Fall on Your Knees

  “Then who’re we visiting if they’re all dead?”

  “Ambrose.”

  Lily searches Frances’s face. “Ambrose is dead.”

  “No he isn’t.”

  “He is so, he drownded, you said.”

  “Yes, he drowned, but he isn’t dead, Lily, he’s an angel, remember? He became an angel, it happens. And he’s in there. That’s where he lives. I think it’s time you met him.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, I’ll be with you.”

  “No.”

  Frances seizes Lily’s arm and pulls her along, like trying to get a dog up stairs.

  “You’ll earn a badge for this, Lily.”

  “I don’t want to go in there, Frances.” Lily’s voice is shaking with fear.

  “You can’t get your wings and fly up to Guides if you don’t earn your guardian angel badge.”

  Frances starts laughing and Lily knows it’s going to get bad. They’ve started up the slope, Lily twisting in Frances’s grasp. Frances grapples her into a sack of potatoes over her shoulder. Lily ceases to struggle. They climb up to the mouth of the mine. They enter.

  There’s nothing much to see — a few rotting ribs of wood and pit props, a rusted shovel. Frances carries Lily forward. It gets darker. The air is musty. They follow a bend in the tunnel and lose sight of the light at the entrance. Frances walks on slowly into the dank and shapeless dark.

  Lily asks quietly, “What if we get lost?”

  “We won’t. Ambrose will find us.”

  Lily whimpers.

  “He loves you, Lily, don’t be afraid.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “We are home. We’re in his home.”

  Frances stops and puts Lily down. Her fingers feel for the snap on her Girl Guide pouch. She withdraws a cigarette, and strikes a match against her belt buckle. The tongue of fire illuminates: a pool of still water inches from their feet, dear God, how deep is it? And over there, against the wall — Lily screams. Frances lights her cigarette and blows out the match.

  “There’s someone here, Frances.” Lily’s voice is shaking.

  “I know.”

  “He’s standing over there. On the other side of the water.”

  Frances takes a big puff. “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s got overalls on. And a pick. And a peaked cap.”

  “Is there a lamp on his cap?”

  “Yes. The teapot kind.”

  “He must have been dead quite a while.”

  Frances blows invisible smoke rings.

  “Frances” — Lily’s fear is spilling over.

  “It’s not Ambrose, Lily. It’s a dead miner.”

  Frances lights another match: the pool, the seeping wall — Lily cries out again as the flame disappears.

  “It’s not a miner, Frances.”

  “What is it?”

  “He’s got a mask on.”

  “A Hallowe’en mask?”

  “A gas mask. He’s got a rifle with a bayonet on the end.”

  “A dead soldier.”

  Frances lights another match: the black water, stones and earthen walls —

  “He’s gone,” says Lily.

  “Ambrose took him away ’cause he knew you were scared. Baby. Brownie baby.”

  “Ambrose isn’t here.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “Where?”

  Frances drops her cigarette and it sizzles against the unseen pool.

  “In there.”

  Lily looks down, dizzy from the dark. “Angels live in heaven.”

  “They live wherever the hell they want.”

  “I’m telling. You smoked and swore.”

  “Go ahead and tattle. Ambrose and I will still look after you no matter what.”

  “There’s no such thing as Ambrose.”

  “At night he dives down in this pool and swims in an underground river till it comes out at the surface and turns into our creek. He takes a breath and swims in the shallow water, long and white, all the way till he gets to our place. Then he climbs out over the top of the bank and slowly walks, dripping, across our yard and opens the kitchen door. He walks past the oven. He walks into the hall past the front room. He walks up the stairs without a sound, and past the attic door. He comes into the room where you’re asleep. He stands at the foot of the bed and looks down at you. He has red hair.

  “And then he leaves. But he can’t swim back. He has to move the rock in the garden and go down a tunnel that’s too small for him now, until he gets to the sad and lonely mine. He walks for miles in his bare feet past all the quiet soldiers and miners resting against the walls. And every time he makes the journey back to the pool, his heart breaks. So you see how much he loves you, Lily, to make such a trip night after night.”

