The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “One more question, please,” Jilly said, hating the pleading tone in her voice. She remembered Mr. Collins’s advice not to leave any stone unturned. “Is Sister Celestine still here?”

  The nun seemed surprised by the question and softened with sadness. “No, Sister Celestine died. More than ten years ago now, God rest her soul.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What about Sister Benedict?”

  “Which one is she?”

  “She was in charge of Health Services in 1973.”

  “Oh, I remember her.” The nun shook her head. “A troublemaker. She left the order, not too long after.”

  They’re all gone, Jilly thought to herself. Marian House—the whole estate—was a ghost town.

  Jilly felt a tug on her coat sleeve. It was Birdie, indicating with a nod of her head that it was time to go.

  Birdie, Rose and Hannah dropped Jilly off at the motel on the excuse that she would wait for word from Mr. Collins. They all knew, however, that she needed a little time alone after Marian House. They walked back to the Country Diner for lunch, the familiarity and the friendly face of Maude exactly what they needed after the cold reception at the convent.

  “Did that give you a hint of what Jilly must’ve gone through living there?” asked Birdie, feeling a renewed loyalty to her sister. “I thought the place was positively morbid.”

  Rose nodded in agreement. “Everything was deserted. Melancholy was so thick I could hardly breathe.” After a moment she added, “It’s no wonder she never thought about it.”

  The three fell silent. Birdie picked up her bacon sandwich and looked at it with resignation. “Go figure. They bake their own muffins but they make the sandwiches with Wonder bread! No tomato. And greasy potato chips.” She wrinkled her nose. “They must have gotten ahold of Mom’s cookbook.”

  Rose nibbled her grilled cheese. “I still can’t believe how unfeeling that nun was.”

  Birdie agreed, dabbing at her lips. “But can you blame her? She’s old and she lives up there in that morgue where everyone is just waiting to die. It’s no different than a lot of nursing homes.”

  “I wonder if it was like that when Aunt Jilly was there?” Hannah asked.

  Hannah had been very quiet on the road home. She now sat quietly just stirring her vegetable soup around in the bowl.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Birdie asked.

  Hannah nodded. “I just feel so sorry for Aunt Jilly,” she replied. “She was just a little older than me when she went there.” She looked at her mother to reinforce her point.

  Birdie set down her half-eaten sandwich and stared. Could that be true? She’d never thought of it in that light. Hannah looked so young. She was a child! She still needed her mother’s guidance and advice, curfews and limits. Love and understanding. Could Jilly really have been that young when she was cast out of the family? When she had had a baby?

  To think of Hannah being alone at such a time, without her—it was unthinkable.

  “My poor Jilly.”

  “She never talked about her experiences at Marian House,” said Rose. “Remember, she left for Europe soon after she returned. And we certainly didn’t talk about it, not even among ourselves. The subject was taboo. I can’t imagine her days at Marian House were pleasant. I can’t imagine them at all, frankly. Except it would have been more lively. There would’ve been many more nuns living there back in the early seventies. And then there was the novitiate, not to mention the other girls at the home.”

  “Do you think they’re searching for their children?” Hannah asked.

  Birdie lifted her shoulders to indicate she didn’t know. She looked into her daughter’s brown eyes, so like Dennis’s, and wondered what it would be like if she were searching for her own daughter. She felt a flutter in her heart as she realized how empty her life would have been had she not shared it with Hannah.

  “I’m afraid we’re back to ground zero. The adoption file has been archived somewhere and the nuns aren’t saying where. The nuns Jilly knew are gone, and she can’t remember the name of the social worker that handled the adoption. Marian House was a total dead end. No pun intended.”

  “Merely a detour,” Rose replied, not to be thwarted. “We’ve only just begun.”

  “So what do we do now?” Hannah asked.

  “We’ll check for messages at the motel,” Birdie replied. “Mr. Collins might have tried to reach us. At the moment, he’s our best bet.” She looked to Rose for confirmation.

  “There have to be other places to contact we haven’t thought of.” Rose tapped her lips in thought. “There’s got to be information on the Internet. I’ll go online as soon as we get back.”

