Page 29 of Pages of My Heart
Eternally yours, C xxx
Chapter 17
November 1939
Thomas
After finishing his lunch shift at the diner, Thomas stands on a street corner four blocks away, fidgeting anxiously as he waits for Charlie. Today, he’s going to tell him the truth.
Thomas’s mother is dead.
It happened on a Wednesday, more than a month ago now. He had seen Charlie twice that week afterwards, but he couldn’t bring himself to share the news. They had buried her Monday morning. No proper service, just Thomas, Bridget, Eddie, and Michael at the gravesite. Maggie wasn’t even told. As far as she knew, their mother was already dead—a lie of convenience they had carried on for years.
After returning from the cemetery, Thomas had taken to bed, his limbs like lead, his thoughts turning to fog. The next day, he couldn’t rise. Nor for many days thereafter. He’s not sure how long he remained in bed before Charlie came to seehim, although he remembers asking for him. Or dreaming of him. He remembers the whispers too. Bridget and Michael hovering like dark shadows over his bed, breathing horrid things into the stale room.
“This is whatshewas like before they took her away.”
“Dad always said Tom was most like her.”
“Imagine the gossip if he turns out as crazy as her.”
He’d cried silently for hours, slept for more, and in between stared at the patterned wallpaper until his eyes blurred into a kaleidoscope of grays. His body could not grant him the energy to sit up, let alone stand. He didn’t eat, he barely drank. He burns with shame knowing he soiled his bed more than once.
It was only Charlie coming to see him that broke through the numbness, and with each subsequent visit, Thomas’s mind had started to knit itself back together. Dark thoughts were gradually replaced by Charlie’s smiling face, his body regaining its strength through gentle touches stolen when Bridget left the room, and the doubts sown by his siblings’ whispers slowly banished by the love and reassurance in Charlie’s tender words. And still, it had taken weeks to fully recover.
Thomas’s lips curl into a smile as Charlie hops off a busy streetcar and approaches, his hands growing restless with the desire to reach out, to touch. They go through their well-rehearsed routine for meeting in public—formal hellos and firm, business-like handshakes. Then Thomas’s smile drops and he lowers his voice.
“I need to take you somewhere. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Charlie looks like he’s trying to read Thomas’s mind, chewing on his bottom lip like he often does when he’s nervous. “Okay. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, but it’s something I should have told you earlier. I—I should have told you right away, but . . .” Thomas looks down at his shoes, shifting his weight and feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. “I don’t know why I didn’t, but I want to now. Come on, this way.”
It takes almost thirty minutes to reach the cemetery on foot. When it finally becomes clear that this is where Thomas is leading him, Charlie grabs his arm to stop him.
“What are we doing here?”
“It’ll be easier if I just show you.”
Concern is etched in the furrow between Charlie’s brows, but he doesn’t press any further. They make their way through the gravestones in silence until they come to a row Thomas recognizes. From there it’s not hard to find. It’s been four weeks, but the grave is still obviously fresh, the rectangle of tossed brown soil bereft of grass. And there above it, a new addition: a small, simple place marker.
In loving memory of
Maeve O’Reilly
1889–1939
“Tommy? I—I don’t understand. I thought—”
Thomas cuts him off. “She died. Just before my . . . my episode. I think that’s what brought it on.” Thomas stares at the grave, trying to swallow down the hard, painful lump growing in his throat.
“When? Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlie takes hold of him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn so they are face to face. “Sweetheart, I—I . . .”
The pity in Charlie’s eyes is difficult to look at, and it soaks Thomas in a deluge of shame. And grief. An endless grief he hardly understands.
“She died the week before I got sick. I didn’t know how to tell you. Icouldn’ttell you. I thought if I didn’t say it out loud, I could pretend it didn’t happen. I thought I could . . .” Thomas shakes his head, realizing how stupid he had been. “I was ashamed.” His chin drops to his chest, tears spilling down over his cheeks.
“Why were you ashamed? She’s your mom. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry and grieve. Hey, now—sweetheart, look at me.” Thomas breathes deeply, then lifts his eyes. Charlie’s warm fingers curl around his own. “Why do you feel ashamed?”
