The Crooked Branch (21 page)

Maybe we’re all doomed, Emma and Leo and me. Maybe you can’t outrun catastrophic DNA. Maybe Jade is just more honest than I am. I shiver, and shut the computer down, then dial my parents in Florida.

“Hey, Dad, is Mom home?” I pace around the house while we talk.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad says, and I hear him sipping his beer. “Nah, she’s out with the girls. It’s martini night at the clubhouse.”

I look at the clock on the oven. Eleven seventeen. My mother has never been out past nine thirty in her adult life. What has gotten
into
them down there, in Florida?

“Okay, Pop, just tell her I called, will you? I’m just curious to know if she’s found anything out about this Ginny Doyle person, in her genealogy searches.”

“Sure thing, honeybunch,” he says. “How’s everything else?”

“Good,” I say, because I know he doesn’t want a bunch of details. “It’s fine. It’s been a crazy day, but Leo will be home before too long.”

“That’s good, I don’t like the hours he keeps,” Dad says, for probably the seven millionth time. “I wish he was home with you at nights. I don’t like you and that baby there on your own.”

Then why the hell did you move away?
I do not say.

“We’re fine, Dad.”

“All right, I’ll tell your mom to give you a shout in the morning.”

“G’night, Dad. Oh hey, Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“One more thing—did you ever hear crunching in this house?”

“Crunching? Nah, what kinda crunching?”

“I don’t know, just a regular crunching. Like a
crrrrrrrrrrk
sound. Usually upstairs, in the bedroom or bathroom, but sometimes in the living room, too.”

“Nah, never heard crunching,” he says. “You gotta mouse.”

IRELAND, MAY 1847

I
t was still strange for Ginny, waking up in that enormous, lavish bed, with the midmorning sunlight streaming in through the tall, stood-open windows, and the song of the sheep out in the pasture, below. It sometimes took her a moment to remember where she was, but today the ache of fatigue in her body was acute. Yesterday, her baby boy was born. Raymond’s and her little son.

Her eyes popped open, and she rightly sprang up in the huge bed. The baby, where was the baby? Ginny yanked back the folds in the sheets. She could still see the impression, the little dent in the blankets where she’d made a nest for him, to sleep in beside her.
Mother of God, please don’t let him have rolled off the bed
, she thought.
Please God, please God
. She stumbled down from the mattress, already with bile in her throat and mouth. She ignored the tenderness in her lower body as she loped to the far side of the bed. Nothing. She dropped to her hands and knees to make sure.
Jesus, God, he’s not here. He’s not here. Where is he?
Where is my baby?

She clutched the side of the bed, and hauled herself to her feet. She was bleeding, but not much. She could feel fluid trickling down the insides of her thighs. She threw open the door, and staggered into the corridor. Should she scream? Should she call for help?
Halfway down the corridor, the door to Alice Spring’s chamber was ajar, and a soft and drifting note of song broke through Ginny’s panic. Who was singing? It was a lullaby in minor tones, and the sound of it stopped Ginny’s feet beneath her. She came to a halt outside Mrs. Spring’s door, and she pushed it in without knocking.

Mrs. Spring was sat at a rocker by the window, facing out. She had the baby in her arms, and Ginny could feel her whole body flush with relief. Her shoulders collapsed down, and tears filled in behind her eyes. She leaned against the doorframe and listened. She laid one hand against her breast, and felt the rigorous thrashing of her heartbeat beneath, winding down, slowing to a more normal tempo. But she was not yet at her ease. She waited for a break in the song, and then she cleared her throat. Mrs. Spring turned from the window, and her face opened into a warm smile.

“Ginny, you’re awake,” she said.

“I am, Mrs. Spring, and I got an awful fright when I couldn’t find the baby.”

Mrs. Spring stood up from the rocker, but continued the swaying motion from her arms and hips. Raymond was bundled cozily inside.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said, walking him toward his mother in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard him crying during the night—I knew you were awake with him a bit. So I came in and collected him this morning, and I thought to let you sleep some more. I looked in on you only a few minutes ago, and you were fast asleep.”

Ginny reached out and touched the gathered blankets around Raymond’s ears and chin. Such a beautiful wee boy he was. He had Raymond’s nose, Ginny’s full lips.

“You’re very kind,” Ginny said. “But I’m up now, I’ll take him,” and she reached to scoop him out from Mrs. Spring’s arms, but the woman pulled the baby away from his mother, just out from beneath her grasp. Ginny’s eyes snapped to Mrs. Spring’s face. What was she playing at?

“Nonsense, back to bed with you,” Mrs. Spring said. “I’ll carry him in.” She was gesturing at Ginny with her head, shooing her out of the doorway. But Ginny wasn’t leaving without him.

