One Year

by Mary McDonough

  Pat rolled his eyes. “Meg, there’s no need to be noble! Don’t sacrifice yourself for the sake of the Fitzgibbon clan! We’re not worth it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I do what I can for the family?” Megan argued. “I’m a Fitzgibbon, too, aren’t I? And you know as well as I do that Mary Bernadette might be a lot of things, but she isn’t a thief or a liar as Meadows has been implying. She’s the most aboveboard person I know. And she’s PJ’s role model, or one of them, anyway. I don’t want her tarnished in his eyes.”

  “PJ is a big boy, Meg. He should be able to handle the fall of heroes and the debunking of cherished myths.”

  “Still.”

  Pat leaned closer to his wife. “Meg,” he said, “my mother has spent a lifetime hurting the people she claims to love. Whatever her deep, dark motives, and I told you all that Dad told me about what happened after William died, the result was bad. Can’t you just forget about this crusade? Most crusaders don’t come home alive, you know. And if they do, they’re missing a limb or two.”

  “No,” Megan said firmly. “I can’t let it go. More to the point, I won’t. I’m taking the bull by the horns, Pat.”

  Pat sighed. “Just promise me that you’ll walk away if things become too heated. Wynston Meadows—your bull—can be a brutal opponent. I don’t relish the idea of my wife becoming cannon fodder.”

  “Men and their war imagery. And what do cannons have to do with bulls?”

  “I’m right in this case, Meg. Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to the crusade.”

  “Onward Christian soldiers. Now, I’ve got some calls to make.”

  CHAPTER 119

  Just after seven o’clock Wednesday morning, Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon suffered a heart attack. The call from the hospital came in on Grace’s cell phone; she had asked the hospital staff to notify her or Megan, not Paddy, in the case of an emergency. Now Grace and her father stood in the waiting room at the end of the hall while her mother’s condition was being evaluated. Paddy looked utterly drawn and defeated. For the first time since her mother had fallen ill, Grace felt seriously concerned about her father.

  The elevator doors slid open and Pat came bursting out into the hall. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said, panting. “How is she?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Grace admitted.

  Pat put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Dad, how are you holding up?” Paddy just shook his head.

  The birth family is together, Grace thought. Dad and Mom, Pat and me. A unit unto itself. And where does William fit into this unit?

  “What am I going to do if she doesn’t make it?” Paddy said, his voice pathetic and thin. “She’s my better half and always has been. How will I live without her?”

  “Now, Dad,” Grace said quietly. “It wasn’t a major heart attack, that much we know. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s just wait until we hear again from the doctor.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Dad?” Pat led his father to a row of plastic chairs and helped him into one. Then he came back to where Grace stood, arms folded.

  “Mom had better recover,” he whispered fiercely. “I realized there’s something I’ve got to do while I still can.”

  “And that is?”

  Pat sighed. “I had a very illuminating conversation the other day with Dad. And then another conversation with Megan. Boy, that woman is smart. And then I got your call this morning. Suffice it to say, I’m finally ready to make some sort of peace with Mom after a lifetime of—of anger. Of bitterness. I want to ease my conscience. It’s a selfish motive, I know.”

  “But that doesn’t make it wrong. And maybe Mom will benefit from a reconciliation, too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “An offering of peace is never a waste, even when it might seem to be.”

  Pat frowned. “Putting positive energy into the universe?”

  “Something like that.” Over her brother’s shoulder, Grace saw a man in a white coat coming down the hall toward the waiting room. “Here comes Dr. Wesson.”

  “Ms. Fitzgibbon,” Dr. Wesson said as he joined them. “And—”

  “Mary Bernadette’s son, Pat.” He held out his hand and the doctor shook it. The three walked over to where Paddy was sitting.

  “How is she, Doctor,” Paddy asked. “How is my wife?”

