The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  “Your name—Julianne. It means ‘youthful.’”

  I loved it and wanted more. But I supposed that cajoling him into saying it a third time would have been too flagrant of me. I settled for saying, “Well, how about that?”

  “Are you happy to have all that work behind you?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. It’s kept me very busy, especially in the last few weeks. But I enjoy it, and it’s almost a competition with myself to see how much we can raise for a good cause.”

  “Two good causes,” he reminded me. “Whose idea was it to split the proceeds this year?”

  “My father’s. He suggested the cathedral, because it’s a popular project in town right now. I’m sure it has a good business angle to it. But the Ladies’ Society still wanted to have a charity attached to it, so we added the orphanage.”

  “Speaking of which, how much did you go for at auction? I hope the winner checked your teeth and made sure that you were a good buy.”

  This was exactly the topic I wanted to avoid. I could still see his back as he walked away rather than bid for me. Smoothing back my hair and clutching my pride, I said, “I did very well, thank you. I brought in four pounds, six shillings, the highest amount ever garnered at the auction.”

  “Well, good for you! I’m not surprised. Who is the lucky man?”

  Well, he certainly wasn’t, and didn’t even try to be.

  “Roger Kline,” I said. “And I’m so glad that he won. He’s so handsome, and his father is a secretary at Parliament. I’m sure that he will be just fascinating to talk to.” I couldn’t help but follow this Scarlett O’Hara line of patter. The book was fresh in my memory.

  “Roger Kline. Huh.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was an interested “huh” or a mocking “ha.”

  “What do you have against Roger Kline?”

  “I don’t have anything against him. I was just remembering that I hit him once when we were younger. I broke his nose. You know, Irish temper.”

  I sat up straight. “You beat up Roger Kline? Why?”

  “My father worked on his family’s grounds. One time, he ran over and took my lunch. So I let him have it.”

  “He took your lunch? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

  “Well, we all grow up and change, don’t we?”

  “Did you get your father in trouble?”

  “Nearly. He and Roger’s father worked it out. I had to be Roger’s slave for about a month to make up for it. I shined his shoes and washed down his horse and helped him with his Latin homework.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that you have a hot temper.”

  “I used to, but I think a few weeks of servitude cured me of it. When you go out on your date with Roger, take a good look at his nose and think of me. I believe it is still a little crooked.” He sat back with a smug expression on his face and crossed his arms.

  “I will do that.”

  He watched me with an intense gaze, looked away, and returned with a more carefree expression in his eyes. “He’s a good chap, though. Really. I hope that you get along well with him.”

  It sounded like the rain was stopping, but it only paused and then pounded again. The rafters of the barn seemed to shake, but nothing was leaking. I was beginning to feel a little warmer.

  “So tell me about your brother,” he said.

  For an awful moment, I didn’t know what he was talking about. The word brother was foreign to me on someone else’s tongue, and barely an acquaintance on my own.

  “Oh, Charles?”

  “Do you have another brother?”

  “No, no I don’t. It’s just that, well, I never get to talk about Charles to anyone.”

  “Why not? You don’t seem to be ashamed of him. In fact, it’s quite remarkable that you come to see him so often. You know, not many people come out to visit the residents.”

  I swallowed the guilt that gripped me, not wanting to admit that the most recent visits had little to do with Charles. “Well, you know how it is at those kinds of places. Even Bootle Home. The family is devastated when they realize that their child is not all that they expected. And they send them off to someplace that will take responsibility for them. It’s like storing them in a cupboard, only to be dusted off when it’s convenient. And sometimes it never is. Like with my family.”

  Kyle seemed taken aback. “With your family? I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “Kyle—” I liked the feel of his name on my lips. The throaty groan that began in the back of my throat, finishing with the delicate sweep of my tongue across my teeth. If he noticed the hesitation in my voice, he didn’t say anything, and I rushed my next words to make up for it. “Kyle—have you ever seen my parents? At Bootle, I mean?”

  He paused, trying to remember. “I suppose I haven’t. Maybe they come during the week.”

  “No, they don’t. They never come. I don’t know if they’ve ever been there since they dropped him off so many years ago.”

  “Wow.” He frowned, the depth of my brother’s isolation sinking in. “How old were you?”

  “The same. He’s my twin. One they discarded, and the other they’re trying to hold to an impossible standard of perfection, as if to compensate.”

  I surprised myself with my own vehemence. I had not admitted these things to anyone, not even to Lucille. Perhaps not even to myself. Kyle had a way of making me feel as if I could confess anything.

  But I wasn’t finished. I was unable to stop now that I had unplugged the hole in the well-guarded dam. “And that’s not all. Father became obsessed with his business, and I’m convinced that it drove Mother to drink. The perfect lady had an imperfect child. And the remaining one has been making up for it ever since.”

  I sniffed, holding back tears, and shook my head in determination. I would not cry in front of him. I had already said more than I ever planned to.

  “How did you find out about Charles?” he asked.

