The Shadow of Your Smile Page 8

  After a few minutes she was able to get up, make the tea, and plan her day. I want to go back to Southhampton, she thought. I wonder if the Gannon House is still there, and the cottage where Catherine and Mother and I lived . . .

  The cemetery in Southhampton was where generations of Gannons were entombed in an imposing mausoleum. Where Alex was entombed. Not that I have the feeling that he’ll be waiting for me on the other side, she thought sadly. Catherine was his love, but when she died she certainly wasn’t looking to be reunited with him.

  Or was she?

  A childhood memory that had been coming to the surface of her mind over and over in these past few days once again filled her mind. Am I making this up, or did I witness it? she wondered. Is my mind playing tricks or am I remembering seeing Catherine in her habit shortly after she entered the convent? I thought the novices were not allowed to see their families for a while. It was on a dock, and there was another nun with her. Catherine and Mother were crying. That must have been when she sailed to Ireland . . .

  Why does that suddenly seem so important to know? she asked herself. Or is it that I am trying to reject death by dragging up scenes from my childhood, as if I could begin to relive my life?

  She would call the car service and go out to Southhampton today. Even in a few days it may be too late, she thought. I wonder if I can get that nice young man who drove me last week? What was his name? Yes, I remember. It was Tony Garcia.

  She finished sipping the tea and debated about forcing herself to have a slice of toast, then decided against it. I’m not hungry, she thought, and at this point what is the difference if I eat or don’t eat?

  She got up slowly and carried the cup to the sink, rinsed it out, and put it in the dishwasher, suddenly acutely aware that this kind of mundane activity would soon be over forever.

  In the bedroom she called the car service and was disappointed to learn that Tony Garcia was not coming in today.

  “He’s supposed to be available,” an aggravated voice told her. “But he phoned to say that his wife and kid are sick and he has to stay home.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Olivia said quickly. “It’s not serious, is it? He told me about his little boy having had leukemia.”

  “Nah. It’s just a bad cold. I swear if that kid gets sniffles, Tony makes a big deal about it.”

  “In his case, I would, too,” Olivia responded, an edge in her voice.

  “Yeah, of course, Ms. Morrow. I’ll send a good driver for you.”

  At noon the driver, a heavyset man with a windburned face, appeared in the lobby. This time she was already there waiting for him. Unlike Tony Garcia, he did not offer her his arm on the way to the garage. But he did tell her that he knew she was a good customer and that everyone said what a nice lady she was and if she wanted anything like to stop on the way to Southhampton if she needed a restroom, just say the word.

  She had fully intended to ask him to take the tote bag with the Catherine file from under the blanket in the trunk, but decided against it.

  I know by heart those letters Catherine wrote to Mother, she thought. I can read them in my mind. And I don’t want this man to get them out, then put them back in the trunk later. He’s obviously already discussed me with other people.

  And why am I hiding the file? What is the point?

  She had no answer, only an instinct to leave it in the trunk for the present.

  It was one of those unexpectedly warm October days with the sun high and bright, and puffs of clouds drifting through a tranquil sky. But even though she had worn a warm cape over her suit, Olivia felt chilled. When they were on the way across town she asked the driver to slide back the cover of the overhead glass panel so that the filtered sun could warm the backseat of the car.

  What was that prayer or psalm her mother kept at her bedside in her last year? It began “When in death my limbs are failing . . .” Maybe I’d better look it up and start reciting it, she thought. I know it gave Mother comfort.

  With the heavy traffic it took nearly half an hour to get to the Midtown Tunnel. Olivia found herself looking with new eyes at storefronts and restaurants, remembering the times she had either shopped or eaten in one or the other of them.

  But after they had gone through the tunnel and were on the Long Island Expressway the drive seemed to go quickly. As they passed the various towns Olivia found herself reminiscing over friends long gone. Lillian lived in Syosset . . . Beverly had that beautiful house in Manhasset . . .

