seemed, could ever recall anyone named Matilde Mackay. Or was it that no one seemed willing to admit that they did? She’d even put in a call to the Register Office in Edinburgh, which told her that they could locate no record of her mother’s birth—not in Wrath Village ... not anywhere in Scotland.
But there was still the underlying sense that something was there.
By the time Libby had reached the end of the village’s main street, the sky was darkening with the coming of dusk and the wind was blowing in hard off the sea, tugging at her hair. Lights had begun to glow from cottage windows, while quiet laughter and the blare of a television spilled out from the pub’s open door.
Libby had nearly decided to give up for the day when she noticed a little church up the hill overlooking the village. Built of stone, harled and whitewashed, it had a small steepled bell that was apparently still used to summon the villagers to Sunday service by way of a rope that trailed down to the painted blue door. Headstones and crosses tilting at odd angles littered the grassy yard inside the simple stone fence that encircled the sanctuary. Many of the stones were bleached white from the salty sea spray that blew in from the bay.
The gate gave a mournful squeak as Libby entered the churchyard and walked along the narrow pathway. There was a calmness to the little enclosure despite the sea wind and she lingered amidst the headstones, reading the names, the dates, the thoughtfully composed inscriptions. Some of the stones were so weathered, she could no longer read the names, others had toppled from the effects of time, lying where they’d fallen. She noticed a number of Mackays amongst those buried and found herself wondering whether any of them could be her mother’s family.
Her
family.
Libby walked to the church door, trailing her fingers along the rough end of the rope bell pull. She grabbed the door handle, even though she expected it would be locked, and was surprised when the door swung open easily.
Inside, the church was small, with a beamed ceiling and rows of wooden benches spaced evenly beneath the arched windows. Though dusk’s shadow had darkened the light inside, Libby could easily imagine the sunrise beaming brilliantly through the windows as the minister stood in his pulpit preaching to his congregation.
There was a plaque on the wall that stated the church had been built in 1750, replacing an earlier church that had been located further outside the village. Libby walked along the flagstoned center aisle, stopping at the first row of benches. She rested a hand against the bench, the wood polished smooth by generations of parishioners who had sat through Sunday services. She could picture them, the men dressed in their Sunday best, mothers cradling babies in their arms while the older children sat alongside, fidgeting in their places. Every footstep she took seemed to echo with whispers of the weddings, christenings, and funerals that had taken place in this small sacred place.
She spied the baptismal font carved out of stone. Could her mother have been christened at that same font while the villagers looked on? Would she ever truly know?
The frustration had tears welling in her eyes and Libby let go a slow, unhappy sigh. Perhaps she should just go back to the States, back to her studio walk-up on West Seventy-sixth Street, with its view of the corner Chinese takeout whose menu she knew by entrée number. Whatever it was, whoever was pictured in the photograph, had been unknown to her all her life. Perhaps this legacy that her mother had left her was simply meant to remain a mystery forever.
“Hallo?”
Libby turned. A figure stood framed in the doorway behind her.
“Sorry to disturb. I was just checking things for the night. I didn’t think anyone was here.”
Libby got up, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving ...”
He stepped forward to meet her, an older man, with graying hair and soft,
But there was still the underlying sense that something was there.
By the time Libby had reached the end of the village’s main street, the sky was darkening with the coming of dusk and the wind was blowing in hard off the sea, tugging at her hair. Lights had begun to glow from cottage windows, while quiet laughter and the blare of a television spilled out from the pub’s open door.
Libby had nearly decided to give up for the day when she noticed a little church up the hill overlooking the village. Built of stone, harled and whitewashed, it had a small steepled bell that was apparently still used to summon the villagers to Sunday service by way of a rope that trailed down to the painted blue door. Headstones and crosses tilting at odd angles littered the grassy yard inside the simple stone fence that encircled the sanctuary. Many of the stones were bleached white from the salty sea spray that blew in from the bay.
The gate gave a mournful squeak as Libby entered the churchyard and walked along the narrow pathway. There was a calmness to the little enclosure despite the sea wind and she lingered amidst the headstones, reading the names, the dates, the thoughtfully composed inscriptions. Some of the stones were so weathered, she could no longer read the names, others had toppled from the effects of time, lying where they’d fallen. She noticed a number of Mackays amongst those buried and found herself wondering whether any of them could be her mother’s family.
Her
family.
Libby walked to the church door, trailing her fingers along the rough end of the rope bell pull. She grabbed the door handle, even though she expected it would be locked, and was surprised when the door swung open easily.
Inside, the church was small, with a beamed ceiling and rows of wooden benches spaced evenly beneath the arched windows. Though dusk’s shadow had darkened the light inside, Libby could easily imagine the sunrise beaming brilliantly through the windows as the minister stood in his pulpit preaching to his congregation.
There was a plaque on the wall that stated the church had been built in 1750, replacing an earlier church that had been located further outside the village. Libby walked along the flagstoned center aisle, stopping at the first row of benches. She rested a hand against the bench, the wood polished smooth by generations of parishioners who had sat through Sunday services. She could picture them, the men dressed in their Sunday best, mothers cradling babies in their arms while the older children sat alongside, fidgeting in their places. Every footstep she took seemed to echo with whispers of the weddings, christenings, and funerals that had taken place in this small sacred place.
She spied the baptismal font carved out of stone. Could her mother have been christened at that same font while the villagers looked on? Would she ever truly know?
The frustration had tears welling in her eyes and Libby let go a slow, unhappy sigh. Perhaps she should just go back to the States, back to her studio walk-up on West Seventy-sixth Street, with its view of the corner Chinese takeout whose menu she knew by entrée number. Whatever it was, whoever was pictured in the photograph, had been unknown to her all her life. Perhaps this legacy that her mother had left her was simply meant to remain a mystery forever.
“Hallo?”
Libby turned. A figure stood framed in the doorway behind her.
“Sorry to disturb. I was just checking things for the night. I didn’t think anyone was here.”
Libby got up, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving ...”
He stepped forward to meet her, an older man, with graying hair and soft,
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