  Dr. Wesson smiled. “She’s stable and resting. It wasn’t a major episode, as I mentioned earlier, and as she was right here in the hospital we were able to take action immediately. The worst that can be said is that this will delay her release a bit longer. We’ll want to keep an eye on her for a few more days.”

  Pat wiped his hand across his eyes. “What a relief. I mean, that Mom’s okay. When can we see her?”

  “Now, if you’d like.”

  Grace offered her hand to her father and helped him to rise. “See, Dad,” she said. “There was no point in worrying.”

  Paddy managed a feeble smile and the family followed Dr. Wesson to Mary Bernadette’s room.

  CHAPTER 120

  Grace stood quietly by her mother’s bedside after her father and brother had gone home. Mary Bernadette was asleep. She looked alarmingly disturbed, almost in pain, as if all the struggles and sorrows of her life were alive and torturing her at that very moment.

  “I wish you could rest, Mom,” Grace whispered. “Truly rest. I don’t think you’ve let go for even one moment of your life. But then again, what do I really know about you? Next to nothing.”

  It was true, Grace thought. She knew so very little about her mother other than what was readily observable. More precisely, other than what Mary Bernadette allowed her family and friends to witness. She was a wife and a mother and a grandmother. She was a dedicated member of the congregation of the Church of the Immaculate Conception. She was a long-standing and highly respected member of the board of the Oliver’s Well Historical Association. Important information, certainly. But Grace suspected that not even her father knew the secrets of Mary Bernadette’s heart.

  Grace checked her watch. Megan was due soon to relieve her. Amazing woman, Grace thought. Her efforts on behalf of Mary Bernadette’s beloved historical society really were admirable. If she had been as abused by Mary Bernadette as Megan had been over the years, would she be willing to go to bat for the woman’s reputation and peace of mind? Grace sighed. Not likely. She was a nun, not a saint.

  A nun who was also a daughter and who, in spite of all, loved her mother. Not long ago Grace had come across an old Irish blessing. The words had stayed with her, and probably for this very occasion, she thought now.

  “Oh, aged old woman of the gray locks,” she whispered, “may eight hundred blessings twelve times over be on thee! Mayest thou be free from desolation.”

  Grace paused. There was another line to the blessing, but she was reluctant to give it voice. But then she went on. After all, someday . . . “Oh woman of the aged frame!” she recited. “And may many tears fall on thy grave.”

  Gently, Grace touched her mother’s face. “Megan’s on her way,” she told her. “And I’m going to pay a visit to William.”

  There was no indication that her mother had heard anything.

  CHAPTER 121

  She was late for mass. She was angry with herself. Tardiness indicated laziness of character. She ran out of the house. With long leaps and bounds she sped through the streets of Oliver’s Well, deserted in the dusk that had suddenly descended on the town.

  The church loomed in front of her. She ran up the stairs and threw open the doors. “I’m here!” she cried. But no one replied to her greeting. The church was empty. She became aware only now that she was wearing a dress she had often worn when she was first married to Paddy. Though she could not see her own image, she knew that her hair was once again brown.

  “Father Murphy,” she cried. “Where is everyone?” She dashed up the central aisle to the altar and made the sign of the cross. A noise like the beating of a bat’s wings made her whirl arou
nd. “Hello?” she called. “Paddy?”

  She became aware of being frightened and frighteningly alone. Where was Father Murphy? Or was it Father Robert she was meant to meet? Where was her family? Maybe she was in the wrong church. Yes, something wasn’t right. Why were the windows covered with black curtains? This was not her church at all!

  With a small cry of terror, Mary Bernadette dashed back down the aisle and into the preternatural dusk. She found herself in an old cemetery. “This is where William is buried,” she said to the crows cawing in the dark. “I must see him.” She hurried toward a giant oak tree, under which she knew she would find his grave.

  And now she was no longer alone. Jeannette was standing by William’s grave, as if protecting it. She was not the aged Jeannette and not the young Jeannette but both, and a middle-aged woman at once, all three ages of woman in one. Mary Bernadette wondered at this.