  “There are places to look, but we don’t have much to go on,” Birdie said. “We have to be realistic. A search can take months. Years.”

  “Who else would have records of the birth? The county seat? The library?”

  “Yes, but right now we’re stuck with little to go on. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. Everything links.” She held up her hand and began counting off her fingers. “We know the mother’s name. We know the date of birth, but not the time. We know the area she delivered in.” Birdie sat upright; her face lit up. “Of course! What a dolt I’ve been not to think of this sooner. The hospital! Jilly delivered at a local hospital, not at Marian House. That’s a lucky break. Obstetrics units keep an OB log that lists the babies born each day. They’d have to have some record of a live birth.”

  “Well, let’s go,” Rose said eagerly, grabbing for her purse. Hannah was already pushing back her chair.

  “Hold your horses,” Birdie said, waving them back. “We need the name of the hospital first.”

  “How many can there be? We just need a phone book.” As Rose tapped the table with her fingers, she said more slowly, “I suppose we’ll have to have Jilly with us, anyway, to ask for the files.”

  Birdie swallowed the last bit of her sandwich, then cast them a shifty glance. “You forget,” she said, dabbing her lips, “I’m a doctor.”

  Back at the motel, Jilly sat on the mattress poring over the telephone book. She’d found the listing for Catholic Social Services and duly noted the number, but she couldn’t remember the name of the social worker that had worked on her case. She tried scanning the hospitals. Her mind may have been playing tricks on her, but none of the three hospitals listed rang a bell. She could have sworn it was a Saint Something Hospital, but there wasn’t anything remotely Catholic listed. She’d never forget that frightening ride in the ambulance, but she had no bearings as to what town the hospital was in. On the way home, she had been a zombie, too exhausted and shell-shocked to recall something as relatively mundane as an address.

  Tossing aside the phone book, she scratched her head vigorously. Closing her eyes, she saw faces of the girls she’d lived with at Marian House. So many faces…why couldn’t she remember any names? She’d spent a lifetime deliberately forgetting them, and now she was worried that she’d never scrape up even one essential detail. Feeling the urge for a smoke, she rose, stuck a pack of cigarettes and matches in the pocket of her leather coat and went out the back door.

  Mr. Patel had referred to the four-foot square of cement crisscrossed with cracks as their patio. She snorted. Well, if he could call this dump a motel…Four nondescript, white resin chairs circled a similar table, and a stone planter, crumbling at the edge, was filled with cigarette butts and litter. “You’ve really scraped the bottom now, Season,” she muttered.

  The woodland just across the river, however, was beautiful in its wild, unkempt naturalness. Over it, the sky was a brilliant blue and the fresh breeze was pleasing on her face. Jilly pulled a tissue out from her pocket and wiped away the dirt and leaves, then sat and looked out.

  In this area, the river was more a brook that ambled prettily across rocks and pebbles along the ridge of the hill behind it. It made a soft, swishing sound that was soothing. She breathed deeply and exhaled, releasing her troubled thoughts to the wo
ods beyond. A dog’s bark sounded to her left, followed by a man’s shout. Curious, she leaned forward toward the sound.

  It was Mr. Patel. He was farther down the river, standing on the banks below a small wooden bridge and appeared to be clearing branches and debris. The little white dog she’d noticed earlier that morning was at his side, testing the water with one paw, barking an opinion, then retreating back to sniff the small pile of debris already collected. He ignored the dog, working at a steady pace. The afternoon sun had turned warm, as promised, and he had removed his jacket. She spied a khaki oilskin hanging on a nearby tree branch. He was dressed for labor, wearing high rubber boots and heavy work gloves.

  Jilly stretched her long legs out before her and idly watched him work. There was a mesmerizing quality to his movements as he bent to pick up branches and twigs then hurl them to the embankment with seemingly little effort. His body was long and lean and he worked steadily, smoothly, sure of what had to be done. She leaned far back in her chair and smoked, studying him more closely, remembering the sudden, strong attraction she’d felt for him at first sight.

