Page 55

1935

Birchtree Manor is a pleasant-looking place, with walls of red brick surrounded by rustling maples. As I ascend the front steps, I nod at the elderly gentlemen I pass, some in wheelchairs, others as spry and fit as I am. Any one of them might be the man I seek. The man I’ve come all these miles to see. My heartbeat ratchets higher as I enter the building, the sharp, clean scent of ammonia greeting me. I make my way to the nurses’ station and give them my name.

“I called earlier. I’m here to see Mr. Nolan?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the dayroom. You’ll see it to the right, at the end of the hall—the room with all the windows. He’s usually there, sitting in his wheelchair. He likes to watch the birds.”

I readjust the paper-wrapped parcel in my arms and walk down the wide hallway and into the dayroom. Just as the nurse said, an elderly gentleman is there, sitting in a pool of sunlight, looking out the bay window, his fine gray hair combed over his freckled scalp. I pull a chair next to him and sit, perching my pocketbook on my lap. “Hello, are you Mr. Nolan?”

“Yes, the very same.” He turns toward my voice. “And who might you be, dear?” he asks, his lilting Irish brogue apparent. His smile is so much like my mother’s, it’s shocking.

“I’m Sadie. Sadie Hill. We’ve never met, but I’ve come all the way from Arkansas to meet you.”

“My, that’s a long way.”

“Yes. I’ve never been to Vermont. It’s beautiful here. I’ve been trying to find you for years.”

“Have you, then? And why is that?”

“I think you’ll know why, once I show you these pictures.” I lift the parcel and unwrap the twine and brown paper. I place the two canvases side by side on the windowsill.

He leans forward in his wheelchair, squinting, and then his eyes suddenly widen in surprise. “Oh, oh my.” His hand flies to his mouth. “Is that ...? Well, the one on the right is me, as a boy. And the other is ... no, it can’t be.”

“It is. I’m Marguerite Thorne’s granddaughter.” I reach out my hand, and he takes it, clutching it with surprising strength. “And I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

“ Really. I never realized Marguerite had any grandchildren. She must have married, then?”

“No, she never did.” I shrug. “You were the only man she ever loved, Mr. Nolan. You’re half the reason I’m sitting here today.”

Realization dawns on him slowly. “Oh ... well. I never knew.”

“She never told you she was pregnant?”

“No. Never. I knew she was hiding something from me, but not that.”

“I didn’t know, either,” I say. “Not until a month or so before she passed away.”

“She’s gone, then.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. For almost ten years now.”

He nods, his shoulders shaking as he begins to cry, his warm, soft hand in mine. I comfort him as best I can as he remembers. As he grieves. After a few minutes he looks up at me. “And the baby? What happened to her? Or was it a boy?”

“A girl. Marguerite’s eldest sister raised her. Her name was Laura.”

“Your mother.”

“Yes. My mother. Marguerite wanted to find you. She tried, for many years. She even went to Ireland, looking for you.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised she didn’t find me. I wasn’t there long. I met a lass from New York. She and I were married in ’81. She was heartsick for home. Didn’t like the slow way of life in Kildare, so we came back to the States.” He sighs. “But I never forgot Marguerite. How could I? She was my first love. It was hard, how things ended.”

“She told me. I’m very sorry.”

“Well, in those days, her class of people and mine didn’t mix. Things have changed for the better now, but back then ...” He shakes his head.

“Indeed they have. I married Marguerite’s gardener.”

“You’re happy then?”

“Very.” It suddenly occurs to me that I might have a whole family of cousins, aunts, and uncles I’ve never met. “Did you and your wife have children?”

“Oh yes. Seven of them!”

I smile. “How lucky.”

“Yes. Have you any children, my dear?”

“Only two. A boy and a girl. Bridget and Ned. Bridget is the eldest. She’s nine.” I touch my pocketbook. “I have photos. Would you like to see them?”

“Sure I would.”

I draw out the photographs.

He chuckles. “Oh, the girl looks just like Maggie, doesn’t she?”

“Maggie?”

“Marguerite. Maggie was what I called her. It suited her.”

“Ah, of course.” I vaguely remember the riverside scene I witnessed all those years ago, when Hugh had called her that. “My father was Irish, too. Marguerite always had a soft spot for him.”

“Yes, I can see the map of Ireland on your face, my dear. We know our own.”

We spend the afternoon getting acquainted, until at last the nurse interrupts us. It’s nearly dinnertime, and visiting hours are over. “You can show her your room before she goes, if you’d like, Mr. Nolan.”

I gather the portraits from the windowsill and follow the nurse as she wheels Hugh to a cozy room tucked into the corner at the end of the hall. Photographs in silver and brass frames sit on his dresser, alongside a shortwave radio set. A double wedding ring quilt covers his narrow bed, a simple wooden crucifix pinned to the wall above the headboard. I gaze at the faces of my distant relatives and at Hugh’s wedding photo, given a place of honor at the center, his bride a smiling woman with a headful of unruly curls. I prop Marguerite’s self-portrait against the wall and place the painting of Hugh next to it.

“She was such a beauty. This is just how I remember her.” He reaches forward, his fingers gently tracing Marguerite’s image. I see her eyes flicker, for the briefest second. Hugh pulls his hand back. “Oh my. How queer. I could almost swear she moved.”

I smile. “Yes. Her paintings are very special. Remarkably lifelike, aren’t they? One almost feels like they could walk right into them. Right into a memory.”

He touches his own portrait, and the canvas ripples like water. I bend close, out of earshot of his nurse. “She’s right on the other side, Hugh,” I whisper. “Waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready.”

That night, on the last train out of Burlington, as I wind my way south, I’m struck with the impression that time is an invention. A construct of scholars and scientists—a way for us to mark our days, much like the crossties on a railroad mark the miles. But our memories, precious and dear, are beyond time. Eternal. They go on forever. And perhaps, some small part of us goes on, too. It must.