We walked towards the car park together. She asked me about myself and seemed delighted that I was with Seán and having his baby. Apparently Noel had talked about our unrequited love. At the car she begged me to talk to her before I talked to Noel. She gave me her number and although my discovery of her secret was down to a chance encounter, she seemed to feel responsible for my impossible position. It was easy to see why Noel had fallen for her. She was calm, kind, sweet and friendly even when terrified and with her world turned upside down, and although we had only met briefly once before we hugged when parting.
Poor cow.
* * *
Seán was in the spare room, which had long ago become his study. I charged up the stairs as quickly as my fluid-filled legs would allow. I plonked down on the chair in front of his desk. He looked up grinning and wondering how much money I had mentally spent.
“Noel is a father.”
He stood up as though he’d just realised he’d sat on something sharp.
“Excuse me?” he uttered, looking down at me plonked in the chair.
“I bumped into Laura and her one-year-old, Noel Junior, in town.”
He sat down. “Noel Junior,” he repeated and I nodded in agreement.
I told him all about it while he sat dully looking into the middle distance and scratching his head intermittently.
“This is big,” he kept saying until I told him to stop.
I asked him what I should do; keeping in mind that Laura was right, in that telling Noel he had a son would be tantamount to putting a gun to his head. He argued that not telling him would be denying him the chance to know his only son. He was right, but then again so was she. My brain was fried. I wanted to talk to my mother, but then her brain would have been fried and it would only serve to further complicate the situation. Seán and I debated the pros and cons of disclosing Laura’s secret for hours. We were both well aware that we were dealing with shades of grey. I couldn’t sleep, unable to shut either my brain or bladder into the off position. I felt ill all night, intermittently dizzy even while lying down and so weak that it became difficult to raise my hand to my face.
* * *
Sunday dinner was a nightmare. Neither Seán nor I could bring ourselves to make small talk with my parents. My mother put it down to my own exhaustion.
“It’s perfectly natural. I couldn’t keep my eyes open on Noel.”
I nodded.
“And what’s your excuse, Seán?”
“Work.”
“Ah!” she replied before noting that she too was tired.
My father was too busy watching Dublin lose a hurling match on TV to query our silence, probably because in light of the desperate situation unfolding on the playing field.
That night when Clodagh rang I didn’t tell her, not because I wasn’t dying to, but because it was already unfair that Seán and I knew Noel’s business before he did, never mind my friends. Seán and I talked around and around in circles. One minute he made a point in favour of Noel being told and in the next moment he made a point in favour of him not being told. I followed suit. Neither of us had a clue what to do. Noel was truly happy for the first time in a very long time. The changes we had witnessed in him were hard to ignore. He had found his place among the priesthood and the people who had needed him most. He had rediscovered his path and his destiny. He was at peace. Who were we to take that from him? Still, how I could I not tell him?
It was mid-week and Father Rafferty took Confession at five. I had stayed behind to correct essays that should have been corrected at the weekend. It was just after five. I didn’t think about it because to do that would encourage me to question myself and I had been doing quite enough of that to last a lifetime. I waddled into the church, hoping against hope that I would find myself alone. I was in luck. I squeezed into the confession box and knelt down on the unforgiving wooden kneeler. Like my mind, my knees felt like they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. At seven months my stomach had grown larger than I could have believed possible. I arched my back, which was killing me, only to find my stomach jammed against the confession box, which was definitely not made with mothers-to-be in mind, but then that’s the Catholic Church all over. I made a silent promise not to debate what I perceived to be the evils of the Church as I had far more pressing business to discuss.
It wasn’t long before the little shutter was slid back, revealing Father Rafferty, his eyes closed and his head nodding, hand raised in blessing.
“Father Rafferty,” I said.
He stayed silent, head bowed, waiting for me to spout the usual formula.
“Father Rafferty,” I repeated slightly more forcefully, but yet with respect. He stopped short, opening his eyes and steadying his head so as to focus.
“Emma?” he queried.
“Yes,” I replied, happy to have caught his attention without having to bang on the grille, which would have been my next move.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, realising that I wasn’t there to seek forgiveness.
“I need your advice,” I leaned in and whispered although the church was empty.
“What is it, Emma?” he asked, coming closer to the grille.
“It’s Noel. He has a child.”
Father Rafferty paled. “Laura,” he said after a time.
“Yes,” I answered, not surprised that Noel had confided in him. Although they were very different and generations apart, the two men had a mutual respect and understanding.
“He doesn’t know,” he said, immediately understanding why I had come to him.
“He doesn’t,” I answered. “She found out after they parted. She didn’t tell him because she knew he was a priest at heart.”
