I am broken in half by my cowardly thoughts. What am I doing? She’s my baby. I am her mother. I need her, and she needs me.
And yet I see only danger and misery ahead, always catching at our heels.
Let the little children come to me.
I must dam the tears that are silently streaming down my face. I don’t want her last memory of me to be sadness. She’s so little. She’s so perfect. I trace my thumb over the curve of her cheek, touch the upturn of her nose. Her tiny earlobes are a bit longer than usual, like mine. I gave her those. I wonder if she will have Damien’s freckles, or maybe his laugh. I have never even heard her laugh.
I stand, but my knees almost buckle, so I catch myself on the pew. Very slowly, I walk to the church door, never taking my eyes from my baby’s face. If I carry her outside right now, we can get on a bus and never look back. We can run and hide and try to live a normal life somehow.
But I will not do that. She deserves better than the scraps I could give her.
A broad but shallow cherrywood collection plate rests on a table by the door, and I walk to it without any sort of thoughts at all. I kiss Mary’s brow one more time, then I lay her in the collection plate, wrapped safely in her slightly charred blanket. She is sound asleep, my angel. I stare at her, feelinglike I am missing something important. But as wrong as this feels in my heart, my brain knows ’tis the right thing to do. I owe her more than the life we’ve been living. I must give her a chance to live a long, grand life.
Father Charles will know what to do.
I cannot leave her with nothing. A pile of little envelopes stands by the collection plate next to a pencil. I write a note, and I pray Mary will one day read my words.
“Forgive me, Damien,” I whisper. “Forgive me, Mary.”
Maybe one day I will forgive myself as well.
I tuck the note inside her blanket, then I remember the photograph of the chambermaids. I have carried it with me all this time, and now I know why. From the black and white and grey, Bianca stares back at me. God in Heaven, I wish she was here, even if she only teased me. Bianca was grand with babies, wasn’t she?
I tuck the photograph into Mary’s blanket by my note, carefully slipping it underneath so it will not scratch her. As I do, her breath brushes the back of my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, then I take a step back. I will lose my courage if I do not go now.
A little fist lifts into the air and wobbles. A tiny wave goodbye. Grief closes around my heart, twisting, squeezing until I cannot breathe. I spin on my heel and walk out of the church. I never look back.
BRIDGET KELLY2024
chapterFORTY
TWO MONTHS LATER
Matthew’s toast pops up just as his phone buzzes on the counter beside him. I see his quandary, so I move over and butter the toast before it gets cold, leaving him open to answer the phone. We’ve only been together a couple of months, but we have a natural rhythm, and it’s working out well. We fill in each other’s blanks, I guess.
I pour his coffee, since he already poured mine, and when I hand it over, he gives me a vague nod of thanks. He’s completely focused on the phone call.
“Sure, I’ll tell her,” he says slowly, eyeing me. “Send me the time and place, and we’ll be there. Thanks, Louis.”
I’m intrigued by the bemused expression on his face. “Louis? What’s he up to?” I ask as he ends the call.
Louis’s article about Claudia had been a masterpiece in investigative journalism. That’s what he told us, anyway. It was well done, I’ll admit, andit told me a lot of things I hadn’t known before. The biggest revelation to me was how Claudia had become a part of Mazza’s dark world. He’d been working with a few developers, and after that fatal balcony crash six years ago, she’d gone to him for help. Seeing a potential useful worker bee in Claudia, Mazza covered up what happened and paid off both the victims and the media. I was surprised when she eventually broke under pressure and told the police everything, but she had a good lawyer. I picture her sipping mai tais on a beach somewhere, now that she’s earned herself a place with witness protection.
“You won’t believe it. Come and sit.” We head to the couch, and he takes a second. “I didn’t realize that Louis had been working on a feature for the paper.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s writing about The Ward.”
“Good for him. There’s not enough known about that history.”
He nods vaguely, his thoughts somewhere else. The whole time, his smile is growing.
“What? There’s more? Tell me. Your expression is driving me nuts.”
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s just…” His eyes hold mine. “As part of his research, Louis is going to the Summerside Seniors Centre to interview a woman who lived in The Ward as a young woman.”