  “I was”—oh, bollocks: Why not just let it all go?—“I was in Mother’s dressing room a couple of years ago rummaging through her drawers for some rouge. She said I wasn’t old enough to wear it yet, but I just wanted to try it.”

  I knew I was procrastinating. “Anyway. The bottom flap of the drawer was loose, and I thought that she would appreciate it being set straight. But it moved easily and I saw that there were some papers underneath. I found a photograph of two babies, side by side. One was plump and smiling. The other looked somewhat lifeless, with slanted eyes and a blank stare. I turned it over and read, ‘Charles and Julianne—July 1919.’”

  “I can’t imagine. What did you think?”

  “I didn’t have to think. The other paperwork contained a birth certificate and letters from Bootle. So the next week, I decided to take a look for myself. And I’ve been coming back ever since, making one excuse or another for my absence.”

  I was exhausted by the sudden release of this burden. Kyle sighed deeply, from what I couldn’t say. Maybe he was thinking that this was what it was going to be like to be a priest. To hear a confession and choose between condemnation and forgiveness. The latter really seemed to fit him best, although I feared that I had strained the thin thread of friendship that we had begun. My family’s secrets made me feel like a pariah in disguise as a princess.

  He was a good listener, and it made me see him in a different way. The way I should see him. I could almost understand why he wanted to be a priest, and I knew that he’d be an exceptional one. That brought me some peace, and I almost found it easier to accept this die he’d cast. Almost.

  “Is that why you want to be a nurse?”

  We had scooted in closer to each other without realizing it, and I could have reached out to touch him if I’d dared.

  “Partially. There’s no doubt that my time at Bootle Home has been an inspiration. Or that it will be a useful skill if we end up in another war. But it’s a good question. Why do I want to study nursing?” I looked up at the rafters. It was not an uncom
mon question. To my mother’s friends, I answered, “So that I can give back, like Mother does,” which was followed by airy approval, if not understanding. To my father’s friends, I answered, “Oh, I don’t have a head for business. But I need to do something useful.” To which they responded with the smug acknowledgment that women, of course, were not cut out for a man’s work. I supposed what I’d just suggested to Kyle was true—I’d first thought of it after meeting Charles. But to Kyle I could tell the darkest part of the truth, regardless of what he would think of me.

  “To do something different than what is planned out for me.”

  There. That would seal the deal. I wasn’t a selfless heroine, a Clara Barton for the ages.

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “I can’t say that I blame you.”

  I must have looked startled. I certainly felt it.

  He continued. “It can be suffocating to live on a pedestal, to live according to someone else’s expectations.” His voice trailed off, and I wondered if we were even talking about me anymore. Just as well. I was tired of talking about me.

  “So what’s your story?” I asked.

  “Mine?”

  “Yes—you’ve heard all about me. It’s my turn to ask the questions.”

  “Not much to say. I’ve helped my father in his work as long as I can remember. I’m here for the summers and in Durham during the school year. The end.”

  He made it sound so simple, but I had the sense that I was getting the brush-off. That wouldn’t do.

  I felt emboldened tonight. I’d been a success at the auction. I had revealed the secrets that troubled me. Surely I could delve into the questions that I most wanted answers to.

  “But—a priest. How did that happen?” As if it had been an accident. I tripped on a pavement crack and became a priest.

  “It’s something that I’ve been drawn to for many years,” he said. “The traditions, the rituals. I served as an acolyte, and I always thought that it could be a worthwhile life, saving people’s souls.”

  “Won’t you have to speak Latin and wear a dress?” And give up women, I wanted to add. But I couldn’t bring myself to say that. So much for audacity.

  “Well, I’m fairly proficient in Latin by now. And priests don’t wear dresses, they wear cassocks. It’s not the same thing.”

  “I just don’t understand, though. It seems so—hmm—” I bit my lip, trying to think of the right word. “It seems like such a drastic thing to choose.”

  “God has blessed me with much. It’s a small thing for me to give in return.”

  Again, he’d had the last word. How could I come up with a smart retort when he said things like that?

  We continued to talk, and I was blissfully unaware of the time. He asked me more about my school plans, and I asked what Durham was like. I told him about Lucille, and he entertained me with some Irish jokes. I basked in the glow that I felt from being near him.

  “Do you think we’ll get in trouble for being here?” he asked.

  “No, this is the Eckleys’ barn. They’re visiting family in Formby right now. Besides, they owe Father a favor, so I don’t think they’d mind.”

  “What favor is that?”

  “Some developers wanted the land, and Father petitioned his friends in the city government to let the Eckleys keep it. He says it’s because there’s too much development, but I think it’s because they export a lot of wool from their sheep farm in Knowsley and store it in his warehouse until it’s ready for shipment.”

  “That’s a little cynical.”

  “That’s business for you. Still, he does like his open spaces, so maybe there’s a little truth in it. It’s a good thing we live on the park.”

  “Oh, I completely agree. Ideally, I would love to live out in the country. Just me and the hills and the silence. What about you?”

  I couldn’t exactly tell him that I couldn’t imagine living more than five blocks from a good dress shop. “Oh, absolutely,” I said instead. “Hills and silence? What else could one want?”