  “I don’t have the street address in Southhampton,” the driver said as they approached the town.

  Olivia recited it to him and just doing so brought back the scent of the salt water that had wafted into her room in the cottage. Even the cottage faced the ocean, she thought. And the Gannon House was so beautiful, with the wraparound porch. The Gannons always dressed for dinner.

  Another memory. Catherine walking on the beach, barefoot, her long hair swirling behind her. I know I’m right. I was standing there. It must have been shortly before she left for the convent. Then Alex came up behind her and put his arms around her . . .

  Olivia closed her eyes. So much is coming back to me, she thought. Does this happen to everyone who is dying?

  She wasn’t sure if she had dozed, because it seemed only a moment later that the driver was opening the door for her. “We’re here, Ms. Morrow.”

  “Oh, I’m not getting out. I just wanted to see the house again. When I was a young child I lived here.” She looked beyond him and saw immediately that the property had been subdivided and the cottage was gone, replaced by an imposing mansion. But the Gannon home was just as she remembered it. Now it was painted a soft yellow that enhanced its century-old beauty. Olivia could visualize Alex’s mother and father on the porch, greeting people who came to one of their frequent gatherings.

  The name GANNON was on the mailbox. So they still own it, she thought. It must have been left to Alex as the older son. That means the rightful owner is Alex’s granddaughter, Monica Farrell.

  “You lived in this house, Ms. Morrow?” the driver asked, his tone alive with curiosity.

  “No, I lived in a cottage that is no longer here. I have one more stop to make.” I went to Catherine’s grave looking for an answer, she thought, and didn’t get one. Maybe I’ll be able to come to a decision if I stop at the cemetery and visit the Gannon mausoleum. Alex is there.

  But when the driver parked in front of the mausoleum she was too tired to leave the car, let alone wrestle with her conscience. The only emotion she felt was her sense of profound loss that Alex had never loved her. We began to have dinner after we met at his father’s funeral. We saw each other regularly for six months. She remembered again his shock and astonishment when she had asked him to marry her. He had said, “Olivia, you will always be my dear friend. But there will never be anything more between us.”

  That was the last time I saw him, she thought. It hurt too much to be around him. That was more than forty years ago! I didn’t even attend his funeral Mass. Alex chose a lifetime alone rather than share any part of it with another woman, even one who loved him as passionately as I did.

  She stared at the Gannon name over the door of the mausoleum. Someday in the distant future, here is the rightful resting place for Monica Farrell, she thought. Her grandparents and her great-grandparents are lying here.

  But that doesn’t mean I have the right to break Mother’s promise to Catherine, she reminded herself. I would never have learned the truth if Mother had not revealed it when she was heavily medicated.

  She had come out here looking for guidance and there was none. All the journey had done was to dredge up painful memories. “I guess it’s time to get started,” she told the driver. I’m sure this visit will be talked about where he works, she thought. Well, in another week or so, they’ll understand to some extent why I’m here. My farewell pilgrimage.

  When she arrived home Olivia undressed and went straight to bed. Too weary to even think a
bout preparing food, her only thought was that she still had no resolution to the decision she needed to make immediately.

  Her eyes began to close. The ringing of the phone was an unwelcome distraction. She was tempted to ignore it, but then realized it might be Clay Hadley. Her failure to pick up at this time would almost surely mean that he would call the concierge, verify that she was home, then come running over.

  Sighing, Olivia fumbled for the receiver and picked it up.

  “Ms. Morrow?”

  It was an unfamiliar voice. A woman’s voice.

  “Ms. Morrow, I’m probably wasting your time. My name is Monica Farrell. I’m a pediatrician. You had a driver last week whose little boy is my patient. The driver, Tony Garcia, happened to mention that you said you knew my grandmother. Was he mistaken?”

  Catherine’s granddaughter is calling me, Olivia thought. It was just after I left Catherine’s grave that I told Tony Garcia I knew Monica’s grandmother and he told her. Catherine has sent me a sign.

