Free The Memory of Us: A Novel by Camille Di Maio Page A

and instead, sat up and folded his hands over his crisscrossed legs. He looked me straight in the eye, promising the truth. When he spoke, his voice had softened.
    “I didn’t bid on you because you are the only girl that I didn’t want to go out with.”
    My eyes widened at this admission until he backtracked.
    “Wait—my fault. That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong. What I meant was, you’re the only girl that I didn’t trust myself with. I am going back to the seminary soon, and I couldn’t risk—”
    “Risk?”
    He sighed and hesitated for a moment, juggling his thoughts. I felt electricity in the air, and we leaned toward each other slightly. I could kiss him now . . .
    “I couldn’t risk falling for you any more than I already have.”
     
    Abertillery
     
    The baby nursed until she had her fill. It was unlikely that Mrs. Campbell would still be part of this world at the time of the next feeding, so I started to look for something that could substitute until a permanent solution was found. Perhaps they could put out an advertisement for a wet nurse. Everyone was trying to make an extra shilling here and there. Not that the Campbells could spare it, but what choice did they have?
    I instructed Emily to find some cheesecloth. We’d try to create a makeshift bottle by dipping it into some goat’s milk and letting the baby suckle it. As she left the bedroom, I could hear the murmurings of the men coming from the other room.
    The baby suddenly let out a desperate scream, demanding my attention. My nipples tingled in response, startling me, and my arms encircled them out of instinct. My own milk had dried up over two decades ago, never used. My breasts, once a gateway to intimacy, had not been seen by anyone since then. And yet, I knew they were still the most beautiful part of me, smooth and plump, spared the scars that had entombed the face of my youth.
    The newest Campbell wailed again, and I broke myself away from thoughts of long ago. I dipped her into the now-warm water that had been prepared, and gently, gently rubbed her wrinkled skin. How many times had I done this? At least a hundred. It was common knowledge that babies didn’t need to be handled so delicately—they had just survived the trauma of the birth canal, so could certainly handle a decent scrubbing. But in my arms, this nearly motherless child felt especially fragile.
    Behind me, the men entered the room—the dying woman’s husband, and the mysterious Father McCarthy. I heard the priest open his kit and place bottles on the side of the bed. Oil and holy water, if I remembered correctly.
    “Pax huic domui. Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”
    A chill meandered down my spine, spreading through my body until I was covered in goose bumps. The name, the voice, the ritual—they stirred memories that I had thought to be permanently buried. Darkness surrounded me as I closed my eyes and recalled the explanation that the boy from my youth had given:
    “This is called extreme unction. It helps to send the dying person along on their journey.”
    Those words sounded hollow, as if they were said in a tunnel, a long tunnel that spanned the distance of decades and was devoid of light. Holding the baby in my right arm, I put my good hand on my temples and squeezed hard, banishing the visions.
    I glanced to my side just enough to see the priest wrap a flat purple stole around his neck, but he turned before I could see his face. “Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Gloria Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” The damned dead language taunted me. I hadn’t set foot in a church since that Christmas morning when I became somebody else. The condemned don’t have any need for religion.
    I returned to my task and laid the baby in a dry towel. Her cobalt eyes looked back at me through half-shut eyelids, still new to light. She relaxed in the comfort of my embrace as I rocked her gently. I was most at ease around babies. They