Prologue to A Charmed Existence

 

            I stood in the doorway while the priest administered the last rites.  He anointed my mother’s forehead with holy oil and said gently, “Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed.”  Her eyes were closed, and I could not tell if she was conscious.

            As the priest was leaving, he squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “The doctor said it won’t be long now.  May God give you comfort and strength during this sorrowful time.  I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”  He looked at me with kind eyes and quietly left the room.
            I walked slowly to the end of the bed and picked up the hospital chart for Maeve Murphy O’Driscoll, age 82, admitted two days before with congestive heart failure.  I leafed through its pages as if they would decode the mystery of her.
            I inched closer to my mother.  Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow.  Her lips were gray, but what shocked me the most was her complexion, resembling blue-veined marble, cold and hard.  Out of nowhere a memory from my childhood washed through me.
            Each night our mother would tuck both us and our favorite stuffed animals in, kiss our foreheads, and turn off the light, saying “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”  But one night the routine was different.  Just as we were padding down the hall to our bedroom, the phone rang.  Mummy said, “Hop into bed, and I’ll be right along as soon as I answer that call.”  I climbed into my side of the bed with Rosy, my pink velvet rabbit.  Orla snuggled up with her blue corduroy elephant that she had oddly christened, “Turtle,” and promptly fell asleep as she was suffering from a cold.  When Mum came in, Orla was snoring softly.  Mum blew her a kiss and walked over to my side of the bed.  She sat down gently, kissed me on the forehead and just sat there, staring at my face.  I reached up and caressed her cheeks, warm and velvety soft.  “Mmmmh,” I remember saying, “Just like Rosy.”  She smiled and took both my hands, kissing them.  She glanced over at Orla and then leaned conspiratorially toward me, her index finger to her lips.  “Shhhh,” she said and then whispered in my ear, “Goodnight, my beautiful, perfect wee girl.”  She kissed me a second time on the forehead, and I felt doubly loved.  But more than that, special.  Mum turned out the light and said, “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”
          A rasping sound brought me back to the present.  I glanced down again at my mother’s ashen face with the lines of oxygen protruding from her nose and felt a tidal surge of unexpected tenderness and remorse.  “Oh, Mummy.”  I started to cry and reached for her hand, ready at long last to forgive.   Her eyes fluttered and opened and as they focused on me, she feebly squeezed my hand.  “Fiona,” she gasped, as if the mere mention of my name caused her anguish.  She took a few labored breaths.  “I need to...explain.  Please,” she pled, “Come closer.”  Grimacing, she closed her eyes.

            I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned nearer to her face.  Over the next few minutes I listened, first with confusion and then with astonishment, to the last words spoken by my mother.

            As she lay there with tears streaming down her cheeks, I knew that she wanted her daughter’s absolution more than her God’s.  But, I could not pardon her, as the priest had, for whatever sins or faults she had committed, for a new, rising anger possessed me.  Instead, I confessed the secret that I had harbored for most of my life.  As she listened her eyes widened and then closed, never to open again.
            I dropped her hand and stood, staring at her lifeless body.  At first I was speechless, but as the rage bubbled up inside me, it finally broke the surface.
            “A silent mouth is melodious.”
            I heard a sound behind me and turned.  There, in the doorway, stood the priest.  His fingers were clawlike as he clenched his Bible, and his eyes had narrowed.  He shook his head and said, “May God have mercy—”and then turned on his heels and left.
            I finished the sentence for him.  “On my soul.”