  He was handsome, yes, and very exotic. He also appeared a very proper sort of man—even while doing hard labor. She chuckled softly, noting that his work shirt was a worn and frayed business shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and exposing beautiful brown forearms that contrasted with the white cotton. Most likely the result of the British influence on East Indian culture, she thought to herself, much like his clipped accent.

  It was the dog that betrayed her. When she coughed lightly, the dog’s head sprang up, and he barked once in warning. Mr. Patel straightened then, too, his eyes searching. She held still, the cigarette trailing smoke in her outstretched hand. He didn’t speak when he first saw her, or wave his hand in greeting. He studied her for a moment, and she thought again how much he resembled a great dangerous cat in his caution and stillness. At length, he acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

  She did likewise.

  The dog was not so reserved. He bounded up the slope to investigate, his legs springing out from beneath his short, stocky body. When he reached her side, he raised himself up to paw eagerly.

  “You naughty pup! Such muddy feet. Aren’t you the rude one?” she said with a light laugh. He really was an adorable beast. Small, white and compact with floppy ears, he was some kind of terrier mix. It was his eyes that hooked her, however. Almond-shaped and dark, they had an uncanny intelligence that made them appear almost human. His head was long and narrow and pure white with a chocolate-colored patch that covered his left eye. “You’re a rogue, I can tell,” she said, reaching over to scratch behind his ear. “And I’m a sucker for a rogue. You know that, too, don’t you?”

  She heard the footfall of Mr. Patel approaching but did not look up, keeping her eyes on the little dog. Her body tensed in the chair and the dog jumped down to turn and bark. Slowly, she moved her gaze to meet his face.

  His expression when he looked into her eyes was confusing. It was both serene and guarded, an unusual combination that implied a man comfortable with himself yet intolerant of disturbance.

  “I hope the dog didn’t annoy you,” he said.

  “No, not at all. He’s really quite adorable.”

  “He’s rather a pest.”

  “I can believe that,” she replied, smiling down at the dog who was now sniffing at something under a rock on the far side of the patio. Looking back up she asked casually, “Would you care for a cigarette?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Oh.” She paused, then said with a seductive tilt of her head, “Smoking isn’t allowed in this room, is it?”

  “No,” he replied. Then, his eyes glittering with faint amusement, “But I don’t think you’ll disturb the neighbors, considering there aren’t any.”

  She smiled, too, and something between them shifted. A lightening in the air, a nanosecond of connection that confirmed a mutual attraction.

  “Do you have everything you need, then?” he asked.

  It was more of a dismissal, but she wasn’t quite ready to be dismissed. She put out her hand. “My name is Jillian Season. Jilly.”

  He hesitated, then quickly removed his glove and took her hand. She felt the stirring contact as his hand enclosed hers.

  “I am Rajiv Patel.”

  “You’re the manager?”

  “Yes. And the owner.”

  She registered this.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being too curious,” he said by way of polite apology, “but you’re all related, aren’t you? There is a strong resemblance.” He lifted his hand toward his head. “The red hair.”

  “Two of the women are my sisters, the other my niece. The red hair is a Season family trademark.”

  “Are you visiting family?”

  Jilly shook her head. “No, at least, I don’t think so. Actually, we’re trying to find a family member. Someone I haven’t seen in a very long time.”

  A shadow of sadness flickered over his face. “Family is everything. You are fortunate to have your sisters close.”

  A sensitive man, she thought to herself. She liked that. “Would you like a soda? Some water?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, shifting his weight. “I’ll be going back to it.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped to look once more in her face. His eyes searched hers and though she recognized the searing gaze that signaled attraction, she also sensed a reining in. “Good luck with your search,” he said with sincerity. Then he walked off. The little dog trotted to the edge of the patio, watching Mr. Patel’s departure with his ears cocked, but stayed back.

  “Mr. Patel!” she called after him. “Your dog!”

  He slowed to look over his shoulder. “He’s not my dog,” he called back. “He’s just a beggar. I warn you. Feed him once and he’ll be at your door forever.” He turned back to his path.

