by Simon Bourke
She slept all the way down on the train, her mouth wide open, drool dribbling down her chin – most unladylike. When she awoke, the elderly man in the seat opposite smiled a greeting, and she felt embarrassed, embarrassed of what she’d become. She couldn’t bear to speak to him, feigning sleep until it was time to get off. Then she took a taxi home, the driver mercifully taciturn, until she found herself walking up the path towards the front door. She still had her key, but it didn’t feel right, just walking right in. So she knocked politely and waited. Her sister, the one who knew, came to the door and took her in her arms. “It’s all right,” she said, “everything is all right.” And it was. They all took her in their arms, even her mother, and there weren’t any questions. They were just happy to see her, happy to have her back.
2
When the news came it wasn’t the life-affirming moment Jonathan had thought it would be. He’d just finished a lecture and was heading to one of the bars on campus with some friends. Then his phone rang; it was Rachel from the adoption agency.
“I’ll catch up with you,” he told the others, moving to a quiet spot.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“Hi, Jonathan. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Rachel, thanks.”
“Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve found her.”
“Oh.”
And that was that. They’d found her; his journey was complete – or at least part of it anyway. Rachel wouldn’t say much, only that she was Irish and lived in Ireland. His first question was a natural one: why was he in England then? How had this child of an Irish woman, who lived in Ireland, ended up in England? He had been born in England, hadn’t he? Rachel assured him he had. So what had happened, then? Had this Irish woman, who lived in Ireland, been here on her holidays and decided to pop him out before scurrying back across the Irish Sea, or had she set up residence here, become pregnant and then returned home? Was his father Irish too? I can’t say any more, Rachel told him, but you’ll get the answers to all your questions in good time.
The next step was to reach out, to send a letter to this woman in Ireland. The letter would advise her that the son she’d given up eighteen years ago would very much like to meet her. If she was open to the idea she would have to contact Rachel, who in turn would contact Jonathan, and so on. He would have to continue to play the waiting game, but what was another few months? He thanked Rachel for her efforts, made her promise to call him as soon as she heard anything, then hung up.
Jonathan stood in the middle of the university campus, students milling around him, hurrying back and forth. He began to walk, aimlessly following the crowd.
So he was Irish, then, or half-Irish at least. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He didn’t feel Irish, he felt English. He spoke with an English accent, supported the English football team and had, at one point, very nearly ended up representing England in the 800 metres. How were Ireland fixed for runners, he wondered. Maybe if he put an ‘O’ before his surname, they’d let him compete. The standard over there probably wasn’t as high, he could be national champion within a year, an Olympian within three. His mothers would be so proud, both of them. But he’d never even been to Ireland and didn’t really know anything about the country apart from the usual; they all had red hair, spoke with funny accents and drank Guinness from morning till night. If he was to visit her he’d have to learn some useful facts, try and fit in, because they didn’t like the English over there; that was another thing he knew.
When could he visit her? He was busy with college at the moment, in the second year of a business degree, and might not have time to go and see her. She might have to come to him. Would that be a problem? Maybe she hated it here, and that was why she’d left. No, he would definitely go to Ireland. He’d talk to his course director and explain the situation; Mr. Jenkins was a fair man, he’d understand. It’d be better if he went to Ireland anyway, he could meet the rest of his family, presuming they were all Irish too. He’d go over to Ireland, meet his mother and his family, drink some Guinness, wear green things and they’d all live happily ever after. How exciting. He was already looking forward to it.
3
Sinéad McLoughlin read the letter again, but the words hadn’t changed. The past hadn’t changed either, and hers had finally caught up with her. That shameful secret she’d hidden for so long was out in the open and lay there in front of her in clear black print. Her son wanted to meet her. Despite everything, he wanted to meet her. The cigarette she’d lit before opening the letter had burned down to the tip without ever passing her lips, its ashes toppling to the floor unnoticed. She was scared. What could he want with her? Didn’t he know what he was letting himself in for? And how had they found her? The thought of people digging around in her past, unearthing things she’d rather forget about, unnerved her. It was an invasion of privacy. If she and her son wanted to meet, that was their business; why did these other people have to get involved?
The truth was that he would never have found her without assistance. She’d intended it to be that way. The hospital got in touch with her afterwards, but she’d refused to forward them any information. They had her name and that was it; they weren’t getting anything else. In the intervening years they’d occasionally mailed her, asking for details in order to update their records. Those letters were destroyed until eventually they gave up.
