The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  I wanted to put my arm through his, rest my head on his shoulder, and whisper, “Oh, Papa.” But of course I resisted for a dozen reasons, not least the fact that the shock of it might have killed him.

  He ate noisily, or maybe I noticed it because we were otherwise quiet. When he was finished, he stood and, with a brusque “Have a good day,” walked back to the warehouse offices and disappeared through their revolving doors. My eyes remained on those doors long after they stopped turning.

  I came by for the next three days, sitting in different places and watching him eat his lunch in supposed solitude. On the last day, I sent a kiss into the wind and asked it to find its way to him.

  I played sleuth for the remainder of my time in Liverpool, looking for information about other people that I had known. Sometimes I found things in public records and old newspapers, and other times I found it by starting a conversation with someone.

  Lucille’s grave was in the corner of the church graveyard. Several withered bouquets leaned against it. I added my own, a fresh one full of daisies.

  I learned that Lucille’s father had passed away about ten years ago and that one of her brothers still lived in their house. Ben had returned from the war, missing one arm and his beloved bride, but was otherwise intact and decorated for his achievements. He had remarried in 1950 and had two little boys.

  John was still the pastor of the church, and Maude had gained a pleasant, round shape after the births of three more babies, all boys.

  Lotte never returned to Liverpool. She had made her way from New York to Hollywood, where she had landed some walk-on movie roles before finally becoming a publicist. How appropriate for her. She must have been in her element, being paid to talk and gossip. I wished her well.

  Blythe had died during the war in May 1941.

  All that remained was finding out about Jane and Lily, a task that reduced me to near immobility. Jane alone knew the map of the red-and-white scarring on my hands and arms, and that threatened my anonymity. And yet the opportunity to see my Lily was a stronger force than fear.

  I sat by the lake in front of the hospital and took it in, delaying the moment when I would step through those doors. The building was engulfed in reddish-brown brick, with rows and rows of dormers and turrets looking down on me, its windows concealing the unseen eyes of the sick and dying. I had once been among them but was spared, a fact that I’d spent two decades resenting.

  My legs carried me, just barely, up the steps and through the door to the main hallway. Its white walls enveloped me, and the sounds of hurry echoed from places above and around me. I approached the main desk.

  “Excuse me.”

  The woman behind the desk looked up, and her eyes took on the look of pity that I’d grown immune to.

  “I’m inquiring about a nurse who once worked here,” I said. “Who might work here still. I was hoping that you could help me find out where she is.”

  “Yes, of course. What is her name?”

  “Jane Bailey. She worked here about twenty years ago.”

  “Oh yes, Miss Bailey. I know exactly who you are talking about. Such a lovely woman. But no, she isn’t here anymore. Miss Bailey left Liverpool when her daughter graduated a couple of years ago. Let’s see—where did they go? Oh, yes, I think it was somewhere in London. Something about her daughter going to art school. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than that, though. I’m sorry.”

  “No, that is enough. Thank you.”

  I turned to walk away, but a thought came to me and I returned. “If I may ask. Do you know anything about her daughter?”

  “Miss Lily? Oh yes. She’d come by now and then. A beautiful thing she is, so stylish.”

  “And she was happy?”

  “Happy?” She cocked her head just perceptibly at that. An odd question from an odd woman but, she seemed to decide, a harmless one. “Oh, my word, yes. Adores her mother, that one, and vice versa. There is nothing that Jane wouldn’t do for her. When Lily became interested in photography, Jane spared no expense to find the perfect camera for her. Then she moved on to painting, and Jane turned their parlor into a studio full of canvas and brushes and easels. Some children might turn rotten with so much attention, but not Lily.”

  I smiled and felt a joy more profound than any I’d known could exist. My daughter was happy and loved and flourishing. It was all a mother could hope for.

  “Do you have a forwarding address for them?”

  “I’m so sorry, but I don’t. The administrator would likely know, but he’s on holiday right now. I could have him ring you.”

  I declined, thanked the receptionist, and felt happy that at least this news existed among all of the sadness left behind in the hometown of Julianne Westcott.

  Charcross lay ahead of me, and I hired a cab. It was still remote, although as we left Liverpool, I noticed how much the borders of the city had expanded. What had once been fields now boasted rows and rows of housing, bland little streets lacking the character of history but tidy enough to be home to some. Soon enough, though, the countryside came into view, lonely in comparison but so very welcome. As the steeple of the church appeared on the horizon, I realized that today was 18 August. Our wedding anniversary. I wondered if Kyle recalled such things as this, or if he’d immersed himself so thoroughly in his vocation that such things were no longer of significance.

  Kyle met the cab and helped me with my bags, no more or less friendly than two weeks ago. He was clearly a little surprised to see me, as if he still didn’t understand why I would want to take this nonpaying position all the way out here, with the company of only a sad priest and the tombstones of the departed.

  All Souls looked just the way I remembered it, and now it was going to be my home.

  The first few days were uneventful. Kyle was still unpacking and organizing. He blew the dust off the books in the rectory and arranged the titles by some method of classification that I could not detect. He would get easily distracted when he pulled one from the shelf and thumbed through its pages. He had always loved to read, and these were going to be his companions for the duration of this assignment. He wore little spectacles now, and he peered closely at the books to see them better.

