Kilpara Read online

  Mother seemed content in this restful atmosphere, thanks to the kind attention of the novices. They moved silently in and out most of the day, which I spent making short visits to her room. A housekeeper had been assigned to take care of us and that evening Aunt Sadie joined us in the library for a light meal. Afterwards, she left for evening prayer. Mother rested in the company of a novice who sat by her bedside, her head bent in silent meditation over the black hard-covered missal in her hands.

  I learned that summer evenings were long in Ireland, and we had arrived at a time when these were lengthening. There was still plenty of light left when I slipped outside to check on Brazonhead. He nickered even before I reached his stall and began pawing at the ground when he saw me. “You restless, fella?” I asked. He continued to paw at the ground. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride.” His saddle hung close by, freshly cleaned, and Brazonhead could hardly contain himself as I strapped it on.

  It felt good to be out riding. I had no idea where we were going, or whose property we were on, but after trotting down a few lanes we found ourselves out in open countryside. We galloped hard across fields, Brazonhead jumping stiles and low rock walls with little effort. Following the setting sun, we eventually circled toward the ocean and fell into a light gallop along the beach. Waves rolled onto the shore in rhythm with Brazonhead’s hooves.

  We were trotting leisurely back toward the convent when I saw her. She was some distance ahead, a figure running barefoot along the edge of the water, holding her dress up as she played games with oncoming waves that drifted in and out. Close by, an easel with a canvas stood ignored. I was too far away to make her face out clearly, but I could see long, curled ash-blond hair reaching to her waist. She looked our way, our oncoming presence startling her enough to forego her game, grab her easel and canvas, and run toward some nearby houses. When we arrived at the spot where she’d been, she had already scrambled up the bank and was out of sight. I pulled Brazonhead to a halt and dismounted. Would she return? I didn’t think so. I touched her footprints in the sand, small, dainty, and elusive. Picking up a pencil she had left behind in her haste, I asked Brazonhead, “Who do you suppose she is?”

  His response was an impatient shake of his mane.

  In the following days, I remained continually alert for the lone figure on the beach whenever I went riding. But there was no more sign of the girl with the ash-blond hair; and as the days passed, I began to think I had imagined her.

  In the evenings, Aunt Sadie delighted us by reading old Shanachie tales to Mother. I listened quietly as she recited stories about mammals who came ashore, shed their skins, and stored them somewhere safe after they took on a human form. They could return to the sea as long as they found their skins and slipped back into them. But if their skins were stolen or lost, they were doomed to live out their lives as humans.

  Hearing these stories made me wonder even more about the figure I had seen on the beach. Her image became rooted in my mind; her long hair streaming over her shoulders, surprise etched on a vague heart-shaped face, the small footprints left in the sand after she scrambled away. I was drawn time after time to the same spot hoping to see her, and when I didn’t, I began to fathom she was some mythical creature from the sea. I laughed at myself for being fanciful. Of course, she was real. The Shanachie tales that Aunt Sadie told were nothing more than the overactive imaginations of the Irish and their fascination for folklore.

  Brazonhead was growing stronger and stronger each day. After only a week in Ireland, most of his former strength had returned. We were venturing farther and farther afield. We had not yet taken the Corrib Road that led to the infamous Kilpara, but I knew necessity would lead me there soon. Mother, too, began asking about Kilpara, and Aunt Sadie tactfully evaded the subject.

  It rained often in Ireland during early summer, and when it did, it was a soft misty rain. On days when it never seemed to cease, Brazonhead and I took shorter rides, staying closer to the convent. One morning, after continuous rain the day before, the air was heavy with mist. I ached for a longer gallop and inevitably ventured toward that fateful spot on the beach, having dreamt of the mystery lady during the night. In the light of day, I told myself the reason she haunted my dreams was that I had to prove her existence.

