Chapter 47
CHAPTER 47
Maura
I spend one week and two days in hospital. The doctors say I am very lucky to be alive.
“You wouldn’t believe how common accidents in the home are,” a doctor said, introducing himself as I drifted in and out of consciousness on my first day there.
He has cared for me in the week that’s followed but he has not repeated his name. I’ve taken to thinking of him as Dr. Bow Tie. Today’s bow tie is blue with white polka dots. Yesterday’s was mustard, and the day before was green. My eyes were too badly swollen to observe the colors before that.
“If only you knew the amount of women I’ve had slip on a wet floor and break three or four bones. It’s odd, really. When a man slips, he breaks a bone. Two at most. But when a woman slips, my golly, it’s almost as if that wet floor took her on in a boxing match. If you know what I’m saying.”
I allow my eyes to meet his. He’s young. Not long finished college, I’d guess. He’s tall and thin and his head is slightly too large for his body. When he speaks, it feels as if he is wrapping me in cotton wool.
“If there is anything, anything at all you want to tell me about your… erm… your fall, I’m here to listen.”
I swallow. Suddenly the cotton wool wrapping is crushing me.
“You can trust me. I promise.”
I eye him skeptically. Beyond his kind eyes and concerned smile, he is Christy’s colleague. And when the truth is on the tip of my tongue, I remind myself of that.
“I can only imagine how hard it is to fall clumsily into a clenched fist when you’re late home of an evening. Or what it’s like to slip down the stairs because dinner was burnt.”
I open my mouth, and Dr. Bow Tie leans closer to my bed, ready to listen.
“May I have some water, please?”
He sighs and I can sense his disappointment. “Of course. I’ll ask one of the nurses to bring you in a jug of water now.”
He pulls the curtain around my bed open and walks away. The heels of his shoes click across the floor and as he reaches the ward door, he turns around.
“I really hope your floors become less slippery soon,” he says. “But if they don’t… or if they become even more slippery, you come back here and ask for me, all right?”
I nod. And I know, without doubt, that if I ever return and ask for the kind and caring Dr. Bow Tie, the nurses would know who I mean.
My time in hospital is a master class in routine. At 6:00 a.m. I am woken by the clatter of cups and the rattle of trays as breakfast is prepared. At 8:00 a.m. my blood pressure is checked and something that burns is injected into my arm. Then it’s breakfast. Chitchat with the other patients. Blood pressure. Lunch. Chitchat with the other patients. Dinner. Tea. Lights out. Repeat. The days are long and tiring and I am grateful for every smiling face that walks through the door to visit me.
Ma and Da are first. Ma hugs and kisses me, and Da scolds me for putting the stress of it all on my mother’s shoulders.
“She hasn’t slept a wink, your ma, so she hasn’t,” Da says with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows pinched. “How could you be so clumsy, huh? Broken ribs and a broken leg. Good Lord, Maura. And poor Christy. You’ve had him climbing the walls with worry.”
We talk for some time, and they leave when I tell them I love them and promise to be more careful in the future.
Bernie and Dan stop by too, of course. They have to take it in turns to sit by my bedside because the hospital won’t let Marie, Elizabeth, and Alice in.
“No children on the wards,” the Sister barks.
“No children on the wards,” Bernie mimics as soon as she is out of earshot.
Bernie hangs homemade Get Well Soon cards over the metal headboard of my bed. I can tell just by looking at them which card has lovingly been crafted by each child. Alice’s card makes me laugh. The artwork consists of a giant green scribble in a continuous circular pattern. Laughing hurts, but I can’t help it. Bernie tells me how much the children miss me, and I stop laughing. I miss them too.
Dan is oddly quiet, and although I reassure him countless times that, had he not walked me home that night, my “accident” would have been a lot worse, I suspect he’s carrying some degree of guilt.
“Sort me out with a couple of free lamb chops when I get out of here and all will be right again,” I say.
“Sure thing.” He smiles and tells me he’ll leave Bernie to do the visiting from now on.
Geraldine stops by when she gets word.
She eyes me knowingly and says, “Jesus, Maura. I don’t give a damn if he is a doctor or the president of the country, he needs to learn to keep his damn hands off you.”
I place my fingers over my lip and shush her.
“I’ll say this and no more,” she says. “Something has to change. And soon. I’m worried. This isn’t the first time you’ve landed in a hospital bed. What if next time it’s a timber box six feet under?”