  I was to live in the other side of the rectory, and it was clear that a woman had not been there in ages, if ever. Contrary to what I had told Kyle, I intended to be there for as long as he was. If I couldn’t be his wife, at least I could take care of him. I still loved him, achingly so, and would take the scraps that this chaste occupation offered just to be near him. And so I set to work.

  As I beat out rugs and polished floors, my senses were ever aware that my husband was just feet away from me on the other side of a wall. I felt sprightly, like a new lover. How had I come to deserve this reversal of fortune?

  His name was always present in my mind, which made me realize that I must be very cautious when I spoke. To Julianne, he was Kyle. To Helen, he must be Father McCarthy. In fact, to think of him in such a way might subdue the romantic feelings that I couldn’t help but harbor. It was as good a time as any, here in the beginning, to set that straight in myself. I made a concerted effort to think of him as the priest that he now was.

  That was easier to do than I realized. Although he looked the same, with some extra years, this was not the dynamic young man that I had married. Kyle smiled all the time and was quick with a joke. Father McCarthy was strained, introspective, and private. I pitied him in this state, and every day I was more grateful that I was here to look after him. We had vowed to grow old together. And now, if the God who had given me this reprieve was indeed benevolent, we would.

  Father McCarthy and Kyle did share one enduring quality. Both were exceptionally kind. Through the first weeks, as I tended his house and cooked his meals, he was always appreciative. He opened up his humble library for my use and never said anything that wasn’t amiable.

  We settled into routines as we grew accustomed to life in Charcross. He celebrated Mass eve
ry morning in the chapel for the few residents that came by. On Saturday evenings, he prepared sermons with fervid dedication. I marveled at his passion for preaching, especially as there was almost no one to hear it. I made the habit of lingering over Saturday night’s dishes so that I could listen to him as he talked it out to himself. He would pace as he held the papers, a pen in his mouth, at the ready for a revision. I enjoyed this rehearsal, as I was not yet ready to attend Mass and see him in his vestments, fully inhabiting his priesthood. He was still Kyle enough in my mind that I couldn’t face that.

  The primary purpose of All Souls was still to manage burial details. My side of the home became a kind of church office. I opened the front room whenever I heard a car pull up and was the first contact that people made here. I pitied them for having to see me in the moment of their bereavement. I hurried through the administrative necessities of the work and ushered them in to Father McCarthy as soon as I could. He did have a calling for this work and was the compassionate ear that they sought. In contrast, I was used to two decades of keeping people at bay, and it was difficult to soften that exterior. I was determined to try, but it would take time.

  If they had no priest of their own, he also conducted the funeral services. The bells, in their solemn tones, echoed mournfully through the lonely valley.

  When Father McCarthy wasn’t counseling or studying, I would find him in the long-neglected garden. I marveled at his talent for reviving it. Trimming hedges and making plans for the spring, he seemed almost happy when he was there. Save for the black cassock, he seemed like Kyle to me more often than not, and it always brought a rush of emotions. Reconciling the two people in one was challenging.

  We never spoke more than necessary, though. We had each become such solitary people since our shared tragedies.

  When November came, I sent Lily the carved peacock that Kyle had once made for me. Without knowing where in London they might be, I sent it to Smithdown and left its route to my daughter to fate. And I wrote the same unsigned message that I had twenty times before:

  To dearest Lily, I wish you the happiest of birthdays.

  I disregarded the guilt I felt, knowing that I was with her father and they knew nothing of each other.

  The Advent season approached, and I decided to surprise Father McCarthy with an assortment of boughs with which to decorate the church. I still had some money saved. As all of my necessities were met, save for an occasional plain frock to replace a worn one, it was easy to indulge in this. I wrote up an order and paid a local farm boy to pick some up for me. When they arrived, their evergreen scent took me back to the tree farm in Wallasey.

  I ventured into the church when I felt certain that Father McCarthy would be occupied in the garden for some time. I had researched Advent and Christmas customs, and hoped that there might be a storeroom with the appropriate supplies.

  I was right. In the sacristy, I found a closet with many such things. I pulled out a large gold ring and five pillar candles that were meant to rest on it. Three purple and one pink would be arranged around the ring, and the white would be placed inside of it. Kyle once told me that the purple represented repentance and the pink stood for joy. The white was reserved for Christmas morning. I added some boughs around it and stepped back to look at my handiwork. It occurred to me that it was a perfect metaphor for my life—a majority of repentance, with scant punctuations of joy.

  Finding a ladder, I got to work on the rest of the chapel. I hung swags of evergreen from the altar and from the columns, and highlighted each with tasteful red bows.

  Father McCarthy entered just as I was hanging the last one, and I could see that he was stunned by the results. He was not talkative to begin with, but now he was positively speechless. I hoped that meant that he liked it.

  “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I read about the liturgical seasons first so that I didn’t do anything incorrectly.”

  He approached the altar and looked at everything closely. One candle in the wreath had fallen, and we both reached for it at the same time, brushing the sides of each other’s fingers.

