The Wonder(8)

Creepies had to mean the log stools the woman was shoving practically into the flames for her guests. Lib chose one and tried to inch it farther away from the hearth. But the mother looked offended; clearly, right by the fire was the position of honour. So Lib sat, putting down her bag on the cooler side so her ointments wouldn’t melt into puddles.

Rosaleen O’Donnell crossed herself as she sat down and so did the priest and the nun. Lib thought of following suit. But no, it would be ridiculous to start aping the locals.

The singing from the so-called good room seemed to swell. The fireplace opened into both parts of the cabin, Lib realized, so sounds leaked through.

While the maid winched the hissing kettle off the fire, Mrs. O’Donnell and the priest chatted about yesterday’s drop of rain and how unusually warm the summer was proving on the whole. The nun listened and occasionally murmured assent. Not a word about the daughter.

Lib’s uniform was sticking to her sides. For an observant nurse, she reminded herself, time need never be wasted. She noted a plain table, pushed against the windowless back wall. A painted dresser, the lower section barred, like a cage. Some tiny doors set into the walls; recessed cupboards? A curtain of old flour sacks nailed up. All rather primitive, but neat, at least; not quite squalid. The blackened chimney hood was woven of wattle. There was a square hollow on either side of the fire, and what Lib guessed was a salt box nailed high up. A shelf over the fire held a pair of brass candlesticks, a crucifix, and what looked like a small daguerreotype behind glass in a black lacquer case.

“And how’s Anna today?” Mr. Thaddeus finally asked when they were all sipping the strong tea, the maid included.

“Well enough in herself, thanks be to God.” Mrs. O’Donnell cast another anxious glance towards the good room.

Was the girl in there singing hymns with these visitors?

“Perhaps you could tell the nurses her history,” suggested Mr. Thaddeus.

The woman looked blank. “Sure what history has a child?”

Lib met Sister Michael’s eyes and took the lead. “Until this year, Mrs. O’Donnell, how would you have described your daughter’s health?”

A blink. “Well, she’s always been a delicate flower, but not a sniveller or tetchy. If ever she had a scrape or a stye, she’d make it a little offering to heaven.”

“What about her appetite?” asked Lib.

“Ah, she’s never been greedy or clamoured for treats. Good as gold.”

“And her spirits?” asked the nun.

“No cause for complaint,” said Mrs. O’Donnell.

These ambiguous answers didn’t satisfy Lib. “Does Anna go to school?”

“Oh, Mr. O’Flaherty only doted on her.”

“Didn’t she win the medal, sure?” The maid pointed at the mantel so suddenly that the tea sloshed in her cup.

“That’s right, Kitty,” said the mother, nodding like a pecking hen.

Lib looked for a medal and found it, a small bronzed disc in a presentation case beside the photograph.

“But after she caught the whooping cough when it came through the school last year,” Mrs. O’Donnell went on, “we thought to keep our little colleen home, considering the dirt up there and the windows that do be always getting broken and letting draughts in.”

Colleen; that was what the Irish seemed to call every young female.

“Doesn’t she study just as hard at home anyway, with all her books around her? The nest is enough for the wren, as they say.”

Lib didn’t know that maxim. She pushed on, because it had occurred to her that Anna’s preposterous lie might be rooted in truth. “Since her illness, has she suffered from disturbances of the stomach?” She wondered if violent coughing might have ruptured the child internally.

But Mrs. O’Donnell shook her head with a fixed smile.

“Vomiting, blockages, loose stools?”

“No more than once in a while in the ordinary course of growing.”

“So until she turned eleven,” Lib asked, “you’d have described your daughter as delicate, nothing more?”

The woman’s flaking lips pressed together. “The seventh of April, four months ago yesterday. Overnight, Anna wouldn’t take bite nor sup, nothing but God’s own water.”

Lib felt a surge of dislike. If this were actually true, what kind of mother would report it with such excitement?

But of course it wasn’t true, she reminded herself. Either Rosaleen O’Donnell had had a hand in the hoax or the daughter had managed to pull the wool over the mother’s eyes, but in any case, cynical or gullible, the woman had no reason to feel afraid for her child.

“Before her birthday, had she choked on a morsel? Eaten anything rancid?”

Mrs. O’Donnell bristled. “There does be nothing rancid in this kitchen.”

“Did you plead with her to eat?” asked Lib.

“I might as well have saved my breath.”

“And Anna gave no reason for her refusal?”

The woman leaned a little closer, as if imparting a secret. “No need.”

“She didn’t need to give a reason?” asked Lib.

“She doesn’t need it,” said Rosaleen O’Donnell, her smile revealing her missing teeth.

“Food, you mean?” asked the nun, barely audible.