  We raced along wet sand, Brazonhead using his senses to guide us through the mist. Suddenly he reared, catching me off guard, and I almost fell to the wet sand. “What is it, boy?” I asked, trying to gain control. In answer, Brazonhead snorted and reared again. After I managed to calm him, I dismounted and looked around for what had startled him.

  A figure appeared out of nowhere. She came forward, her red cloak floating around her. I rubbed my eyes, convinced they were deceiving me.

  She smiled at me as if such a meeting was an everyday occurrence. Stopping a few feet away, I could see her face clearly now, its heart-shape, its creamy texture, her small straight nose, her full lips and wide eyes. Her smile deepened, and I had to control an urge to reach out and touch her skin, to feel the silkiness of her long, loose hair.

  “Hello,” she said.

  I bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I saw you here once before. On the beach.”

  “I know.”

  “You ran away.”

  “I did,” she confessed, “because I was amusing myself with a silly childish game that I didn’t want anyone to see.”

  “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”

  She laughed. It sounded musical. “Don’t be. The strand is public. It’s just that usually no one ever comes here late in the evening.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. Her eyes held mine; I wanted to stand there and go on looking at her forever. “May I know your name?”

  Her eyes twinkled and she moved slightly closer. “Morrigan, and you are?”

  I hesitated. “Ellis.”

  “Ellis.” She repeated my name softly, a hint of pleasure entering her voice. “From where—Ellis?”

  “America.”

  “A stranger to Ireland?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at me a moment longer. Then lifting up her skirts, she side-stepped me. “Nice to have met you, Ellis,” she said, her hooded cloak disappearing into the mist.

  I stood rooted for several moments, her voice ringing in my ears and her eyes burning into my consciousness. Brazonhead neighed his impatience. “She was real, wasn’t she?” I asked. He answered by putting his nose against my back and pushing me forward.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, and began to walk. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Do you think she likes me?” I looked at him. He was content now that we were moving again. “What do you know about females anyway?” I said.

  Brazonhead snorted.

  CHAPTER 11

  I didn’t share my encounter with the mysterious lady with anyone. I wanted to savor her image, slip into daydreams where I could summon her face and body and imagine what it would be like to feel her embrace. The next couple of days were spent mostly with Mother and Aunt Sadie, except for occasional rides on Brazonhead along the beach. Each time I was disappointed when the fair-haired figure didn’t appear. She had taken hold of my mind. I wanted to see her again, if only to assure myself she was real.

  After one of these gallops, I returned to find Mother settled on a chaise lounge in front of the hospital building, next to the flower gardens. Aunt Sadie was on her knees pulling weeds from around a thorny rose bush. “These roses will be a fervent deep red, your favorite, when they bloom,” she told Mother, pointing to burgeoning shoots. “You can tell it’s almost June. They'll be in full flower soon.”

  I dismounted and sat down on the grass next to Mother. I took her hand in mine. Aunt Sadie leaned back on her heels, trowel poised. “I’m taking Ann on an excursion to see our old home,” she announced, her voice softly resigned.

  This news alarmed me. Facing the childhood that had caused Mother so much pain could only do her more harm than good.

  I looke
d at Mother. “We’ve barely settled in,” I said. “It’s too soon. Besides, the house has probably changed beyond all recognition.”

  “I’m feeling well enough, Ellis,” Mother insisted. “I want to see it.”

  “The owner, Mrs. McNamara, a widow, has kept the house in good condition,” Aunt Sadie said, her gaze fixed on Mother’s face. “It hasn’t changed much over the years. I sent her a letter and she welcomes our visit.”

  I wanted to protest, to tell Mother I knew her secret and what the loss of her mother had meant to her as a child. That her decision to face the past could subject her to complications in her own condition; weaken her spirit to fight the illness. But Mother’s mouth was already set in that firm line I knew so well. I swallowed my objection, and for the moment, was forced to go along with her plan. Later, during a private moment with Aunt Sadie, I broached the subject.