  Her voice trembling, she answered. “Yes. I knew her very well and I want to tell you about her. It is very important that you know everything before it is too late. Can you come and visit me tomorrow?”

  “Not until late afternoon. I have office hours in the morning, then I have an appointment in New Jersey I cannot break. I’m sure I could be at your apartment by five o’clock at the latest.”

  “That will be fine. Oh, Monica, I’m so glad you called. Did Tony give you my address?”

  “Yes, I have it. Ms. Morrow, one question. Are we talking about the woman who was my father’s adoptive mother, or about my maternal grandmother?”

  “I’m talking about your father’s birth parents, your flesh-and-blood grandparents. Monica, I am very tired. I have been out all day. Tomorrow I will be sure to rest. I look forward so much to seeing you.”

  Olivia broke the connection. She knew how close she was to tears and she didn’t want Monica to hear them in her voice.

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep immediately. She was dreaming of the moment when she would meet the young woman who was the grandchild of Catherine and Alex when the phone rang again.

  This time it was Clay Hadley.

  Still half asleep, Olivia said, “Oh, Clay, I’m so happy. Monica Farrell called me. Can you believe it? She called me! It’s a sign. I’m going to tell her everything. It’s such a relief to be sure, isn’t it? Now I’m content to die.”

  22

  Stunned at what Olivia Morrow had told her, Monica put down the phone and sat at the desk in her small private office, her mind jumping.

  Does she mean what she told me, that she knew Daddy’s birth parents? She sounds old, and even feeble. Maybe she’s confused? But if she did know them and could tell me who they were, it would be so wonderful. Dad spent his life longing to discover the truth about his background. He said he wouldn’t care if his blood relatives had been drunks or cheats, just to learn who they were would be enough.

  Maybe tomorrow by this time I’ll know, she thought. I wonder if I have any cousins or extended family? I’d love that . . .

  Monica pushed back her desk chair and stood up. I wish I didn’t have to go and testify at that beatification hearing tomorrow. Dad was a devout Catholic and I know my mother was, too. I remember the three of us in church every Sunday, as regular as clockwork. I’m of the generation that drifted away from it, although I do go to Mass sometimes. Dad said they had made it too easy for all of us. “You guys have the idea that if you want to go out on a rowboat and pray on Sunday mornings, that will be just fine,” he told me. “Well, it’s not fine.”

  Ryan Jenner had promised to stop by and look at the Michael O’Keefe file at seven o’clock. It was seven now. That thought made Monica hurry into the small staff bathroom and look in the mirror. Other than a touch of lip gloss and a dab of powder, she never wore makeup during the day. But now she found herself opening the cabinet and reaching for foundation and mascara.

  It’s been another long day, she thought. It’s time to give my face a little pickup. After she applied the foundation, she decided she might as well go for it, and added a light eye shadow. Then remembering Ryan’s remark about liking to see her hair loose, she pulled out the pins holding it up.

  This is ridiculous, she told herself. He’s coming to look at Michael O’Keefe’s medical history and MRIs and CAT scans, and I’m letting myself get all done up for him. But he is nice.

  Over the weekend she had savored the memory of the evening at Ryan’s apartment. She acknowledged to herself that she had always admired him in his role as surgeon, but she had never imagined how warm and charming he could be on a personal level. I barely knew him in Georgetown, she thought. He was in his last year when I was just starting med school. He always looked so serious.

  At twenty after seven the doorbell rang. “I’m so sorry,” Ryan began when she opened the office door.

  “That was my line at your apartment on Friday,” Monica interrupted. “Come on in. I have everything I want to show you ready. I know you said that you’re on the way to the theatre.”

  She had placed the Michael O’Keefe files on a table in her waiting room. The children’s books that were normally there were stacked in the corner. Jenner glanced at them. “When I was a kid, Dr. Seuss was my favorite author,” he said. “How about you?”