  “Where is everyone?” she cried, reaching out her hands toward her friend. “No one is inside. They were supposed to be here. They promised me!”

  Jeannette did not take Mary Bernadette’s hands. She replied with a voice filled with infinite sorrow. “Oh, Mary,” she said. “You made everyone go away.”

  “What do you mean I made them go away?” Mary Bernadette demanded. “I love them, all of them, they’re my family! I need them here with me!”

  Jeannette pointed to the headstone. “Do you see what words are written here?”

  Mary Bernadette looked more closely. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but after a moment she made out five words that sent a chill through her heart.

  Here lies Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon.

  “But that’s William’s grave!” she protested. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “It’s your grave, too, Mary. You’ve always known that, haven’t you?”

  “No,” Mary Bernadette said defiantly. “No, I know nothing. Oh, I’m so confused. Where is everyone!”

  Jeannette began to fade into the gloom. “Look for them hard enough and you will find them. God willing.”

  Mary Bernadette took a step forward and again reached out for her friend. “Where? Where do I look? Help me, Jeannette!”

  But Jeannette was gone now. William’s grave stood unattended and abandoned. Mary Bernadette ran to it and knelt in the damp earth. It was then she saw that there were other words etched into the stone. Frantically, she wiped the stone with her hand to clear it of dirt and lichen.

  “Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,” she read aloud, “if I do not remember you.”

  She was aware that she was making a sort of whimpering sound. Where am I? Someone help me!

  “Mrs. Fitzgibbon? Mrs. Fitzgibbon, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Mary Bernadette opened her eyes to see a nurse leaning over her.

  “Yes, yes. I’m awake,” she said, her throat dry. “I’m fine. I was . . . A dream . . .”

  The nurse smiled sympathetically. “Yes, dreams can be wearying, can’t they? Sometimes they just get you in their grip and try as you might you can’t escape them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like your dinner now?” the nurse asked. “I’ve kept it aside.”

  “All right.”

  When the nurse had left the room Mary Bernadette gathered every bit of her formidable mental energies. It was essential that she not forget the dream; clearly, it was a message from God. And what was He saying to her? What did He want her to know?

  Yes. He was telling her that she had been less than what she might have been for her family. She had failed to keep them close, her husband and her son and her daughter. She had in some way abandoned them. All those Sunday sermons on the importance of love, she thought. And did I ever really take heed?

  “Oh,” she whispered to the empty room, “what have I done?” Had she indeed permanently alienated her son and his wife, her daughter, even her beloved husband, Paddy? Had she let down her oldest grandchild, of whom she was so fond? Why hadn’t she been more lenient with her grandson’s wife, less forceful and demanding? At least, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek, her beloved William was safe; at least he was beyond any harm her failings might cause him.

  Despair settled heavily on Mary Bernadette’s heart. But despair was a sin. She knew that. Life was the most precious gift God had granted and to throw it away—even to wish it over and gone—was wrong. No matter how difficult the path ahead might be, Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon was determined to make what amends she could. “Dear God,” she whispered. “I ask for your forgiveness and for your strength.”

  CHAPTER 122

  Megan took a sip of tea and sighed. Really, it was amazing how good a cup of tea could make her feel. I’m an addict, she thought. I am addicted to tea. Which was a lot better than being addicted to power and control. She thought back to the last meeting of the board of the OWHA. They had been discussing a problem with the Kennington House. Just the year before, a reputable company had been hired to repaint the exterior. As far as anyone knew, proper procedures had been followed. But for some reason the paint was not adhering to the clapboard.

  “It might be a moisture issue,” Richard had pointed out. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “So,” Neal had asked, “how do we ascertain if that is the problem?”

  “Call in an expert. If moisture is at fault, then we might need a vapor barrier. And that involves removing the plaster or Sheetrock, installing plastic sheeting, and then adding a new wall finish. It’s a big job, and it doesn’t always solve the problem.”