  “This visit is not a good idea. It’ll put too much of a strain on Mother.”

  Aunt Sadie looked at me with the kindness of someone used to patiently comforting people who faced the worst of human circumstances. “You know so little about our family, Ellis. Sure, we had our problems like most families, but there were good times, too.”

  I drew a deep breath. “I know my grandmother died tragically when you were both young. Being reminded of that can’t be good for Mother.”

  Aunt Sadie muffled her hands inside the wide berth of her habit-sleeves and looked at me for a long moment. “I don’t know how much you know, Ellis. I will share with you that Ann has hidden her childhood fears deep inside her where they can't hurt. Some memories were just too painful to bear. In any case, I’ll tell you, against her wishes, she is dying from the same disease that killed your grandmother.

  “We were so very young and impressionable when our mother died and were traumatized by the ordeal. Watching her suffer like she did was the hardest thing we ever had to witness. In the latter stages, Father chose to keep her at home and isolated her from us—his way of protecting us from contagion. We were confused when he confined Mother and were devastated by the separation. We didn’t understand he was trying to prevent our exposure to infection. He believed the disease could be transmitted through infectious bacteria. He even tried to regulate the air in the room to make Mother more comfortable and was continually experimenting with medicines to reverse her illness.

  “Do you agree with his treatment?”

  “He was very thorough. He left behind excellent knowledge about the disease, and I have improved upon his theories. But there is no cure. As children, however, we fretted over being cut off from our mother, and the only explanation Father gave us was to say we weren’t allowed into the sick room. Ann chose to shut all that out of her mind as soon as she could, never allowing those memories to ever surface again. Maybe after all these years she can unbury the past and put it to rest within herself. Do you know what I'm saying, Ellis?”

  I nodded. “But what if the trauma worsens her condition?”

  “She wants to test herself against the past. Ignoring that need will eat away at her even more, and that will adversely affect her health. Pray to God that going there will have His healing power. Say you’ll come along. Please?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded my agreement.

  The Burke home sat on the North side of Galway, not far from the road that led to Lough Corrib. It was a two-story house with long, arched windows that gave it a Spanish look. The stucco walls were painted pale yellow, a contrast against the dark tiled roof and wide chimneys that stood out. We entered the drive, and when we pulled up close to the front door, servants came to meet us offering assistance with Mother. We were welcomed by an older woman, gray-haired and slightly bent. She was aided by a cane and introduced herself as Mrs. McNamara. After we exchanged pleasantries, our hostess addressed Mother and Aunt Sadie.

  “I know you haven't been inside the house in many years, but I'm sure you'll find it hasn't changed much at all. My husband and I loved this house just the way it was and made few renovations. Feel free to look around at your leisure. I’ll tell the housekeeper to serve tea in the garden. Please meet me there, after you’ve finished.”

  “Thank you for your generosity, Mrs. McNamara,” Aunt Sadie said.

  The woman smiled and walked away slowly, her heavy footsteps accompanied by the tapping of her cane echoing on the wooden floor.

  Two strong men who I assumed were groundskeepers carried Mother in her chair up the wide, carpeted staircase. At the top, Sadie took over. The first room we entered was the bedroom they had shared together as children. Aunt Sadie moved about the room, reconstructing it for Mother.

  “Your bed sat next to window over there.” She pointed to one side of the room. “And mine was here.” She drew a line with her hand next to a large heavy wardrobe standing upright against the wall closest to the door. “The eiderdowns were lime green with small, pink roses that closely matched the wallpaper.”

  Mother looked at me sadly. “We used to push our beds together and talk well into the night. The night your father proposed marriage, we slept very little.”

  “And the night before your wedding,” Aunt Sadie reminded Mother.

  “That was the same night you told me you were entering the convent,” Mother said.

  “That’s right, it was.”

  “So many years ago, yet being in this room it seems like yesterday.”

  “It does,” Aunt Sadie agreed.