  Silence. Lily pees her pants.

  Frances’s footsteps trot away and around the bend until Lily can’t hear them any more. Her Brownie stockings are soaked. She passes out.

  When Frances doesn’t hear Lily cry or holler, she runs back through the darkness and lights another match. Oh my God, “Lily!” But Lily lies motionless, dead of a heart attack at ten, it could happen, “Lily!” Frances shakes her, splashes water on her face, and she wakes up. Frances piggy-backs her out of the mine and slides half the way down the hill in stones and dirt. When they get to the bottom, she props Lily against a mossy tree and catches her breath, hands on her knees.

  Lily opens her eyes. “Frances, I peed.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll go straight home and change, come on.”

  Lily stays sitting. “Frances. What if Ambrose is the Devil?”

  “He’s not the Devil. I know who the Devil is and it isn’t Ambrose.”

  “Who’s the Devil?”

  Frances crouches down as if she were talking to Trixie. “That’s something I’ll never tell you, Lily, no matter how old you get to be, because the Devil is shy. It makes him angry when someone recognizes him, so once they do the Devil gets after them. And I don’t want the Devil to get after you.”

  “Is the Devil after you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus can beat the Devil.”

  “If God wants.”

  “God is against the Devil.”

  “God made the Devil.”

  “Why?”

  “For fun.”

  “No, to test us.”

  “If you know, why are you asking me?”

  “Daddy says there’s no such thing as the Devil, it’s just an idea.”

  “The Devil lives with us.”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “You see the Devil every day. The Devil hugs you and eats right next to you.”

  “Daddy’s not the Devil.”

  “I never said he was….”

  Frances has got a dry look, tinder in the eye; her voice is a stack of hay heating up at the centre, her mouth a stitched line. “I’m the Devil.”

  This is the moment Lily stops being afraid of anything Frances could ever say or do again. Stops being afraid of anything at all. She reaches out and takes Frances’s hand. The white hand that always smells of small wildflowers, lily of the valley. The hand that has always done up Lily’s buttons and laces, and produced wondrous objects. She holds Frances’s hand and tells her, “It’s okay, Frances.”

  Frances’s bruised face crumples and her forehead drops to her knees knocking her Girl Guide beret askew. Her stick arms encircle her legs and she cries. Lily strokes the sinewy back while Frances mumbles something over and over.

  Years later, Frances remembers that she was saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Lily, I’m sorry.”

  But memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.

  The First Miracle

  My own soul cries out in anguish, it thirsts so much for purification and cleansing. Even while I sleep my soul groans for complete surrender to Jesus. Ah my Saviour, my heart bleeds with pain and love. Oh, Jesus — You know it ??
? My Jesus!

  “THE SECRETS OF PURGATORY,”

  AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  While Frances and Lily were at the old French mine, Mercedes was home in the coal cellar keeping her promise to God.

  “Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.” Penance has not only eased her soul, it has been the occasion for Our Lady to put the idea into Mercedes’ mind of a Lourdes fund for Lily. Why didn’t I think of it before? But Mercedes knows the answer. She wasn’t worthy to receive the inspiration until she acknowledged her sins and humbly begged God’s forgiveness.

  Naturally Mercedes has made a full confession: “Father forgive me, for I have sinned…. I wished my lame sister dead of a fall, I grieved my poor father, I allowed my favourite sister to suffer for my sin. I have a favourite sister.” She has been assigned a standard penance of prayers, but she has devised an additional private penance here in the cellar.

  Although she has told no one of her penance, she has told Daddy and Frances about the Lourdes fund so that they may contribute, and she has told Lily so that Lily may have hope. There is nearly two dollars in the cocoa tin already and it’s only been a week. At this rate, Lily will be able to go to Lourdes when she’s fourteen. That’s a good age for a cure. The brink of womanhood. Think how perfectly lovely Lily would be without her affliction.

