An Irish Christmas

by Melody Carlson

  “Why’s that?” I asked him.

  “The ferryboat captain will not go out to the island during a class ten gale.” He looked at me as if questioning my state of mind for not already knowing this. “And, certainly, Inishbofin has no telephones. Everyone knows that.”

  I turned and stared at my son in disbelief. “You were really there? Out on this island with no phones?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, trust me, Mom, this isn’t the kind of thing a guy makes up.”

  14

  Jamie

  Mom and I got a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant, and I told her all about my strange visit in Inishbofin, which I learned was Irish for Island of the White Cow, and I actually thought might make a good name for a band if I ever started one again. Probably better than Jamie and the Muskrats. Apparently that name was the result of someone a few centuries back seeing a white cow there during a dense fog. I asked my new friend Katie how anyone could see a white cow through dense fog, and she just laughed.

  “I got stuck on the island for two long nights,” I explained, “all because of that storm and the ferryboat not coming. And it was pretty creepy for a while. But by yesterday afternoon, the storm cleared up and Katie gave me a bicycling tour of the island, which was actually kind of interesting. Then this morning, before the ferry came, she took me to see these amazing tide pools.”

  “Really?” Mom looked impressed.

  “Yeah, at first all I wanted to do was to get out of that place. I mean, it felt like a prison and, man, was it ever cold and wet. And, oh yeah, did I mention that they lost their electricity?”

  “Sounds like quite an experience.”

  “You got that right. But now I’m glad I went and I’d like to go back again, maybe just for a day. Only I’d make sure to tell you. I really did feel bad about being AWOL and not able to call—especially after I got stuck there for the second day. I knew you’d be frantic.”

  Then Mom told me about how it was actually good for her having me gone, and how she really learned to pray and to trust God. “I need to lean on God more,” she admitted. “Instead of trying to hold everything together myself.”

  “Yeah,” I told her. “I kind of learned the same thing too.”

  “I know it’s just the beginning for me,” she said, “and I have a feeling there are still a lot of things I need to work out . . .”

  “Like what?” I was starting to see Mom with a new set of eyes. She wasn’t just Mom anymore. She had been in love with a man I’d never known, kept this hidden for years. It really was pretty mysterious.

  She studied me, as if trying to decide how much to say. Then she sighed. “Things about your dad . . .”

  “You mean Hal, that dad?”

  She smiled faintly. “Yes, that dad. Sometimes I feel that I cheated him, Jamie. I feel guilty that I didn’t love him enough.”

  “Oh, Mom.” I reached over and put my hand over hers. “Like I told you before, Dad was ‘over the moon’ for you.

  I don’t know how you could’ve possibly made him any happier.”

  She shook her head. “But I feel guilty.”

  “Look,” I began, “you told Dad what was up before you guys got married, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “He knew exactly what he was getting into.”

  She nodded.

  “And he was thrilled about it. You were a really good wife to him. You made him happy. And I know he was proud of you. He loved everything about you, the way you took care of us, your cooking, your housekeeping, your looks—the works. Honestly, Mom, what more could you have done?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know . . .”

  “You gotta let that go.”

  Now she smiled at me. “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  Mom laughed. “Oh, the confidence of youth.”

  “You should’ve seen me the night of the storm,” I admitted. “I didn’t look too confident then.”

  “I almost forgot,” Mom said. “I went to see Kerry at the Anchor Inn today, and she invited us to join them at the restaurant for Christmas Day.”

  I slapped my forehead. “Man, I almost forgot Christmas. When is it anyway?”

  “Wednesday.”

  I nodded, reminding myself to pick up a present for her. It seemed the least I could do, considering how I must’ve worried her. And I was impressed with how she was taking everything so well. It seemed like we’d really moved on now.

  “And Kerry invited you to come up and play the piano again.”

  “Really? That’d be cool.” But suddenly I wasn’t so sure. What if it was hard on Mom hearing me play? What if it reminded her too much of my father? “But, you know, I don’t have to . . .”