No more letters had come. They would still have her name on file, but the hospital’s records would all be computerised by now. With any luck, all trace of her would have been lost in the update. Yet they’d managed to find her, to track her down, despite her best efforts to prevent it. Her little boy was out there and he wanted to see her. If he only knew what her life was like: thirty-six years old and living in a grotty little flat with no job, no husband, no kids, no boyfriend and no money. On top of all that, there were her mental illnesses A recent severe bout of depression had left her bedbound for three months. Her social anxiety made any public outing a prolonged and painful affair. And a crippling, debilitating lack of self-esteem was threatening to destroy the few remaining relationships she had. It wasn’t a rosy picture to present to her son.
Aside from all that, what could she possibly say to this boy, this young man? How could she explain her actions? Did he really want to hear the truth: that he was an accident and she had been determined to get rid of him? What did he expect to find? Whatever it was, he wouldn’t find it here. She was bound to be a crushing disappointment, however low his expectations. All the same, that small part of her which had never stopped thinking of him felt a frisson of excitement. This was what she’d wanted all along, what she’d dreamed of: the storybook ending. They would be reunited, mother and son, after all these years and it would be magical. There would be no recriminations, no accusations or guilt, just relief that they’d found one another at last.
As quickly as these thoughts formed in her head Sinéad pushed them away again, scolding herself for being so foolish. She’d only just started to rebuild her life, and something like this could send her into a tailspin again. The doctors had told her to avoid stressful situations, to take it easy and not allow herself to get worked up unnecessarily. Meeting a child she’d given away eighteen years previously was probably something they’d consider a stressful situation. And they were right. It had taken a lot of hard work and effort to get where she was right now, and the last thing she needed was more upset.
She carefully folded the letter and put it back in its envelope, then rose and went into the living-room. The letter would go in the drawer where she kept all her important documents. She had no intention of ever replying to it, but she would keep it just in case.
4
Jonathan’s routine was the same every morning. As soon as he woke up he went straight to his phone, hoping for a missed call or a text. When that came up blank he bounded down the stairs to check the post. Findi
ng only bills and junk mail bearing other people’s names, he went to the kitchen to greet his mother. He was always careful to appear casual when he asked whether there had been any phone calls or messages left, but when she replied in the negative he found it hard to conceal his disappointment. Another morning had passed without any news, and a whole day of waiting lay ahead.
It had been two months; two months and not a word. She must have received the letter by now, so why hadn’t she replied? Rachel had told him it could take some time, that cases like this often took months or even years to resolve. That was easy for her to say; her future wasn’t on the line. Jonathan had always feared rejection, but he’d allowed himself to dream when they’d found her. Now that he’d got his hopes up, when he’d finally begun to believe they might meet, the whole thing was about to blow up in his face.
“Hello, Adoption Search Reunion, Rachel speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hello, Rachel.”
“Oh, hello, Jonathan. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Rachel, I just wondered if there was any news.”
“Nothing yet, Jonathan. But we only sent the letter a couple of weeks ago, so I wouldn’t be too worried yet.”
Wouldn’t be too worried? What did that mean, that he should be a little bit worried?
“How long does it usually take, on average?”
“There is no average, Jonathan.”
“I know, but how long might it take?” he persisted, desperate for something, anything, to raise his spirits.
“I’ve had cases where the recipient hasn’t replied for over a year, and I’ve also had cases where they’ve responded within days. There’s no way of telling how long it’ll be, Jonathan, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, Rachel,” he said sadly. “You’ll call me as soon as you hear anything?”
“I promise, Jonathan.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
He hung up and lay down on his bed. These top-secret calls were always conducted from the privacy of his room.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
Margaret’s head and torso appeared.
“Everything okay, love?”
“Yes.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“Have you got any lectures today?”
“Yes.”
“When are they?”
“Later on.”
“Okay, Jonathan.”
She closed the door and left him to it.
All he wanted to do was call after her and ask if she was available for a chat. He wanted to tell her everything. But this was the one thing he could never talk to her about. It had been bad enough telling her that he’d begun searching for his birth-mother; the hurt in her eyes as she told him how happy she was, how she’d support him no matter what.
He’d felt awful afterwards, as if he’d done a terrible thing, played a dirty trick on her, thrown it all back at her after everything she’d done for him. It was the ultimate betrayal. Because it was she, his mum, who’d cared for him and nurtured him and who’d been with him every step of the way. And now he needed her advice, her reassurances, her ability to make everything seem that little bit better, no matter how bad it appeared. She was the only one who could make sense of it all and calm the storm-clouds gathering in his head. He couldn’t do that to her, though; it wouldn’t be fair.
There was little chance of him discussing it with his father, either; they barely spoke these days. In fact, no one in the house had much time for him, apart from Sophie. She was the only one who seemed unaffected by that fateful weekend in London. In her eyes the drunken squabble had just been one of those silly things that parents did late at night. It hadn’t diminished her father’s status or the high regard in which she held him. By the next morning she’d forgotten about it and seemed completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air on the drive back, which lingered in the weeks that followed.