  “High on the list,” Monica agreed. “How could he not be?” As Jenner sat down and reached for the file, she pulled up a chair across the table from him and watched as he reached in his pocket for his glasses.

  She studied his face as he began to read the MRIs and CAT scans. The grave expression that came over it as he held up one after another of them was exactly what she expected to see. Finally he laid them down and looked at her. “Monica, this child had incurable brain cancer that ought to have resulted in his death within twelve months. Are you telling me he is still alive?”

  “Those MRIs and scans were taken four years ago. I had just opened my practice here, so as you can imagine I was pretty nervous. Michael was four years old then. He had started having seizures and the parents thought they were looking at epilepsy. But you can see what I found. Now look at the other file. It has diagnostic tests that have been taken of Michael in the past three years. Incidentally he’s a great kid, a top student, and the captain of his Little League team.”

  His eyebrows raised, Jenner opened the second file, studied its contents, went through them one by one again, and finally laid them down. He looked at Monica for a long moment before speaking.

  “Do you see any possibility of spontaneous remission?” Monica asked.

  “None. Absolutely impossible,” Jenner said firmly.

  Monica nodded. “Be careful. You might end up on a witness list for this beatification process.”

  Ryan Jenner stood up. “If they want another opinion I’ll be glad to give it to them. From everything I have learned and seen as a doctor and a surgeon, if these records are truly those of Michael O’Keefe, that child should not be alive. Now I’d better get going. A certain young lady is going to get very unhappy if I’m not at the theatre by curtain time.”

  On Wednesday morning, after a considerable debate with herself, Monica told Nan that she had called Olivia Morrow and was going to visit her when she returned from testifying at the Bishop’s Office in Metuchen, New Jersey.

  “Does she know your grandmother?” Nan asked breathlessly.

  Monica hesitated, then carefully chose her words. “She claims she does but I will say from the sound of Ms. Morrow’s voice, I get the impression that she’s quite old. I’m reserving judgment until I meet her.”

  Why didn’t I tell Nan that Olivia Morrow claims she knew both my birth grandparents? she asked herself later that afternoon as she got into her six-year-old car for the drive to New Jersey. It’s because I’m sure that would be too good to be true. And if she did know them and can tell me about them, I will start to believe in miracles, she thought as she inched through t
he traffic on Fourteenth Street heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

  One hour later she was parking her car in front of the building that was the office of the Bishop of Metuchen. Wishing she was a thousand miles away, she stopped at the reception desk in the spacious lobby. She introduced herself and said, “I have an appointment with Monsignor Joseph Kelly.”

  The receptionist smiled. “Monsignor is expecting you, Doctor. He’s on the second floor, room 1024.”

  As she turned, Monica could see there was a chapel to the left. Is that where the formal beatification ceremony takes place? she wondered. Over the weekend she had read up on the process. It seems almost medieval, she thought. If what I read is correct, Monsignor Kelly is the Episcopal Delegate, who actually runs the investigation. Two other people will be with him when I’m questioned. One is the Promotor of Justice, whose job it is to make sure there are no phony miracles. They used to call him the Devil’s Advocate. The other person will be the Notary in the Inquiry. I guess her job is to record my testimony. And I gather I have to start by taking an oath to tell the truth.

  Ignoring the elevator, she walked up the carpeted stairs. The door of Monsignor Kelly’s office was open. He caught her eye and waved her in with a genial smile. “Dr. Farrell, come in. Thank you so much for joining us.” As he spoke he sprang up and hurried around his desk to shake her hand.

  Monica found herself immediately drawn to him. He was a man in his late sixties with dark hair only moderately sprinkled with gray, a rangy build, and intense blue eyes.

  As she had expected, there were two other people in the sitting area of the large office. One, a younger priest, was introduced as Monsignor David Fell. He was a slight man in his early forties with a boyish face. The other, perhaps ten years older than Monsignor Fell, was a tall woman with short, curly hair. She was introduced as Laura Shearing. Monica was sure she was the Notary.