Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

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 about 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.”

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?”