Eventually the tension dissipated, but in its stead came a chill, a cooling of relations. It was evident whenever their parents were in the same room together; they were distant with each other and overly polite. Jonathan saw this and knew that he was right to shun his father. Clearly his mother hadn’t forgiven him, so why should he? He would join her in her stance against him. Sophie could have him all to herself; she was welcome. So they settled into a fully-functioning, dysfunctional routine. Margaret and Malcolm communicated with efficacy and brevity, and ensured that on the surface at least, their marriage appeared as strong as ever. Their roles in Sophie’s life remained the same; they both showered her with love and attention. Her world was as proper and as just as it had ever been.
But the bond shared by father and son was at once severed. Jonathan shut out his father, refused to speak to him; barely acknowledged his existence. For a time, Malcolm put it down to teenage rebelliousness. He imagined his son growing out of it and returning to him, closer than ever. When he saw how Jonathan was with his mother, how loving he was, how he doted on her, he realised otherwise. He tried to bridge the gap, to sit him down, thrash things out. It was no use. Jonathan didn’t want to know. Malcolm was persona non grata and there was no telling if or when he might be welcomed back into the fold.
He discussed it with his wife. Her answers were curt and unhelpful. It was as if she enjoyed seeing him suffer. But no, she wasn’t that kind of person, never had been, bitterness simply wasn’t in her nature. Her children were what mattered to her, and if her boy didn’t wish to speak to his father, then he had her backing until he decided otherwise.
5
The truth was that Jonathan didn’t know why he was so angry with his father. Yes, he had ruined his chances of becoming national champion, and revealed a shocking, hitherto unseen, part of his character in the process. But was that what it was really all about? Was that worth four years of near-silence on his part? Probably not. Jonathan knew there was more to it; he saw it in his mother’s eyes every time he looked at her. Occasionally he would bring it up, ask her what had happened and what was going to happen in the future. She’d wave him away, tell him everything was all right, and he would drop it. The longer he went without answers, though, the more insistent he became. He confronted her, demanding an explanation, and became increasingly irate when he didn’t get one.
One afternoon, after another frustrating phone call with Rachel, he approached his mother with an all too familiar expression. He couldn’t control what his birth-mother did, but he could attempt to rectify the problems in his own home. And today, that was what he intended to do.
“Mum, can we talk for a minute?”
He’d been sure to wait until Malcolm and Sophie were out. Dinner was at least an hour away.
“About what, Jonathan?”
“Things.”
She put down her book, wondering if she was finally about to discover the cause of his dark moods, or the identity of the person on the other end of those mysterious phone calls.
“What kind of things, love?”
“About Dad.”
She sighed, not this again.
“What about him, Jonathan?”
“What did he do in London, Mum?”
“Jonathan, we’ve been over this ...”
“No, Mum, I want the truth this time,” he interrupted.
“I’ve told you everything, Jonathan.”
“Tell me again, then.”
She shook her head in frustration, but it was easier just to tell him and hope that it would suffice for now.
“We’d had a bit much to drink, and your dad and I had a row. I told him he wasn’t welcome in our room that night. He came up to the room anyway, very drunk, and then I called security.”
Jonathan looked at her dubiously. “And that’s it?”
“Yes, Jonathan, that’s it.”
/>
“What were you fighting about?”
“Oh, Jonathan, I can’t remember.”
“Well, it must have been something bad.”
“It wasn’t, Jonathan, it was something silly. We were drunk, that’s all.”
“Then how come you two hardly speak nowadays? You’ve never been the same since.”
“What are you talking about, Jonathan?” she protested.
“Come on, Mum, don’t treat me like an idiot. I see how you are with each other, you’re not the same.”
“Okay,” she conceded. “We’re not on great terms at the moment, but that shouldn’t affect how you feel about your father.”
“But it does, Mum.”
“Why, Jonathan?”
“Because if you’re still this cross with him, then he must have done something bad.”
“He didn’t do anything bad, Jonathan, nothing at all.”
“What exactly did he do, Mum? It wasn’t just any old argument, was it?”
“Your dad was very drunk and we had words. That’s all it was.”
She was faltering now, though, he could sense it.
“What did he do, Mum?” Jonathan persisted.
Margaret let out a little sob and immediately raised a hankie to her nose, as if to prevent her emotions from spilling forth.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, don’t be silly, love. I’m just feeling a little under the weather, that’s all.”
Jonathan put a consoling arm around her.
“I wish you’d tell me, Mum. Maybe I could help.”
She continued to shake her head, hiding behind the handkerchief.
“Did he hit you, Mum?”
“No, Jonathan. Don’t be silly, for goodness’ sake!”