The Girls on Rose Hill (2 page)

"Happy to do what?" Ellen asked from the doorway.

"Ellen, I didn't see you there. I was just telling Rose that our gardener would be happy to take care of Rose's garden. It's no problem."

"This is neither the time nor the place to discuss the garden, Lisa. My mother shouldn't be bothered with such details," Ellen said in what I always thought of as her lawyer voice.

"I was only trying to help." Lisa then turned to me and said in a louder voice, "Rose, you must be tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good bye, Lisa," I said. "God bless."

Lisa was barely out the door when Ellen sat on my bed and said, "God, what a vulture. Could she be more obvious? She and Paul practically live in a mansion and she can't wait to get her fat mitts on your place. Honestly, I don't know how Paul can stand her."

"She means well."

"You always say that," Ellen said, irritation lacing her words. "For years you've said she means well. What does that even mean? And why does she shout at you?"

"I don't know."

"Because she's an idiot, that's why. God, let's stop talking about her. I didn't come here to bitch about Lisa again." Ellen walked over to the window. "It's a nice, bright room anyway."

"Yes. It's got a lovely garden."

"Maybe if you're up for it we can go there tomorrow. Oh, and your friend is down there." Ellen gestured toward the statue of Our Lady.

"I know, it's a comfort." I paused and then against my better judgment added, "She could be your friend too, Ellen."

"It's a little late for me." Ellen took in a deep breath, like she always did when she wanted to control her temper. I'd say what I thought was something innocuous and not likely to set her off, Ellen would snap at me, I'd backtrack and take back whatever offensive word escaped my mouth, she'd get more annoyed. We'd danced this dance for years now. Ever since Ellen hit school and realized that it wasn't normal to live with your grandmother, your uncles and your awkward, ex-nun mother. The house on Rose Hill may have had a white picket fence, but that was about the only thing about it that was normal. My Ellen spent her childhood keeping up with Joneses in our affluent town, and the Joneses didn't have mothers like me. Mothers who didn't come paired with fathers. Mothers who kept secrets from their daughters.

But now that her pathetic excuse for a mother had come down with cancer, the "bad kind" as my mother would say, Ellen had managed to control her temper. For the most part anyway, although her constant tongue-biting was unnerving.

Ellen sat on the chair beside my bed. Her normally glossy blonde hair showed an inch of gray roots and her high cheekbones were sharper than usual, as if she'd lost weight too quickly. It was strange to see my elegant daughter look anything but perfect. To distract her I asked, "When is Veronica due in?"

Ellen smiled for the first time all day. "Tomorrow morning. Her train should be in around eleven. We'll stop by here in the afternoon."

"Good." My eyelids felt like lead. "Good."

Chapter 2

Ellen

The morning breeze was cool. Thank God the heat wave finally broke. One more night in my mother's sweat box of a house and I swear I'd drown myself in the Long Island Sound.

The salt-tinged breeze washed over me as I sat on the front porch and drank coffee out of Granny's favorite red mug. What would Granny Kitty say if she could see me sprawled on her front steps in my wrinkled shorts? She'd probably drag me inside the kitchen, the proper place for drinking coffee, and harass me until I put on something decent.

But Kitty wasn't here, nor was Rose, and with only my daughter Veronica with me, I was now the matriarch of the house. Oddly giddy at the thought, I wondered if there were any other house rules I could break, as though I was thirteen and not forty-three. I savored my strong coffee, so unlike the hospital's watery concoctions, and watched two young boys from the local yachting club maneuver their sailboat under the Centershore bridge. The briny wind carried he taller one's little boy curses.

I looked at the diamond watch my husband bought me last year. Only an hour until I was due back at the hospice center and the weeds and flowers weren't about to pick themselves. I looked at the little boys again. How I wished I could climb into the boat with them and sail away from mother and this old house and the hospital stench that seemed to have become permanently lodged in my nostrils. Unfortunately an escape from this particular unpleasant chapter of my life would not be so easy.

I picked up the battered gardening basket I'd bought my mother many birthdays ago, walked to the rose bushes that lined the walkway and cut the few remaining intact flowers. My grandmother had told my mother when they had first moved to Centerport that she'd planted the rose bushes in honor of the five-year-old Rose, and that the winding lane, Rose Hill, was named in Rose's honor. For years my mother believed my grandmother until a neighbor told her old Mrs. Frohller, Kitty's mother-in-law, had planted the roses long before Rose was born and long before Mrs. Frohller's son Peter ever met the pretty Irish widow. Still, as Mrs. Frohller's rose bushes eventually withered and died, Kitty, and then Rose, replaced them and tended the rose bushes with care.

If my mother and grandmother had each been blessed with a green thumb then I'd been cursed with a black one. In the two weeks my mother'd been at St. Francis, I'd managed to kill three spider plants and the ficus in the hallway didn't look too healthy. If my mother could see me awkwardly hack at the roses, she'd gently admonish me in that pained way she had whenever someone other than herself handled her treasured flowers. Well, she's not here to see, I thought grimly. I reached for a large yellow blossom and impaled my thumb on a thorn.

"Shit." I brought my bleeding thumb to my mouth.

"Are you okay?" My daughter asked in a sleepy voice behind me.

I laughed and turned to face her. "Yeah. I was attacked by a flower." I arranged my features into the face I usually presented to my children—that of a cheerful, competent, loving mother—and smiled. "Are you hungry? I have fruit and yogurt in the kitchen."

Veronica ran her fingers through her unruly auburn curls. "Oh, Mom, I could really use a bagel."

I handed her the straw basket. "Okay, you take this inside and I'll make a bagel run."

