. Cars were starting to arrive for the funeral. Standing apart from everyone with Seamus, Bernie wished she could hide. Stay in the back of the church, follow Tom’s coffin to the graveyard, then slip away.
“You had a vision, didn’t you?” Seamus asked suddenly.
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“And Mary told you what to do? To give me up and join the convent?”
“That’s what I thought she meant,” Bernie said. “Her presence back then echoed what I’d been feeling in my heart. I wanted to love and serve God. But there might have been another meaning…just as there was the day Tom died.”
“What do you mean?”
Bernie swallowed. She hadn’t told anyone about her latest visitation. She knew from experience how quickly the word could get out, spread, and transform a profoundly personal experience into something the entire church had opinions about. But something about the way Seamus was looking at her—with Tom’s blue eyes—made her know she had to tell him.
“Mary appeared to me that morning,” she said. “Before Tom picked me up here, to take me to the airport to meet you.”
“What did she say?”
“‘Be ready,’” Bernie said, gazing into his eyes. She thought of the Cliff Walk; Tom had taken his last breath in a place that had reminded her of where they’d conceived their boy. She’d been so swept away by memory, she’d forgotten to be in the present. “But I wasn’t…”
All the Kelly relatives were arriving now. Black Lincolns and Cadillacs streamed into the parking lot, and people dressed in black were walking into the chapel. Chris from Hartford; Sixtus, Niall, and Billy from Dublin. Sixtus spotted Seamus and Bernie; the Dublin brothers all walked over.
“He had the Kelly heart,” Sixtus said, his eyes streaming, reaching for Bernie.
“There was never any doubt about that,” Bernie said. “He was so strong and brave.”
“And it gave out on him,” Niall said. “Too soon…”
“Our father died too young,” Billy said. “There’s no rhyme nor reason. It’s a tragedy beyond words.”
“Young man,” Sixtus said, hugging Seamus, “you have our sympathy. Niall, Billy—this is Seamus. Tom was so proud of him….”
At that, the Kelly cousins all hugged Seamus, telling him that he had family in Dublin, that he always had a home on Merrion Square. Bernie watched him take it all in, his posture erect, holding back, but his eyes glowing with pride. Sixtus shepherded his brothers into the chapel, telling Seamus he would talk to him later.
And Seamus turned to Bernie now, his expression wavering between grief and happiness.
“They’re nice,” he said.
“They loved Tom,” she said. “And they’ll love you.”
“Their father died of a heart attack?”
“Yes,” Bernie said.
“So maybe Tom had the same condition?”
“It’s possible,” she said. “We always thought that he was so healthy—working outdoors, staying in good shape…but we were wrong. And I should have known. I was warned….”
“You’re thinking of your vision?” Seamus asked.
Bernie nodded. She closed her eyes, could see Mary standing beside her, hand on her cheek, whispering with such love….
“Because you thought she meant be ready for Tom’s heart attack?”
Bernie nodded, her eyes red, her spirit so tired.
“That wasn’t it,” Seamus said. “I know you’re a nun, and you should know better than me, but I think you have it wrong.”
“What, then?”
Suddenly Seamus took her hands. His blue eyes burned, gazing into hers. She could have sworn she was looking straight at Tom, and her knees felt weak.
“Be ready for the gift,” he said.
“The gift?”
Seamus nodded his head. “Be ready for the gift you least expect. Every day.
It’s the only way to live….”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a habit I got into back at St. Augustine’s. And it helped me later, when I left and lived…well, when I lived on the streets. It kept me looking for Kathleen.”
Bernie tingled, a shiver running down her back. Seamus was talking about faith: belief in light of the absence of proof, enlightenment received through prayer, and that which is seen and unseen…. She thought of the steep trail in Newport, and those other cliffs in Ireland.
“And then you both came along. You and Tom. And I never expected you to help me, or even that I would let you help me. But I did. And I let Sixtus help me, too. And because of that…”
“You found her,” Bernie said.
Seamus nodded. “It’s not perfect. I won’t pretend I dreamed that she’d be pregnant, but I don’t really care. I love her. People raise other people’s children every day. Kathleen and I know that better than anyone.”
“Thank you, Seamus,” Bernie said. She thought of the Blessed Mother, coming down from the small altar in the Blue Grotto; of course she’d been giving Bernie a gift, reminding her of her deep faith, easing her toward the light in this profound darkness. She pictured Tom’s cousins just now, all the way from Dublin, circling around Seamus—leaving Bernie no doubt that they would step in as four wonderful Irish fathers. “Thank you for helping me understand.”
“You knew already,” he said.
“Maybe I did,” she said. “Maybe I just forgot.”
He nodded, and they stared at each other for a few seconds, as the moment didn’t need words.
“You look nice,” Bernie said after a minute of silence. He wore his black suit—the one he’d worn as a driver for the Greencastle Hotel.
“I brought this suit from Ireland,” he said, “thinking there might be a reason to wear it, but I never dreamed…”
Just then, the hearse pulled into the courtyard. Bernie’s heart caught in her throat as she watched the undertakers climb out, walk through the icy rain to the rear doors. Honor, John, and the girls had arrived, and Bernie could hear her nieces softly weeping. Honor caught her eye, gave her a long look, and then shepherded Regis, Agnes, and Cece into the chapel.