  “You’re a poor little beggar, are you?” she asked the dog. He sat at her feet and cocked his head to the side. Her heart swelled. “You’re a pro,” she said, bending over to pat his head. “You remind me of my former husbands.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of Rose’s cookies, thinking the dog might be hungry. Her mother used to scold her whenever she put out a cup of milk or a bit of hot dog for some dog or cat, but Jilly had always liked strays and mutts. She chuckled again at the too obvious and painful parallels to her choice of husbands.

  As she started to unwrap the cookie, the wily dog sneaked up and, with a quick jump, snatched the cookie, saran wrapper and all. Startled, she looked up in time to see the little thief scuttle back down to the riverbank and settle in the tall grass beside Mr. Patel. She stood for a moment watching the dog as he relished his stolen lunch and Mr. Patel as he squatted on his haunches tying twine around a bundle of twigs. Both appeared unaware of her presence.

  It was no wonder, she thought, tossing her cigarette to the cement and grinding it with her shoe. They couldn’t see her for she wasn’t really here. She was traveling at the speed of light on a journey through time.

  13

  AGNES MUIRFIELD.

  Jilly sat up in bed, eyes wide from her nap. She’d remembered the name of the social worker. Maybe the fresh air had loosened her memory, or the rest, but whichever, she had the name.

  She climbed from the bed to splash cold water on her face, tie back her unruly hair and, for good measure, brush her teeth. She felt more like her old self after her nap. Being back in Marian House had made her feel like an outcast once again. But her memories succeeded in making her angry. Rose was right. She’d made the best decisions she could have at the time, without the help of her parents, the nuns or social workers like Agnes Muirfield. She’d paid her dues with guilt and suffering. Now she wanted some answers.

  She picked up the telephone and punched the number for Catholic Social Services in Green Bay.

  “Hello? I’d like to speak to Agnes Muirfield, please.” She liked th
e strong tone of her voice.

  “I’m sorry, but she retired years ago.”

  “Oh.” Damn. She was afraid of that. “Could you connect me with the social worker assigned to her cases?”

  The secretary connected her to a woman named Donna Strobel who had an authoritative voice, rather like Birdie’s. For a moment, Jilly froze, wondering if she should be truthful and just ask for the adoption records, or come up with a story. Mustering her resolve, she stuck with the truth.

  When she told Mrs. Strobel why she’d called, to her surprise the social worker’s tone grew more friendly. She told Jilly that she would search for the file and call her back, probably in half an hour.

  Jilly set the receiver down and stared at it for a moment. She’d get the file! Jilly couldn’t believe it; it had been too easy. What luck! Thirty minutes seemed like hours. She hunted for a cigarette but remembered she was fresh out, so she grabbed her purse and hurried down the narrow strip sidewalk toward the motel office. The sun was setting and the northern chill cut straight through her silk sweater and black slacks. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hustled with her head tucked to her chest.

  She entered the motel office cautiously, glancing at the dated brochures and decor. Surprisingly, a small wooden table in the corner had been draped with white linen. On it sat a pot of fragrant tea on a hot plate, white china cups and saucers, and silver spoons. A few cookies were spread out on a plate. The scent of the heady tea filled the room and she looked at it longingly. From behind she heard a door open, then a man’s footsteps.

  “Jilly, may I pour you a cup? It’s all there for my guests.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw Rajiv step from around the counter, moving into her line of vision. He had changed back into dark slacks and a white shirt and his hair was still damp from his shower. He stood waiting at the table with his seemingly infinite patience.

  “Please,” she replied, feeling the tension in the room thicken. Once again, the attraction she felt was immediate. She had experienced this too many times in her life to miss it now. She watched him conduct the simple everyday tasks—lifting the teapot, pouring the amber liquid into a cup, placing the cup on the saucer—her experienced eye catching every detail. In the world of fashion, where there were so many fabulous fabrics and creative designs and where beauty was commonplace, she’d learned to seek out the small details for clues to a person’s character and taste. How many times had she seen a designer-original dress worn over an unwashed body, or a button missing on a two-hundred-dollar shirt?