“And Declan?” Matt asked.
“I knew that would be your first question, Matt. And, at first, I thought I’d have to tell him. That it was his right to know. But, really, why? He wouldn’t want to be a father to this child. And, practically speaking, he can’t be. You can’t parent from across an ocean. Besides, he’s back with his wife. None of us want our lives to intersect. But he’s so . . . so Irish Catholic, who knows how he’d respond or what this would do to his marriage. This could ruin their lives, and his knowing would definitely complicate mine. I can’t see that anything positive would come out of my telling him. Not for him or his wife or for me.” She nodded her head slowly, still working through the idea as she spoke. “Or for this one,” she cupped her hands over her belly. “This has to be my child, not our child.”
Gina considered. “He didn’t tell you about his wife, so you don’t have to tell him about his child.”
“It’s not that. It’s really not. But I don’t think I owe Declan the truth. I don’t think I owe him anything. Except maybe gratitude. For making it possible for me to have the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.” She looked from one to the other, not sure what she read in their faces. “So, what do you think?” she said with a dry laugh, looking down at her midsection. “Fate? Or the luck of the Irish?” Somehow nothing about her trip seemed random now.
“What will you tell that one?” Matt asked, nodding toward her hands stretched across her abdomen.
“I had the ultrasound today. I’m going to tell my daughter the same thing I’ll tell everyone else.” She wondered if Matt still thought she had integrity, this person who was planning to lie to her child every day for the rest of her life. And she wondered if she could stick to the plan. “This much is true: I’ll tell her I wanted her more than anything. More than other people’s approval, more than being free.”
“You’ve got that right,” Gina said. “People are definitely not going to approve and you’re going to have to kiss your freedom goodbye. It’s a good thing you got all that adventuring out of your system because you’re going to be pretty much stuck for the next couple decades.”
“Some folks might say parenthood is the greatest adventure,” Matt offered.
Gina snorted. “Some folks will say anything.”
Though seated securely in a sturdy wingback chair, Elizabeth yielded to the familiar sensation of falling into the bottomless unknown.
Acknowledgments
The Opposite of Chance was written over the enormous stretch of three and a half decades. One of the chapters/stories was penned—I say “penned” because all my first drafts are written in longhand—in Ireland in 1982, and the final chapter written in the Midwest in 2018. The rest were undertaken irregularly, between other projects, so in development this work has been examined by an assortment of readers. For most segments, my first reader has been my dear partner, David Garin, whose indisputable preference for nonfiction helps me hone and pare. Several chapters were polished with the sound advice I received from the Three Rivers writing group in the 1980s, where I harvested lasting friendships as well as improved technique.
I am fortunate to number fine writers and astute readers among my acquaintance, and within my family. Librarian Arlene Sandler, water-colorist Shelly Helfman, and poet Jane O. Wayne were kind enough to review some of my fourth or fifth drafts of individual chapters. My daughters, Sarah Hermes Griesbach and Lucy HG Solomon, both being accomplished writers as well as immersed in the visual arts, lent their critical eyes to many of the chapters over the years and to a draft of the manuscript. From a distance of 2,000 miles, Lucy held my hand virtually through the process of revising.
Several of the chapters have appeared as short stories in different literary magazines. I am particularly grateful to Adam Davis, one of the editors of the Green Hills Literary Lantern for his careful reading of “All Roads Lead to Mekka.” His gentle questions and restrained comments led me to strengthen and clarify that chapter prior to its publication in story form in GHLL.
Despite abundant research, that chapter, with its pilgrimage, still needed vetting by Muslim readers. While having no Lebanese Muslims among my acquaintance, I am fortunate to have survivors of the war in Bosnia as friends. Elvir Mandzukic and Belma and Amir Kundalic read the Mekka story for transgressions. I am particularly indebted to Amir for pointing one out and for sharing his memory of their war torn homeland.
I am beholden to poet and memoirist Jason Sommers who took the time, twice, though facing his own deadlines, to scour through the chapters featuring Irish characters and what I hoped sounded like Irish speech. His seven years residence in Dublin and his acute ear made him my Hiberno-English language authority. His humor and encouragement make him my friend.
I owe a deep debt of gratitude to two dear friends who are gifted writers and discerning readers. Both read my finished manuscript in novel form. Jacquelyn Kelly advised me on tone—and persuaded me to tone down accents—and Linda Tucci bestowed upon me the gift of a careful line reading. Their comments and suggestions and encouragement were invaluable in making the disparate parts come together.
I was fortunate to have as my agent, Gail Hochman, who gave me the gift of sympathy when I was in need of it. Delphinium Books was the right home for this particular story with its unusual structure. Their editorial director Joseph Olshan gave my manuscript his careful attention and saved me —and you—from my excesses. I am so grateful to Delphinium’s Nancy Green who saved me from some serious gaffes. “Copy editor” seems woefully inadequate. She should be given a title like Distinguished Wordsmith, or at least a crown.
Lastly, I owe this book, in the most fundamental way, to my mother, Ann Grace Hermes. It was she, following my divorce, which left me with two young children (unlike my protagonist) and no disposable income (like my protagonist), who telephoned one day to ask if I didn’t want to go to Europe. She bought my plane ticket and supplied me with some travelers’ checks (remember those?) and I set off with a borrowed backpack and great anxiety in the summer of 1982 (1981 was more tumultuous on the European continent, so that became the year of Betsy’s journey). I am so grateful for that trip, which put distance between me and my divorce, and furnished me with material for stories, and provided the unprecedented gift at the end of my travels of time spent alone with my mother who died suddenly nine months later.
About the Author
Margaret Hermes grew up in Chicago and lives in Saint Louis. Her short fiction collection, Relative Strangers, was the recipient of the Doris Bakwin Award. In addition to dozens of stories that have appeared in journals such as Fiction International, The Laurel Review, Confrontation, River Styx, and The Literary Review, and in anthologies such as 20 Over 40 and Under the Arch, her published and performed work includes a novel, The Phoenix Nest, and a stage adaptation of an Oscar Wilde fable. When not writing, she concentrates her energies on environmental issues.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Margaret Hermes
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6689-1
Published in 2021 by Delphinium Books, Inc.
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