Maggie's Choice by Susan Taylor Meehan

Author:Susan Taylor Meehan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000 FIC027200 FIC014000 FICTION / General / Historical / 20th Century / Romance
ISBN: 9781771231848
Publisher: General Store Publishing House
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

FIFTEEN

IT WASN’T QUITE what I expected. Oh, the homecoming was wonderful. The new train station was alive with returning soldiers and their families. A brass band was playing, bunting adorned the grand hall, and a huge sign welcomed us all home. The whole family turned out to meet me — there must have been at least thirty-five O’Connor adults and children crowding the platform.

There was lots of crying, hugging, kissing, laughing, and crying all over again as we made our way to my parents’ home. We talked long into the night, breathlessly sharing news, reminiscing, drinking in each other’s presence. Even Helen was animated, laughing and talking, and I could see from Papa’s face that he had long since forgiven me for going off to war.

It was after everyone had gone and my parents had retired that the silence hit me. I went upstairs and sat on the bed in the room I had shared with my two sisters. I looked around at the faded wallpaper, the framed picture of the Sacred Heart, and Helen’s alphabet sampler. I ran my hand over my grandmother’s quilt, picked up a favourite doll, flipped open our dog-eared copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

I walked over to the old dresser we had all shared. A framed photograph taken sometime in the late 1890s sat on the top. All ten of us kids — seven boys and three girls — and various aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, were at a family picnic at our uncle Tim’s farm. Two-year-old Charlie was sitting in Mother’s lap, laughing delightedly at something. I caressed his little face and then put the picture aside.

I pulled open the first drawer, half expecting a mad jumble of clothing and other girlish possessions to come spilling out. Instead, I saw two nursing diplomas from St. Vincent’s. “Margaret Mary O’Connor” and “Helen Mary O’Connor,” they read. “On the 7th day of June in the year of Our Lord 1910 . . .”

Graduation! What a day that was: warm, with a light breeze and not a cloud in the sky. The house was in turmoil that morning as we got ready for the ceremony. Helen and I were too nervous to eat or even to drink a cup of tea, but I can still see in my mind’s eye our brothers devouring everything in sight with their customary gusto. They left in a clatter to do their morning chores, while Eileen, who was about twelve then, ironed our veils one last time and chattered like a magpie.

We fussed and fussed over our uniforms. Everything had to be perfect. Helen, always the clown, pinned her veil on backwards and lurched around the kitchen like a drunken ghost. It broke the tension, and we all collapsed into helpless laughter. But somehow, in spite of ourselves, we managed to get everything just right, and we boarded the old carriage singing and laughing in the sunshine.

What stays in my mind from that day? My father’s face. He never said much, my Papa, but I think he and I spoke the same language.

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