  “But don’t you want to?”

  “Of course, I want to. But not if you don’t want me to. I remember how it was that night, the first time you heard me play . . .”

  “Oh, I loved hearing you play, Jamie. It was just, well, you know . . . everything I told you. About Liam and all. That was hard. But I do love hearing you play.”

  “Maybe we could go up there tonight,” I said, glancing at the clock. “It’s getting close to dinnertime anyway.”

  Mom frowned slightly now.

  “That’s okay . . .” I had a feeling that she didn’t really want to go, and although I wanted to understand this, it made me feel bad too.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said quickly. “But you’re wrong. I really do love hearing you play. In fact, I’ve decided to get a piano when we get back home.”

  “You mean if the house hasn’t been sold,” I teased.

  “Even if it does sell. I’d still get a piano for the next house.”

  I considered telling her about my old secondhand piano, but figured that could wait. “But you don’t want to go to the Anchor Inn tonight?”

  “I think I’m a little worn out. I already walked up there and back once today. And I just had a lovely tea with Kerry.” She paused. “Why don’t you go on up there and play tonight, if you like. Then, if you aren’t tired of the place, we could go up there again tomorrow. You could ask Kerry to reserve a table for us on Sunday night.”

  “Really, you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” She smiled brightly. “I’m just so glad that you’re back. And that we’re okay. I think it’d be wonderful if you went up there. And I know Kerry will be so happy to see you.”

  “Cool!” I studied Mom closely. “I’m really interested in hearing more about Liam. And I’m curious about where his parents were from. Do you think I might have any living relatives in Ireland?”

  She nodded. “I think it’s a possibility. And all I can remember was that Liam wanted to come to Connemara someday. It was the first time I’d heard of the place, but it stuck in my mind.”

  “Wow, so he could have relatives around here?”

  “Maybe so. Although I know a lot of people emigrated about the same time as his parents did. I’d meant to ask around, about the name O’Neil, but I haven’t really gotten around to it yet. I guess I was a little distracted . . .”

  “Sorry. Maybe we can both check around some. Did you ask Kerry if she knew any O’Neils?”

  She shook her head. “I told her about Liam and all that, but I don’t think I even mentioned his last name . . . we were talking about so many things.”

  “We’ll have to see what we can find out,” I said.

  We talked awhile longer, but I think Mom could tell I was getting antsy, and she finally suggested I head on up there.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, feeling a little guilty for leaving her.

  She winked at me. “Yes, I’m absolutely positive. I’m actually looking forward to a quiet evening with my book.”

  I knew she meant an evening when she didn’t have to be worried about her mixed-up son, but I didn’t say this. “Well, I better go change.” I nodded down to my fisherman knit sweater. “I finally got this thing dried out, but
I’m sure it doesn’t smell too fresh after all the weather and everything I’ve been through.”

  She laughed. “Maybe we can find a dry cleaners.”

  So I freshened up, and although it was dark, I went ahead and walked on up to the restaurant. Kerry was so warm when she welcomed me that I felt right at home. The place wasn’t full, but lots busier than last time, and Dolan insisted on bringing me some complimentary fish and chips even before I sat down to play.

  “Don’t ya even think of paying,” he whispered as he set the plate down, “or my sister will be fit to be tied.”

  I hurried to finish my dinner, went to wash my hands, then sat down to play. It felt so good to have my hands on the keys again. It was as if they belonged there. And, even though I hadn’t played for several days, it seemed that my playing had actually improved. Or else it just felt like it. The diners clapped their approval after each piece, and when I took a little break to have a sip of the lemon soda that Donal had brought me, Kerry approached the piano with an attractive blonde woman with her. I was guessing that the woman was about my mom’s age.

  “This is my dear friend,” Kerry said. “She was so impressed with your playing that she wanted to meet you. Margaret, I’d like to introduce you to my young American friend, Jamie Frederick.”