“She’s a lovely woman,” he said with his eyes on the floor, so that I couldn’t read their expression, although his tone suggested sadness. “And now?” he asked, returning my gaze.
“And now I know. I bumped into her with Noel Junior. He’s exactly like Noel – he even has a curly cow’s lick.”
Father Rafferty shook his head sadly, but I could see a hint of a smile.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, begging for the answer.
His slight smile faded and he held his head in his hand, squeezing his temples. Battling my own headache, I lurched from one knee to the other hoping to God he’d come up with something fast.
“You can’t keep it from him. To do so would not only be a sin against God, but also against nature.” He shook his head in his hands as though his words hurt him.
“Noel will leave the priesthood. He won’t risk the Church’s reputation,” I said, mirroring Father Rafferty’s thoughts.
“Yes, he will,” he said sadly. “It’s a pity – not for him but for us. He’s one of the good ones.”
I could see his hand tremble slightly, but I couldn’t tell from his tone whether it was due to emotion or simply old age.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry too,” he replied. He looked at me and attempted a smile, but behind his tired eyes I could see Noel staring back at me. Father Rafferty may have been old and unusually consumed by Doomsday, but he was once young and faced all of the fears, desires and longing that my brother did. He understood the impact, the implications for Noel better than anyone else. He also understood that Noel was being given a chance to be a real father and I don’t know if he regretted or rejoiced in his life choices, but in that moment he looked lost. I wanted to cry, then again I had wanted to cry earlier when I’d ordered cappuccino and it came without chocolate sprinkles.
“Father,” I said out of nowhere.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to pray with me?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just said. I didn’t even know if I would remember a whole prayer.
“Yes,” he nodded, brightening.
So I started the “Our Father” hoping against hope that he would join in before I got to the middle bit, which I definitely didn’t know.
&nbs
p; “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name …” Please join in.
“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done …”
Please, please, join in.
“ … on earth as it is in Heaven.”
He’s joining in, thank Christ! OK, now I’ll just lower my voice so that I can mumble the middle bit.
“Nan nah nan nah nannahnana, and lead us la la la but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
Father Rafferty’s head was bowed.
I crossed my fingers, hoping he wouldn’t launch into another prayer.
He didn’t. He blessed himself and smiled. “Thank you, Emma.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, relieved, still not having a clue why I’d even suggested it, but then I’d been acting really weird and I was beginning to worry it was more than hormonal.
“I should go,” I said, attempting to get up.
“I hope that I’ll see you again,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed politely while struggling to move.
He pulled back the shutter and I was left alone and still kneeling. It felt like I was wedged in. Oh for fu–
“Father Rafferty!” I called out while knocking. The shutter went back, revealing him.
“Emma?”
“I’m stuck,” I moaned, mortified.
He chuckled and the next time I saw him he had one foot wedged against the door of the confession box while attempting to haul me out.
* * *
Seán and I had decided that telling Noel about his son over the phone was not the way to go and, as he was still in the western world completing the aid-worker induction course, we felt it only fair that the news be delivered in person. Of course, when I say “we had decided” I really mean “I had decided”. As I was unable to fly and no one else knew about the situation, it left Seán in the undesirable position of messenger.
Much later Seán had confided that it wasn’t Noel and his problems or the fact that the plane seemed to be flying a little too low that really bothered him on his way across the Atlantic, although neither helped. Instead he spent most of his alone-time worrying about his own life and the new demands upon it.
When he later described to me the anguish he had suffered during that period of our life together, I have to admit I felt a little selfish. I hadn’t even noticed he was stressed. Then again it’s so rare to catch a glimpse of someone else’s darkest fears. He told me that after the initial glow that came with the announcement of my pregnancy had subsided and the reality of what fatherhood would mean had dawned on him, he found himself in the unenviable position of being wholly terrified. It was probably not unusual for any man in his position to feel somewhat panicky. After all, parenting is no joke. However, in Seán’s case there was more to it.