I shook the dirt from my hands before I opened the door of my new silver German sedan. After years of driving squat sexless mini-vans with their three row seats and sensible beverage holders, I'd finally treated myself to one of the sleek expensive cars my husband Brendan favored. With Veronica soon off to NYU and the twins safely tucked away in their top-tier colleges, I no longer needed to cart around hockey skates, lacrosse sticks or gaggles of giggling cheerleaders. When Brendan complained about the price, I told him I'd served my time and deserved some comfort and style. Guilt always opened his wallet.

A half hour later, after she'd convinced me to cook her a full breakfast, Veronica dug into a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. My twenty-year old twin boys, Michael and Timothy, older than Veronica by eighteen months, had inherited my heavy blonde locks but there was no doubt that this red-haired sprite was my daughter. We both shared my grandmother Kitty's cornflower blue eyes and curvy figure and we both had the wide set eyes and high cheekbones donated by Mr. Mystery, which was how Kitty had always referred to my unknown father.

"More tea?" I asked.

"Please." Like the Queen of England, Veronica held out her mug while I poured. My Granny always called Veronica a "right little madam" and I supposed she was. My fault, of course. I'd indulged Veronica and used the excuse of our "girl time" to escape my rowdy sons and inattentive husband—weekend trips to dance competitions, shopping at Georgetown's nearby high end boutiques and, of course, our weekly mani-pedi sessions. The housekeeper still made her bed and I wasn't sure Veronica even knew where the washing machine was. My pampered daughter was in for a rude awakening next year at college.

Ah, who was I kidding? I was the one who'd be in for a rude awakening. After twenty years of the welcome distractions provided by three children, I'd be left alone with an enormous house and an even more enormous emotional gulf between myself and Brendan, who, to be honest, felt more like a slightly annoying roommate than a husband.

Unaware of my traitorous thoughts about her father, Veronica sipped her tea and stared out the small kitchen window. "Mom, what's going on back there?"

I'd managed to keep the front garden somewhat in check, but hadn't touched the backyard which, in this heat, was overrun with weeds. Lisa was right, I did need the help of the gardener to maintain my mother's horticultural paradise. I could probably use one in the house too since the ficus was clearly on its last leg. However, I'd kill every plant in Centerport rather than admit Lisa was right. Stubborn. I'd always been stubborn, a trait my Granny always said I must've inherited from Mr. Mystery rather than my meek mother.

"I know, it's a mess. Maybe you can help me weed later."

Veronica made a face. "I thought we were clearing out the master bedroom today."

I patted her crimson curls. "That too. Put the dishes in the sink when you're done and meet me upstairs."

"Mom," she whined, "I need a shower."

I stifled the urge to pinch Veronica on the inside of her arm the way my Granny had always done whenever I was sulky and fresh. I said with more good humor than I felt, "After your shower then," and then walked out of the kitchen, past the remnants of the ficus in the hallway and up the stairs.

I looked at my watch again. Eleven o'clock. My mother should've finished her final dose of chemo by now. Although I'd offered to accompany her, my mother insisted she only wanted her cousin Molly with her. She used Veronica being here as an excuse, and I didn't push. I was relieved, to tell the truth. To assuage my guilt, I decided to search through my mother's belongings and find some photos to hang in her hospice room.

Even after my grandmother died five years ago, my mother continued to sleep in the same narrow bedroom facing the back garden she'd occupied for most of her sixty-five years. Her bedroom was as neat and spare as I imagine her postulant's room at Our Lady of Angels convent was so many years earlier. It's only adornment was a crucifix and a small copy of my wedding portrait.

Across the hall, the master bedroom was the house's largest and brightest bedroom, and the only one with a view of Centerport harbor. About a year after my grandmother died, I made one of my rare trips home and forced my mother to organize Kitty's clothes and donate what was salvageable to St. Ann's. I urged my mother to get rid of the rest of Kitty's things and move into the larger and more comfortable bedroom. My mother nodded and agreed with me while I was here, but clearly hadn't been in the room since, except to store a few boxes. Kitty's ring, watch and hairbrush sat on the nightstand next to the bed and the room still had a slight scent of Kitty's musky perfume.

I opened the bottom drawer of a large cherry armoire stuffed with envelopes. My nose twitched from the musty smell. I opened the first envelope and found a letter from my great grandmother Eileen, my namesake. The rest of the letters were from various members of Granny Kitty's family back in Ireland, although most were from her mother Eileen. I tried the next drawer and came up with a large package. Inside was a letter from my grandmother's brother, Danny, who had inherited Templeglantin, the family farm in County Kerry. After Eileen's death Danny returned to Kitty the letters she had written to her mother over the years.

All of this was interesting, but I didn't think my mother would find these musty old letters particularly uplifting. My mother wasn't one to linger on the past. I was the one who loved to hear my grandmother's stories about Ireland. Behind Granny's back, Mom would roll her eyes. Never to Granny's face, though. My meek mother wasn't that brave. Honestly, I wasn't sure what would cheer my mother up. Her friends from the Rosary Society had plastered her room with enough prayer cards and bloody pictures of the Sacred Heart to cause even the Pope lose his lunch. Her room was already full of flowers. Other than flowers and Jesus, my mother didn't have too many other interests. At least none that I knew of. Still, I had to try and do something to lift her spirits. God knows our stilted conversations hadn't cheered her up. After a half hour in each other's company, she'd stare out the window biting her lip and I'd have a migraine.

I hit pay dirt when I found an old photo album with Margaret O'Connor Sullivan written in faded ink on the inside cover. Margaret died when I was a baby, but I knew how close my mother was to her aunt.

"Find anything?" Veronica asked pleasantly, the shower having improved her mood.

"Mostly old letters. But I did find this album." I flipped through the pages. "Look, here's a picture of my grandfather."

"He was handsome."

"Kitty always said that Tim Murphy from Monaghan was the most beautiful man she ever saw."