  The woman stared at me with a curious expression. “You play quite well, Jamie Frederick.” Her accent was Irish, but something about her appearance seemed American. Maybe it was her pink knit dress. It reminded me of something my mother might wear.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a most unusual style,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as if she were nervous about something. “Very unusual, I’d say.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I’m sort of self-taught. I kind of do my own thing.”

  “Interesting . . . you taught yourself to play piano?”

  “That’s right.” I studied her, curious as to why she didn’t go back to her table so I could continue to play.

  “And you’re an American?”

  I nodded. Kerry had returned to the kitchen by now, and I wasn’t quite sure what more I could say to this lady, but I figured I should be friendly, even if her questioning did make me uneasy. Who was she anyway? “Yeah, I used to play guitar and I had my own band”—I rambled just to fill the space—“but then I got interested in piano and just took it up on my own. I took a few music classes, but haven’t had any real piano lessons or anything.”

  Her pale eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s quite impressive.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her, wondering if perhaps she was some kind of music professor or a recording person. Who knew? At least she seemed to like my music. Still, I wished she’d leave. Something about those pale blue eyes just staring at me as if I were a monkey in the zoo made my skin sort of crawl.

  “The way you play . . . your style . . . it reminds me of someone.” Again, she glanced over her shoulder, then back at me with an odd expression. I was starting to feel like a character in The Twilight Zone. The Irish Twilight Zone. “Yeah?” What was this lady after anyway? Was she a groupie? Did she think I was famous and wanted an autograph?

  “Yes. You play in a style very similar to my good friend . . . and what’s even odder is that you look quite a bit like him—or rather the way he looked when he was about your age. You could almost be brothers.”

  I suddenly remembered what my mom had said about my biological father and how I played piano and looked so much like him. Could she possibly know a relative of mine? Or maybe she’d known him, long ago. I felt my heart starting to pound now, like something really weird was going on here, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Would you mind if I introduced him to you?”

  “Who?” I managed to blurt out.

  She waved to a table in the corner of the room. “My friend William,” she said.

  “Oh . . .” I took in a quick breath, trying to steady myself although I was still seated. “Sure.”

  She waved to a middle-aged man now, motioning him over here. He slowly stood and, using a cane, walked toward the piano with a slight limp. He was a nice-looking guy, fairly tall, with dark hair.

  “William,” Margaret said, “this is Jamie Frederick. I was just complimenting him on his fine musical abilities.”

  I stood and the man shook my hand. Now I could see his hair was tinged with gray at the temples, and he peered at me with a pair of intensely blue eyes—eyes that seemed familiar somehow.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Jamie. I was taken aback by your distinctive style of music. Perhaps Margaret mentioned it, but I play in a similar style and I have to say it’s not something you hear every day.” His accent was mostly Irish, but I sensed a hint of an American mixed in there as well.

  “Jamie just told me that he’s self-taught,” Margaret said.

  William seemed to consider this. “That’s how I learned too.”

  My heart had started to pound again. It thumped against my chest, reminding me of when I’d played the bass drum in marching band. Something really strange seemed to be going on here. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt as if I already knew this man. “Excuse me,” I said without allowing myself time to reconsider. “But do you know anyone by the name of O’Neil?”

  Margaret blinked. “William’s last name is O’Neil.”

  I sank down to the padded piano bench now, unsure as to whether I really heard her correctly or if I was imagining this. “Your name is William O’Neil?” I said slowly, letting it sink it. William, not Liam.

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “By any chance, did you have a brother by the name of Liam?”

  Margaret laughed. “Liam is a nickname for William.” She nodded to William. “He used to go by Liam when he was younger. Didn’t you, William?”

  He nodded, but his eyes were fixed tightly on me.

  I reached for my glass and took a big gulp of soda. The bubbles burned as it went down, making my eyes water.

  “Are you feeling all right, Jamie?” Margaret asked. “You don’t look well.”