Seán had spent most of his life avoiding the issue of his abandonment and to date he had found this tactic to be successful. However, now while contemplating and awaiting the arrival of his own offspring, the fear and questions that had been instilled the day his mother walked out on her family rose from deep inside and walls he had spent years building slowly crumbled. As I grew bigger so did his fears. Would he be like her? Would he find rearing a child too difficult? Would he fail as a father as she had failed as a mother? His dad had often said they were alike; he had her eyes and her grin. Would he share her inability to be a decent parent? He hadn’t mentioned it to me; instead he attempted to fob off his obvious fears but they refused to remain ignored, with the result that his every attempt only served to intensify them. He had tried to be reasonable, he was his father’s son after all, but the questions that he had never bothered with before were beginning to choke him. Why did she leave? He knew why she left his father. Theirs was a marriage born out of duty as opposed to love. She had become pregnant with Seán and marriage was the only solution available at that time. His dad swore that she had loved her children but, if she had, wouldn’t she have taken them with her? His dad had said it was more difficult for a single mother in the seventies but if that was the case why didn’t she make an effort now that he was an adult? He hadn’t really cared before. Initially, of course, he was devastated by her disappearance, as any child would be, but he got used to the situation, quickly realising that her absence coincided with the advent of a happier household. Gone were the long arguments and the screaming rows and after a while he found himself more contented and safer, ensuring her return would be met with anxiety and anger rather than with welcoming open arms. He had been very comfortable with her absence for such a long time but now, on the cusp of fatherhood, he wondered whether his ability to walk away from his mother as she had walked away from him was a sign that he was capable of isolating those closest as she had done.
These fears were compounded by his track record. To date his relationships had been fleeting affairs, exciting but without any kind of depth. He loved me – he knew that. He had loved me a long time before it was decent. Initially he had wondered whether he was just coveting the kind of relationship that his best friend had. Deep down though, he knew that wasn’t so. It had been hard and then his friend died and he drowned in his guilt, knowing that with John gone his way was clear and regretting every second of the hope that that recognition brought. He had tried to stay away but that was too hard. Now he had all that he wanted for the first time but he wasn’t John: he wasn’t the steady one; he shouldn’t the first in the group to be a dad. He was the messy one, the guy who couldn’t hold down a relationship.
And he prayed: Oh please, God, don’t let me fuck this up!
So, on his way to see Noel, all these thoughts and memories tormented him and by the time the meal was served he was a wreck. The airhostess who had served him alcohol kindly enquired how he was. He nodded that all was well, but deep down inside he was fighting the tears that hadn’t welled since he was a small boy. He tried to sleep but it wasn’t working out. The man beside him was snoring, his head against the window, his arm a little too close to Seán’s genitals for comfort. He wobbled up the aisle, regretting the last gin and tonic. He stood in the queue for the toilet hoping his nervous stomach would keep it together, despite his mind refusing to do so.
And he worried. What if I can’t hack it? What if I run?
Back in his seat his arse felt sore. He pitied the gentleman who had been queuing behind him. His mind drifted back to the problem in hand. What would he say to Noel? How would he break the news that would surely break his friend? The safety-belt light blinked above his head and the captain announced that they were entering an area of turbulence. He and his fellow-passengers bounced in their seats, lurching and bobbing until he felt his meal lodge in his neck. It was around this time that he wondered what the hell had made him agree to involve himself in my brother’s life, when it was becoming increasingly obvious to him that he was losing control of his own. If he had disclosed his fears to me I could have told him that he had nothing to worry about, that he was one of the most dependable people I knew and that he was his father’s son in every way. I could have told him that we had something his parents never had and that a child would only strengthen us. Then again, being hormonally challenged, I could have just told him to fuck off. Despite this, and maybe it was naïve, I knew deep down that we were going to be a family and we would have a happy ending as much as anyone in this world can. He was either too kind or too scared to offload his woes on me. I wish he had. It hurts to think that he was twisted with fear, alone in the air and on the way to New York and a new set of problems.
He did manage to sleep, but it wasn’t for long. Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean he managed to push his own worries to the back of his mind so that he could focus on the job at hand.
Landing wasn’t as smooth as he would have liked, but nevertheless he found that he was grateful to be on solid ground regardless of the wall of heat that seemed to envelop him as he exited the plane. It was May and New York was unusually hot. He felt faint, but carried on regardless. Having only brought hand luggage he was grateful that h
e didn’t have to stand around a carousel for an hour waiting for bags like his fellow passengers.
He made his way out to the taxis and handed an address to an old man in a grubby suit. It helped that the taxi driver spoke English and had appeared to live in the city for longer then six months. The man spoke about a traffic jam on Amsterdam and shouted at a biker who had cut across him. The radio was loud and the air conditioning wasn’t working. Maybe it was the heat or trepidation or exhaustion but within minutes he was asleep. The man woke him, laughing at the relaxed Irishman. He pointed towards an impressive-looking four-storey building, old by American standards.
Seán handed over the money and pulled himself out of the car and onto the street. He stood watching the taxi pull away before he made his way to the door.
Now obviously I wasn’t there but Seán has a way of telling a story so that you almost feel like you were there. So keeping in mind that this is not verbatim, it went something like this.
Pack Up the Moon Page 25