  Our eyes locked briefly. See me, I suddenly thought, and just as quickly I brushed those words from my mind. I turned away before my gaze could tell him more than I wanted him to know. His touch had lit a fire in me, and I was thankful when he took his hand away.

  He turned around once more, taking it all in, and finally spoke.

  “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It is perfect.” He walked up and down the aisle, hands folded behind his back. “You know, I never see you here at Mass. Now you have to come so that you can see how beautiful it is with the decorations.”

  “I can see it here without the Mass. But thank you anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I guess it’s just odd that you do so much here, and yet you don’t attend any services. Perhaps my sermons are even duller than I thought.”

  “Oh, that’s not it, I promise. In fact, I’ve heard you practice them sometimes, and they are quite good. You put so much work into them. But you are a pastor of souls that have departed. Why labor over them for the few living souls that show up?”

  “If I can speak to the heart of even one person on a Sunday, isn’t that worth it?”

  “I suppose so. But you are very gifted. It’s a waste to exile you here.”

  “I am not exiled here. I requested this assignment.”

  I looked at him with surprise.

  He leaned back against a pew. “I have dedicated my life to praying for loved ones who have died. Now I can do the same for the loved ones of others.”

  The words were right there, on my lips, and I had to bite my bottom lip to keep from asking, “Who are your lost loved ones?”

  He cocked his head and looked at me oddly. I suddenly remembered the times when he teased me about my habit of nipping my lip when I was lost in thought. Had it triggered a memory in him? I almost wanted it to.

  But he looked aside, appearing to shake it off. “You know,” he said, “my father is buried here. I also liked the idea of being near him and spending time at his grave.”

  “Is that why you take those morning walks out to the west part of the cemetery?”

  I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to keep him here, to keep him talking.

  “Yes. It’s a nice way to begin my day.”

  “He is a lucky man to have such a devoted son.”

  And any prayers you might spend on me are useless, since I am standing here right next to you.

  “Well, he was a good father.” With a sigh, he stood straight and went to the sacristy to set up for tomorrow’s Sunday Mass.

  My heart delighted in the exchange—the chance to talk with him again.

  I heard from the scant parishioners as they exited Mass over the next four Sundays that they loved the decorations, so I made use of Father McCarthy’s library to learn about other liturgical seasons. I laid out green altar cloths on regular days, and red ones on the feasts of martyrs. White on days of celebration, and black on days of funerals. I covered the crucifix during Lent and uncovered it on the Vigil of Easter. I enjoyed delving into the symbolism and could see why Kyle had been attracted to it. Everything had a meaning, a place, a purpose beyond itself. Some traditions came from the days of the early Christians, and others were developed over time.

  I read that the Vatican was poised to review some traditions in light of a movement toward modernism. The following Christmas, the pope announced his intentions to convene a council that would address these and many other issues. If I had been Catholic, that would have been monumental to me. But Father McCarthy never seemed affected by outside issues, and he continued to live the life of a humble country priest.

  So we lived season by season, day by day, growing comfortable in our habits. Father McCarthy never questioned why I stayed on, why this had never been temporary. He enjoyed evenings reading by his fireplace, and I spent mine by the small television that I had bought
. I indulged in Coronation Street along with just about everyone else in Britain, enjoying the ongoing drama of the working-class characters. Some nights I sat at my window, waiting, although I didn’t know for what. Save for Lily, everything I wanted was here.

  As time went on, there were many days when the name of Kyle never even entered my mind, so fully absorbed was I in my daily duties for Father McCarthy. There were reminders, though.

  In late 1963, Father McCarthy fell ill with a terrible fever and was unable to get out of bed for several days. The doctor said that he would improve with time, but I was still frightened. I resolved to tell him everything—about me, Lily, the bombing—when he was better, because I couldn’t bear the thought that he would never know the truth. I covered his duties for him except, of course, the priestly ones, which were left neglected out of necessity. I tended his garden. I had never had a green thumb like Kyle did, but as I held these flowers and watered their roots, I felt close to him. Their velvety petals left their scent on my hands. I remembered that day I’d first met him, when he smelled like earth.

  I took up his morning walk, visiting his father.

  “Dadaí,” I’d say, “wherever you are, please do what you can to help him recover. I’m not ready to let him go. But if your God takes him, then tell him to take me, too. Because I don’t want to live in a place where he doesn’t exist.”

  I delivered meals to him, coming closer to his private space than I ever had. I sat by his door once, laying my head and hand to it. I closed my eyes and recalled the times that we had shared a bedroom.

  One evening he didn’t respond to my knocks, so I entered cautiously to make sure that he was all right. I had made a pot of chicken soup, fresh bread, and herbal tea. The room was neat, with the next day’s clothes laid over a chair the way that I used to do it for Kyle. A dusty easel rested in the corner, on which sat one of the pictures of Ireland that his father had painted. As I marveled at this sanctuary, I nearly forgot why I was here. I turned to look at his bed. I saw his form under the blankets and made out the tiniest hint of rhythmic breathing. He must have been so deep in sleep that he just didn’t hear me at the door. I looked around for a place to set the food, and I nearly dropped it when I saw what was on his bedside table.