  We left the bedroom and moved on to the master bedroom followed by visits to the three guestrooms. When we returned to the staircase, the groundskeepers appeared and carried Mother downstairs. We entered the library, the first room we came to on the main floor. Sadie and Mother exchanged tidbits of reminiscences as they talked about having their lessons here and the books they enjoyed reading. Adjoining the library was a room their father had used for his office, the place where he did his research and wrote his theories.

  “I always loved this room,” Aunt Sadie said, looking around. “Even after all these years, I can almost smell the starch from Father's white smock mixed with pipe smoke.

  “Your grandfather was a doctor,” Mother explained to me. “He worked here and at the dispensary. On days when he was at the dispensary, we watched for his carriage coming down the road. Then we’d run out to meet hm. Father would gather us up into his arms and tell us about his day. We proudly showed him our dolls with splints on their arms or tourniquets around their heads from nasty falls. He would admire our work and Mother would smile.

  “Sadie likes this room because she loved medicine as much as he did. He taught her everything.”

  “He taught you, too,” Aunt Sadie protested.

  “I pretended to like it because I wanted his attention. That was the only time he noticed me after Mother—”

  I put my hand on Mother’s shoulder and was immediately concerned by how pale she looked against the dark background of her wheelchair. I began to worry if we should continue. The visit was starting to adversely affect her. “Perhaps we should leave,” I said.

  Mother squeezed my hand. “Not yet. There’s one more room I must see.”

  She directed us out of the library into the room next to it. Everything about this room contrasted with the library’s oak walls and leather furniture. Here, cream colored walls reflected sunlight through long French doors that opened out onto a vast garden.

  “Looks like Mrs. McNamara kept up the garden,” Aunt Sadie said, standing by the doors. “How mother loved her flowers—especially red roses. She filled the world around us with love and beauty.”

  “Your grandmother died when we were still very young,” Mother said quietly. “She passed away in this very room after ailing for a long time.”

  “You never told us,” I said.

  “It was a distressful illness. I never talked about it because it hurt too much; I never got over missing her.”

  Mother exchanged looks with Sadie. “We were so vulnerable. I was only eleven and you were nine w
hen it happened. I would never have gotten through it without you.”

  “Or me you.” Aunt Sadie bent over and stroked Mother’s cheek.

  “You had Father,” Mother said.

  “I understood him and felt sorry for him,” Aunt Sadie said. “He was lost without Mother. All he ever wanted was to find a cure and reverse her illness. It consumed him, even afterward—”

  “Nothing else mattered. We were invisible to him after she was gone.”

  Aunt Sadie sighed. “We did matter. He just couldn’t show how he felt. He had difficulty talking about his feelings. It was too hard for him. As long as everything seemed all right on the surface, he managed. He did his best.”

  “Being in this house and remembering how it was, I realize how young and dependent I was,” Mother said. “Our lives were perfect until Mother’s illness came along. Then everything changed. She had always been there to talk to and to take care of us. Father took us places and told us funny stories. He loved picnics and used to take us for rides to Headford where we spent the day at Lough Corrib feeding ducks and swans and picking daisies. He loved the ocean, too, and we went there to play in the waves and make sand castles. After Mother became ill and died, it seemed all the joy and caring went out of our lives. We were left without any sense of direction or purpose. It took years to get over that, if we ever did.”

  “I know,” Aunt Sadie said.

  “Shall we go?” I asked quietly.

  “In a moment,” Mother said. We fell silent, her labored breathing filling the room. After an interval she said, “All through adolescence, all I ever thought about was the memory of watching my mother suffer and how my father detached himself from us. I envied children who had healthy loving parents. It’s all coming back so vivid—yet different. Looking back, I only knew my mother’s distress and the toll her illness took on us, but now I see there was courage and love, too. I understand Father’s fanatical drive to find a cure and can forgive him for his neglect. It was his tribute to her. If only I could've understood it better back then...”