“Come, now, I’ll bring him directly,” Mrs. Spring said, and she walked with Ginny into the corridor. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be lifting him just yet. The doctor said.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Dr. Spangle. I sent for him this morning, to come and look at you, to check on the baby. He’ll be here at midday, he sent a note. Said just to keep you off your feet until he arrives.”

“Mrs. Spring, I don’t need a doctor, I’m grand. Fit as a fiddle. I’m ready to go back to work.” She nearly said,
None of my other children had doctors.
I’ve never needed one before,
but she caught the words before they flew out of her mouth. They were drawing near to the doorway of Ginny’s chamber.

“I won’t hear of it. It’s your time of confinement. You must take your rest.”

“I don’t want to be a burden, Mrs. Spring. It’s vital to me, this job. I’m not comfortable lying up in bed. I’d rather be working.”

Mrs. Spring wasn’t listening. She walked Ginny and the baby over to the huge bed as if she was their mother, as if she was going to tuck them in. It was tremendously awkward. She laid Raymond gently back into his nest among the blankets.

“Go on,” she said then, to Ginny, who had no choice but to climb in dutifully beside him.

Ginny laid her hand on his bundled little self then, and was so glad for the anchored weight of him there. What a gift.

“Mrs. Spring, I . . .”

“Auntie Alice,” she interrupted.

Ginny found she had no earthly idea how to respond to this new absurdity. Mrs. Spring leaned down over Raymond on the bed, and her voice piped up to a singsong.

“You tell your mummy there’s to be no more of this
Mrs. Spring
business,” she squeaked into Raymond’s little face. “I’m Auntie Alice now.”

Ginny watched in supreme astonishment. Alice Spring stood up from her position over the baby and went to the door.

Her voice dropped back to normal. “I’ll send Roisin up with tea and toast,” she said.

Ginny nodded, stunned. “Thank you.”

“Auntie Alice,” she instructed again.

“Thank you.” Ginny faltered, but then recovered. “Auntie Alice.”

When the doctor came, he urged Ginny to keep to her bed for a week, but she managed to talk him down to just two days. She was back in the kitchen with Roisin by week’s end. They made a tidy little basket for Raymond, and he sat atop one of the broad barrels while they worked. She was still staying in the guest chamber with Raymond, and Mrs. Spring had wheeled in an ornate little cot, all valanced with ribbons and bows for the baby, but Ginny couldn’t bear to put him in it. It stayed empty, and Raymond slept in bed with his mammy. Their proximity to Mrs. Spring’s chamber made it more difficult to sneak out in the nights to see Seán, but they managed.

The children were grand, Seán assured Ginny. Maire had everything well in hand, and Michael was
delighted
to finally have a brother. God, how she missed them. Even more now, with the baby. He was a balm to Ginny in many ways, but also a reminder of everything she was missing.

“Maggie’s lost her first tooth,” Seán told her, and Ginny asked him to bring the tooth to her—a piece of her daughter that she could hold and keep.

“They haven’t heard from Raymond at all?” she asked Seán. “Or his brother, Kevin?”

Seán shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ginny. Nothing.”

•   •   •

Mrs. Spring gave Ginny the Sunday afternoon off, to go and have the child christened, and she permitted Roisin and Seán to accompany her, for to stand up as Raymond’s godparents. She even allowed Seán the carriage, to drive them. It was the first time Ginny had ventured beyond the gates at Springhill House since her arrival so many weeks before, and she studied the fields with great interest as they passed them by. The potato stalks were just beginning to lift their hopeful green heads, and from the carriage window, Ginny couldn’t see any sign of blight. There was no stink in the still air; there was no spring breeze to speak of. All the country seemed to be holding its breath.

“The early potatoes will be ready in a few weeks’ time,” Ginny said to Roisin, who was seated across from her in the bumpy carriage. “Perhaps the worst of it is over, and the new crop will be healthy.”

Roisin gazed out across the fields as well. “Please God,” she said, and then, in a momentary lapse from her usual carefree manner, she whispered, “But how many countless dead in the meantime?” They both crossed themselves hastily while the carriage bumped along beneath them. Ginny held Raymond tighter in her arms.

Seán had gotten turnip seed, for the children. He’d urged Maire and Michael to prepare the other fields as well then. And Ginny didn’t know how he managed to get seed potatoes for them, because her own wages would never stretch as far as that, she knew. But he had, and now the seed was all in, planted. Their neighbor, Mrs. Fallon, had sent her two grown sons to help with the sowing, God bless her.