  Mercedes rises, takes off the white shift and hides it behind the furnace. She stands naked for a moment in the darkness and says a prayer of thanks to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Most Blessed Virgin, Merciful Mother, Virgin Most Powerful, Seat of Wisdom, Tower of Ivory, Mystical Rose, Queen of the Apostles, Martyrs and all the Saints, Mother Undefiled, pray for us. White Rose of Purity, Winsome One, the Daintiest Jewel that God hath ever made, Great Casket of Mysteries, Princess Fair, that death may be but a prelude to thy kiss, amen.

  Then she gets dressed and goes upstairs to wash her tongue before everyone gets home.

  She has set the table for supper by the time Lily and Frances arrive rather late from Brownies and Guides. Lily goes straight up to the bathroom to launder her uniform and woollen stockings “for a cleanliness badge”. Frances goes straight to bed to avoid the meal. No one has invented a badge for that yet. Mercedes tells Daddy that Frances is “indisposed” knowing he will not enquire further. Lies like that are not a sin, they are a sacrifice. Mercedes goes upstairs to get Lily.

  Lily is kneeling barefoot at the tub which is how Mercedes notices that the wound on her left heel has reopened. That’s not good. It’s two weeks now since Armistice Day. Mercedes wrings out Lily’s Brownie uniform and soaks the bad foot in warm salt water.

  “We’ll have the doctor look at it tomorrow.”

  Lily has noticed something different about Mercedes lately. For example, now — her movements. They’ve gone … glidy. Mercedes gets a clean dressing from the cabinet. She binds the wound gently and efficiently, not too tight this time, so why does Lily feel frightened as she watches the white cloth go round and round and round her little foot?

  “There.”

  “Thank you, Mercedes.”

  Mercedes smiles at Lily with the peace that penance brings. Lily makes her mouth stretch east and west simultaneously. And again she feels a little scared because Mercedes’ smile is the kind of smile you figure must be meant for the person standing behind you, but behind you is the wall.

  They have sardines on toast for supper since no one is very hungry tonight.

  When Lily crawls into bed, Frances is already asleep. And soon, so is Lily.

  It’s Ambrose. Standing at the foot of her bed, looking down at her the way he does. Lily is in that place again between the lines. This time she looks at him carefully. His wide green eyes, wincing even in this dim light. High smooth forehead with the hint of a bump. His pale body, green shadows drowned beneath his skin. Ivory belly, strange soft segments nestled between his thighs. Hairless but for his head of fine-spun angel orange.

  Lily asks him, “Who are you?”

  She is prepared for the flood but he does not open his mouth. Instead, he turns his palms to her. They are blank.

  She asks him again, “Who are you?”

  He opens his mouth and the water pours out but Lily stays in the in-between place and does not make a sound until she and the bed and Frances sleeping next to her are soaked. It’s not so bad. The water is warm, having been inside him. When all the water is out of him, he is still looking, looking, his empty palms facing her.

  She asks for the third time, “Who are you?”

  Ambrose speaks his first words. He has a dark voice because he lives in a dark place. “I am No Man.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Ambrose. Don’t be afraid. We love you.”

  Ambrose says, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” says Lily. “Hello, little boy. Hello.”

  Lily wakes up because Mercedes is sponging her head. “She’s waking up.”

  “Ambrose,” says Lily.

  “She’s delirious.” Mercedes’ voice feels like surgery on Lily’s skin.

  “Who took my skin?”

  “Soaked with fever.”

  Lily buries her face in her drenched pillow because the light is an eye operation.

  “The light is off, Lily, see? There’s no light on.”

  Daddy has arrived with the doctor. It’s a good sign that Lily’s fever has broken, unless her temperature goes back up. Gangrene. Somewhere in the scalpel light Lily hears him talking to Daddy and her sisters, “You did the right thing, Mercedes.” They’ll have to keep an eye on her for the rest of the night, if her temp goes up, if it goes up…. They go out into the hall, Lily can’t hear them any more except that Mercedes cries out something, then Frances comes back in and sings songs to Lily. Nice ones. Beautiful sad ones in minor keys, long story songs that our ancestors sang on the boats coming over in other languages.