  By now Kerry had returned. “How are you doing, Jamie? Dolan said some of the folks are asking if you’re going to play again. They so enjoy your music.”

  “He seems unwell,” Margaret said.

  I looked up at Kerry and swallowed hard. “Margaret just told me that Liam is a nickname for William.”

  Kerry looked puzzled by my curious statement, but she just chuckled and picked up my soda glass and sniffed at it. “Is that all you’ve been drinking tonight, laddie?”

  I nodded uneasily, but continued anyway. I needed to know the truth, the sooner the better. “You see, my father’s name was Liam O’Neil.”

  Now they all looked slightly shocked, and I felt pretty stunned myself. I couldn’t believe I’d just said this out loud. Good grief, there must’ve been hundreds of William O’Neils in Ireland. And, yet, I knew. Something in me just knew.

  “What is your mother’s name?” William asked in a quiet voice.

  “Colleen.”

  William took in a deep breath, clasping his hand to his chest as if in pain. “Colleen Johnson?”

  “Johnson was my mother’s maiden name.”

  “May I sit down?” he asked slowly, steadying himself with one hand on the piano, the other clinging to his polished wooden cane.

  I scooted over and made room for him on the bench beside me.

  “Are you okay, William?” Margaret asked, her voice filled with concern.

  He was taking slow deep breaths, and for a moment I thought perhaps he was having a heart attack. Just like my other father. Maybe I was a jinx—older men should keep their distance from me. Then William turned and looked at me with kind eyes. “How old are you, Jamie?”

  “I’m twenty-one, sir. I was born July 27, 1942.”

  William took in another slow breath and just stared at me as if I were an apparition, then he slowly nodded again, as if this was all beginning to m
ake perfect sense. His voice was calm now, but his hands trembled as he wrapped them around his cane. “I tried and tried to locate your dear mother . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to remember something long ago. “Johnson was such a common name . . . I called every Johnson in the Los Angeles area, asking for a Colleen May Johnson. I tried to find her old roommate. But it was as if they had both disappeared. I wondered if I’d imagined Colleen Johnson. But I knew she was real. I did an exhausting search for her, but with no luck. After a year or so, I even wondered if she had died.”

  “She thought you’d been killed in Pearl Harbor,” I told him.

  He sighed. “Nearly . . .” He put his hand on my shoulder and I could see tears in his eyes. “Your mother was the only thing that kept me alive. I wanted to get back to her.”

  “Come, come,” Kerry said, taking me by the arm. “You both go on over to that quiet table over there and sit down. You need to talk about these things in private.”

  Soon we were seated by ourselves, and we both just sat and stared at each other for several long moments. It was so much to take in, and I think we were both in shock. Dolan had set a whiskey in front of William and a glass of water in front of me.

  “I can’t believe it,” he finally said.

  I shook my head. “Me neither.”

  He asked me questions and I told him what I knew. How my mother thought he had died, how she had married my dad. “Well, I guess he wasn’t really my dad,” I explained. “But I thought he was. Just until recently . . . my mom only told me the truth a few days ago.”

  “This is so amazing . . . so incredible . . .” He shook his head again. “I can just hardly believe it.” He reached across the table and grasped my forearm, giving it a squeeze. “You’re really here? You’re really my son? It’s like a dream.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I feel the same. So what happened? Mom said you were an officer in the Navy, that you’d gone to Honolulu, but that you weren’t supposed to be there long.”

  “I had gone to work on some communications things . . . on the SS Arizona. I’d only been there a couple of days when we were attacked. So many people died that day. I should’ve been one of them.” He nodded toward his lap. “I lost my left leg in the explosion, lost so much blood that it was a wonder I survived at all. I don’t actually remember much of it because I had a severe blow to the head and a concussion. The story I heard was that someone picked me out of the water, put a tourniquet on, and got me to a hospital. I was out of it for weeks, and when I came to, I kept thinking of Colleen. I would imagine her face, and that kept me alive.”