I hold my head high but my body feels like it weighs a ton. I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
Geraldine brings the News of the World , which I keep firmly hidden under my bedsheets and only read in the bathroom at night after the Sister has done her rounds. When Geraldine asks if there’s anything she can do or get for me, she seems surprised when I request a pair of trousers to wear home when I’m discharged.
“I think I’m going to start wearing trousers all the time from now on,” I say.
“All right. We’ve some lovely cords in stock, and rumor has it denim is coming in soon. I can’t wait.”
“Denim sounds good. Like you said, something has to change.”
Geraldine’s excitement wanes. “But I didn’t mean change your wardrobe.”
“I know. But I have to start somewhere. Christy hates trousers on women.”
Geraldine’s face lights up and she says, “Good for you, Maura. Bloody good for you.”
I have plenty of other visitors too. My brothers. My neighbors. Father Walsh. Christy’s family keep away and I am grateful for the small mercy. But of all my visitors, I’m most grateful for a particular woman who comes and sits on the end of my bed.
It’s not long after lunch one day when she appears at the doors of the ward. She’s uncertain about her whereabouts until a nurse appears beside her and points toward my bed. I sit to attention. The woman is neither old nor young. Short nor tall. Heavy nor slim. She’s wearing a black dress with a matching headscarf and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more unremarkable woman in my life. And yet, there is something that draws me to her. A shine in her eyes, or her expression. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
She shuffles into the ward, seeming nervous or unsure, and comes to a stop at the end of my bed. She opens her mouth but closes it when no sound comes out. She tries again but the same happens. She’s about to repeat for a third time when I realize what it is about her that I’m drawn to. She looks just like her.
“You’re Josie’s mother,” I say.
The woman bends in the middle and a sob escapes. For a moment I’m not sure she’s going to be able to straighten back up. But, slowly, she gathers herself.
“Sit. Sit. Please,” I say, pointing to the end of my bed.
She lowers herself onto the edge and sits with her knees together and her hands on top. I notice the rosary beads and prayer book peeking out of her pocket.
“I’m Regina Battersby,” she says, choking on her words.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I’m here to apologize. They tell me she snuck into your home, but that doesn’t sound like my Josie.”
There’s so much heartbreak etched into Mrs. Battersby’s face that it’s hard to look at. But I meet her gaze regardless.
“Josie did not sneak into my home,” I say. “It’s all a little complicated, but she was a very welcome guest.”
We talk for a long time. She tells me about Josie’s love of Irish dancing. Josie won several feises as a child and Mrs. Battersby still has all the medals. She polished some and placed them in the coffin.
“She got her dancing feet from her da. He was so proud. But that all changed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and I wish there were better words.
“I was going to pretend the baby was mine. At forty-five I’m a little old, I know, but it happens. People would have believed it. But Tom wouldn’t hear of it. Said we’d have no bastard baby in our house.”
I look at the woman whose heart is so clearly shattered and I feel her anger. I share it.
“You must think, I’m the worst mother in the world.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you have children?”
She looks at the colorful cards hanging behind me and draws her own conclusion.
“I hope they’re all boys,” she says. “If Josie was a boy she’d still be here now. She’d still be alive. I miss her so much.”
“She was a lovely girl.”
“You know, I was sending her to live with my sister in Ohio. She has a farm and Josie loves animals. Tom convinced me she’d be happy there and I was stupid enough to believe him. But Josie was never going to be happy in America, away from her friends and family. So she ran. And I don’t blame her. I just wish I would have run with her. I wish I had stuck by her. I wish she knew how much I love her. I wish it was different, that it could be different.”
I choke back tears. “I do too.”
“Thank you for helping my Josie,” she says, standing up.
My tears fall. “It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t do enough.”
“But you tried. You were brave. I was not. And I’ll have to go to my grave with that knowledge. I wasn’t brave enough to save my own daughter. What kind of mother am I?”
I know there is nothing more I can say. I cannot heal the Josie-shaped hole in Mrs. Battersby’s heart. Nothing and no one ever can. Later, when I’m all cried out, I waddle toward the bathroom with the News of the World hidden under my nightdress. I’m flicking through the pages when a small piece of paper flies out. It’s a struggle to bend and pick it up, and it’s even harder to straighten back up. But it’s worth the effort when I find a handwritten note.
Maura,
If you really want change, come to Bewley’s on Grafton Street next Wednesday at 4:00 p.m.
Ask for Nuala.
Your loving friend,
Ger x
I have no idea what Geraldine’s cryptic note means. But I know I’ll be there. I think I have to be.