  The livestock had long since become used to our presence and stopped looking at us altogether. Although one of the cows eyed me with suspicion, as if she disapproved of my white lie.

  I could see that we were each stifling yawns, but neither made a move to leave. At one point, he lay back against the stall and closed his eyes. I thought that he might be sleeping. I curled my knees up to my chin and put my arms around my legs, avoiding the painful area. Head on my arms, tilted to the side.

  I looked at him, so still. Handsome. Good. Funny. He was so wonderful with Charles. He was unlike any other man that I knew, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Was this what love felt like? Or the beginning of it? I dismissed that thought, rationalizing that I had known him for too little a time.

  I stayed in the same position, even as my joints stiffened. How I would have liked to sit next to him, to ask him the things that burned inside of me. To hear him tell me that he liked having me here.

  Why didn’t you bid on me? I can understand, with the priest thing, if you didn’t bid on anyone, but you did. “Why didn’t you bid on me?”

  He shifted and I gasped—had I said that last part out loud? I hoped that he hadn’t heard. It couldn’t have been more than a whisper.

  Still lying down, he said, “So you noticed that.”

  No turning back. I didn’t try to hide the resentment in my voice. “Of course I noticed it. I saw you bid on Anne and Irene and Melody. I didn’t even know that you knew them. But you didn’t bid on me.”

  “I didn’t know them.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “That’s the best one that I have.”

  “No, it’s not. Why did you bid so low on them and then stop? Why did you leave when my name was called?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.” We were almost yelling now. “Yes,” I repeated in a whisper.

  “I bid on them because I figured that raising the money was important to you. I didn’t expect to win with those bids, but I wanted to drive up the price to help you—to help the cause.”

  He always surprised me with his answers.

  “But that doesn’t answer my other question.”

  “Which was?”

  He knows perfectly well what my other question was, but he’s going to make me repeat it.

  “Why did you bid on them and not me.” It was more of a statement, a small accusation, than it was a question.

  He didn’t answer immediately, and instead, sat up and folded his hands over his crisscrossed legs. He looked me straight in the eye, promising the truth. When he spoke, his voice had softened.

  “I didn’t bid on you because you are the only girl that I didn’t want to go out with.”

  My eyes widened at this admission until he backtracked.

  “Wait—my fault. That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong. What I meant was, you’re the only girl that I didn’t trust myself with. I am going back to the seminary soon, and I couldn’t risk—”

  “Risk?”

  He sighed and hesitated for a moment, juggling his thoughts. I felt electricity in the air, and we leaned toward each other slightly. I could kiss him now . . .

  “I couldn’t risk falling for you any more than I already have.”

  Abertillery

  The baby nursed until she had her fill. It was unlikely that Mrs. Campbell would still be part of this world at the time of the next feeding, so I started to look for something that could substitute until a permanent solution was found. Perhaps they could put out an advertisement for a wet nurse. Everyone was trying to make an extra shilling here and there. Not that the Campbells could spare it, but what choice did they have?

  I instructed Emily to find some cheesecloth. We’d try to create a makeshift bottle by dipping it into some goat’s milk and letting the baby suckle it. As she left the bedroom, I could hear the murmurings of the men coming from the other room.

  The baby sudd
enly let out a desperate scream, demanding my attention. My nipples tingled in response, startling me, and my arms encircled them out of instinct. My own milk had dried up over two decades ago, never used. My breasts, once a gateway to intimacy, had not been seen by anyone since then. And yet, I knew they were still the most beautiful part of me, smooth and plump, spared the scars that had entombed the face of my youth.

  The newest Campbell wailed again, and I broke myself away from thoughts of long ago. I dipped her into the now-warm water that had been prepared, and gently, gently rubbed her wrinkled skin. How many times had I done this? At least a hundred. It was common knowledge that babies didn’t need to be handled so delicately—they had just survived the trauma of the birth canal, so could certainly handle a decent scrubbing. But in my arms, this nearly motherless child felt especially fragile.

  Behind me, the men entered the room—the dying woman’s husband, and the mysterious Father McCarthy. I heard the priest open his kit and place bottles on the side of the bed. Oil and holy water, if I remembered correctly.

  “Pax huic domui. Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”

  A chill meandered down my spine, spreading through my body until I was covered in goose bumps. The name, the voice, the ritual—they stirred memories that I had thought to be permanently buried. Darkness surrounded me as I closed my eyes and recalled the explanation that the boy from my youth had given:

  “This is called extreme unction. It helps to send the dying person along on their journey.”

  Those words sounded hollow, as if they were said in a tunnel, a long tunnel that spanned the distance of decades and was devoid of light. Holding the baby in my right arm, I put my good hand on my temples and squeezed hard, banishing the visions.

  I glanced to my side just enough to see the priest wrap a flat purple stole around his neck, but he turned before I could see his face. “Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Gloria Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” The damned dead language taunted me. I hadn’t set foot in a church since that Christmas morning when I became somebody else. The condemned don’t have any need for religion.