The children knew the land. They helped every year, every season, with the work. Maire and Michael knew how to prepare the soil, how to sow the seed, and when to harvest. Maggie was old enough to be of some real help as well. But Poppy would only be in the way, and it was enough work for a whole family anyway, even when Raymond and Ginny had been there together. Ginny couldn’t imagine how the children had managed it all on their own, even with the help of the Fallon lads. Still, sitting in that carriage, looking out over those spring fields, all buoyant with cheerful green splendor, she felt a rushing thrill of hope. If they got a good crop in, she could leave Springhill House. She could be home in time for the harvest, and she could wait with her children then, together, for news from New York. If the crop was very fine, Raymond could stop worrying about finding work, and start thinking instead about making his way home.

Father Brennan was none too pleased with Ginny when she turned up at his door with baby Raymond in her arms. He hadn’t got past her leaving the children alone so she could go to work at Springhill House. But he would never turn a child away from the house of God.

“Bring him in, we’ll do the job,” he said, and then, to baby Raymond, he whispered, “It’s not my decision anyway. You belong to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

“Thank you, Father,” Ginny said, as they filed into the church.

She had never been to the baptism of any of her other children. It was usually the father’s job to do that, or the godparents’. But these were unusual times. The ceremony was quick, informal. They lit no candles. There was no song, no gathering. Her son was made Catholic, and they all traced the sign of the cross on his bald little head.

“I wish his father was here for this day,” Ginny said afterward, and that made Father Brennan soften to her a small bit.

He put his hand on her elbow. “It is a shame he can’t be here, Ginny,” he said. “An awful shame.”

“Would you wait for me outside?” Ginny asked Roisin and Seán, and they didn’t even answer her. They just vanished quietly out through the door.

“Father, I’m sick with worry. You know we haven’t heard yet from Ray, and we should’ve got word by now, weeks ago. He’s an awful long time gone.”

“Nine months, it must be,” he said, touching the baby’s soft hand.

“Will you write me another letter, to Kevin?” she asked. “I know we’ve sent two already, but we should let them know about the baby, anyway. That he’s here and healthy. His name and all that.”

“I will of course,” he said.

“I fear the worst, Father,” Ginny said, and as the words came out, she realized how true they were. Her throat constricted with terror.

He nodded.

“You haven’t heard anything at all?” she asked.

“I haven’t, Ginny, you know I would tell you.”

“Have you had word from anyone else in the parish, who went out around the same time?”

She rummaged all through his face for clues, but he only shook his head.

“Father, surely you understand now why I had to leave the children?” He folded his arms in front of him. “Please, Father, I had no choice.”

“So you say.”

“They would have starved.”

“Ginny, you made your choice, and it’s worked out grand. I don’t know why you need my blessing over it.”

The church was filtered through with the hushed colors of stained glass, but they stood in the arched doorway, where the brightness from outdoors pooled in around them.

“I want to be in a state of grace, Father,” Ginny pleaded. “Raymond is gone, I’m all on my own. I took the decisions I had to take, to save my children, but that doesn’t mean I feel good about them.” She could feel tears welling into her eyes. “She doesn’t let us out, Father—this is the first time. I haven’t seen Maire and the others since March.” And now the gathered tears loosened themselves onto her cheeks.

Father Brennan was shaking his head. “I know, Ginny, I know you found yourself in a terrible, difficult position. But you are their
mother
. You belong with them. Whatever happens is God’s will, you can’t just abandon your station in life.”

Ginny was trembling. Little Raymond quivered in her arms. Maybe Father Brennan was right. She gazed down at her baby’s lit face and made a terrible confession. “I hardly remember their faces, Father.” She began to cry harder. She tried not to hiccup.

“Listen, there’s no sin in it,” he said, trying to calm her. He always was a man made uncomfortable by a woman’s tears. “There’s nothing for you to confess here. It’s only my own belief: you belong at home. Look at you, the pain you’re in. It’s unnatural for a mother to be rent from her children this way.”

“Father, please,” she begged him, she clutched at his sleeve. She needed him to sanction her choices, to tell her it was all right, what she’d done. He placed a hand across her knuckles.

“There, there,” he said. “It’ll be all right, Ginny. Gather your strength, child.”

Strength. She sniffed, wiped her face. She had been strong for so long. She had felt blessed. They were surviving; her children were surviving. But here in this church, where she had taken Raymond for her husband, where Father Brennan had christened all six of her children, even the one who didn’t make it, where she’d attended mass every Sunday of her married life until the hunger happened, she cracked. She felt vulnerable again. There was a deep and sudden yearning for the strength of that union, her marriage. She didn’t want to do this on her own anymore. She didn’t want to go back to the lucky working life at Springhill House. She wanted Raymond back. She wanted their family.

“Here, just hang in there a bit longer,” Father Brennan was saying. “I’ll write the letter to Kevin. I’ll let them know about the new little Raymond here, what a fine young fella he is. I’m sure we’ll hear back from them in no time.”