  Leonard had frowned. “And by big job you mean expensive job.”

  “Well, we certainly can’t ignore it.”

  Megan had been reading up on the problem of peeling paint and had another idea of what might be the culprit. She had gotten as far as saying, “It might also be—” when Meadows had cut her off.

  “With all due respect,” he had said, tapping away on his iPhone, “given the fact that you are a temporary member of this board, I think that you should be seen and not heard.” At this point he had finally looked at her. “Unless, of course, you have something truly profound to add to this discussion.”

  Megan had simply smiled; she would share her information with Leonard at another time. She had almost been amused by Meadows’s rude behavior. Having heard from so many people during the course of her campaign that he was so disliked took a good deal of the sting out of his words. She was nothing special to him, just another person to torture and bully.

  “What he doesn’t know is that I’m a pit bull in sheep’s clothing,” she had told her husband that morning over coffee, after having related the Great Man’s latest little abuse of power.

  “I think I’m becoming a bit afraid of you,” he had replied. “It’s kind of appealing.”

  “Don’t be weird, Pat.”

  “Sorry.”

  Well, Megan thought now, glancing up at the words of her beloved Saint Francis, let Meadows have his pathetic amusements. What mattered was that she had made good progress with her campaign to save the integrity of the OWHA. It had been easier than she had imagined, convincing people to rally to her cause, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had agreed to help fund the OWHA to the initial tune of one million dollars only to see Wynston Meadows derailed. “I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole,” one of them had said. “What were these people thinking when they invited him on the board?” To which Megan had carefully replied, “Unfortunately, they weren’t well informed.” That $1 million up-front wasn’t $5 million up-front should not be an issue. Sarah Simon’s expertise had determined the OWHA didn’t need $5 million to get the ball rolling. And Megan would make the others heed that fact.

  Now she was ready to approach her fellow board members—excluding Joyce, Wallace, and, for the moment, Norma—with the good news.

  Megan picked up her cell phone and punched in the first number. “Leonard,” she said. “I’ve got it. I’ve got us the mon
ey.”

  CHAPTER 123

  Megan and Grace and Jeannette and Maureen were at the Fitzgibbon house. They had come to water the plants, do the laundry (Mary Bernadette was concerned that Paddy had a clean shirt to wear every day), dust and polish the furniture (“Mom’s going to give every surface the white glove test as soon as she gets home,” Grace had warned), and vacuum the carpets (“That mutt of Paddy’s sheds like a demon.”). Paddy had taken the offending Mercy for a walk, and Banshee had removed herself from the scene of activity.

  “Probably hiding in Mary Bernadette’s closet,” Megan said. “The poor thing’s been spending a lot of time in there since her mommy’s been in the hospital.”

  The women had been working for more than an hour when Megan suggested they gather in the kitchen for a break. She and Grace and Maureen could work on without rest, but Jeannette suffered from a bad back. Some respect had to be paid to the condition she never mentioned.

  “There will have to be some big changes around here,” Grace said when they were seated around the table with cups of tea and a plate of cookies. “For one, Dad and Mom are getting cell phones whether they like it or not.”

  Jeannette frowned. “You know Mary. She doesn’t trust technology.”

  “Tough. She’s going to have to change her mind. I’ll get them something elder friendly.”

  “And one of those Life Alert systems,” Megan said. “It wouldn’t hurt to have one of those for when either Mary Bernadette or Paddy is alone in the house.”

  Grace laughed. “Assuming we can make them use it. Or remember to use it.”

  “And at least one more landline extension,” Maureen said. “It’s ridiculous in a house this size to have only two.”

  “She’s going to fight us all the way, you know,” Megan said.

  Grace shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s for her own good, and Dad’s. If we can’t convince her to take care of herself, we’ll appeal to her belief in duty to others.”

  “And she shouldn’t be driving for a while, I would think. I can certainly help in that regard, take her shopping or to church.”