  That was midnight. At 3:30 a.m. Lily wakes up. There’s a bright moon glazing the window. On either side, Frances and Mercedes are slumped in chairs under bedsheets lit like snow-drifts shadowed blue. It’s Christmas Eve. The shepherds have fallen asleep beneath their flocks of snow. Lily sits up in bed. Her skin is no longer sore. She feels cool and calm, a midnight clear. She walks between the snow-drifts and their deep sleepers to the window because she has been invited. Oh, it’s not the moon at all, there is no moon tonight, the light is coming from the creek.

  Ambrose is in the creek. He is leaning out to wave, his left arm above his head, his right arm stretched along the lip of earth. His lower body is concealed by the embankment, he looks like a merman waving to Lily in the slow wide lullaby of the ocean, hello…. His skin has changed from white to amber and the glow has wakened Lily from her bed of fire into soothing rose milk. She puts a hand to the window, hello…. Ambrose is the drowned sun, he is the buried sunshine, he’s saying, come Lily, come. My sister. And I will heal you. A garden locked, a fountain sealed, many waters cannot quench me. He says, the spring in my garden pours down from Lebanon, come to me and I will give you rest. And Lily says, yes. She is asleep but her heart is wakeful, yes I’m coming, Ambrose. Wait for me dear brother, I am coming.

  Lily leaves the snow sleepers by the window and walks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door and over the coal clinkers in the back yard in her bare feet, she shouldn’t be able to walk at all with her wounded heel but there’s no pain. Just the glow of Ambrose waiting for her in the creek, her big baby brother. He opens his arms. She goes to him. He picks her up in her white nightgown and cradles her, her head resting in the crook of his left shoulder, his right arm encircling her body. She has never felt so warm and peaceful, are my eyes open or closed, it doesn’t matter. There is almost no sensory change between the air and the water, it takes her a moment to realize why she feels lighter now and even more tenderly embraced — it takes the sight of her own hair fanning out from her head and the thickening of the soft orange light to let her know that now she is under water, her cheek resting against his brea
st, her body curved around its first companion, I would take you to my mother’s house, to the room of she who conceived me — Lily has never got used to being alone. They turn in the water and turn again, then Ambrose lifts her above the surface once more and the creek rains down from her. He lays her gently on the bank and her heart breaks. Her tears begin to flow because he is leaving — don’t go! He sinks into the water on his back — take me with you! His body turns white again and shimmers into segments until all the pieces disappear. Lily lies face down at right angles to the creek, her head hanging over the edge, arms outstretched towards the spot where she last saw her brother.

  That’s how Mercedes finds her at 5:00 a.m., in the first snowfall of the season.

  Mercedes blamed herself for the fever that was consuming Lily and might result in the loss of her leg or worse. That was why she went straight to the coal cellar after the doctor’s visit. While Frances sang to Lily in the dark, Mercedes was naked under burlap, kneeling by the furnace, offering up her sacrifice to God.

  She cups the lump of coal in both hands, elevates it and bows her head; “Through my fault.” When she did this last week she was serene, a foolish smile on her lips. This time, however, she weeps hot tears. This time she is truly penitent. That was the problem the first time. Pride. She was proud of herself for staging her penance in the cellar, for establishing the Lourdes cocoa tin. She was pleased with herself as she bathed and bandaged Lily’s foot with an expertise she thought surpassed that of the nurses at New Waterford General. Her piety was pride in the Devil’s guise, her penitence nothing but a fresh occasion of sin, oh how often must we learn the same lesson? God reacted swiftly and smote Lily. “Through my fault,” Mercedes can barely get out the words, and as she takes the first bite of coal, chews and swallows, sorrow overwhelms her. She is so bitterly aware of how she hurt God, and of how God in His infinite mercy has given her this second chance of which she is not worthy. “Through my most grievous fault.” She takes another bite of coal….

  When Mercedes finished in the cellar, she rose shakily, changed back into her nightgown and went upstairs, where she washed the soot, snot and tears off her face, scrubbed her tongue as best she could, got her opal rosary and went in to keep watch on Lily. She fell asleep in a chair opposite Frances. When she awoke for no reason at 4:55 a.m., Lily was gone. Mercedes obeyed an ancient reflex to look out the window and down at the creek.