by Simon Bourke
“Aren’t you going to ask who’s ringing me?”
“I don’t need to know who’s ringing you, love; you have your own phone.”
He sighed. She wasn’t making it easy for him.
“Ask me who’s ringing, Mum.”
“Okay, who’s ringing, Jonathan?”
“Sinéad.”
“Oh, great, tell her I said hello.”
“Mum, this will be our first ever phone call. We’ve only texted up to now.”
“I didn’t know that, love. That is exciting. What will you say?”
“I don’t know. We’re just doing it to hear each other’s voices.”
“I see. Well, speak nicely, Jonathan. None of that slang and no swearing.”
“Of course not, Mum.”
He hurried upstairs. They’d arranged for her to call at 7 p.m. and it was almost five to. He should have been nervous but he was entirely at ease. It might have only been a week since that first text, but they’d already built something; a connection, a bond; he didn’t quite know what to call it. Of course, that was illogical; you couldn’t foster a worthwhile relationship through a few text messages. But how else could you explain it? Within a couple of days their conversation had assumed an easy, natural flow, a relaxed manner which should have taken months to develop. Her sense of humour was so similar to his that he responded to her witticisms instantly without having to think, knowing instinctively that she’d understand what he meant. He’d never had that with anyone, not with his oldest friends, not with a girlfriend, not even with his mum. He could tell how Sinéad was going to reply before he’d even sent the message. That wasn’t normal, was it? It pointed to a deep, innate understanding which you can only share with a blood relation. This woman, his mother, shared something with him that he couldn’t explain, something he’d never experienced before. This was what it felt like to be someone’s son.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s me, Sinéad.”
“Hi, Sinéad,” he said softly.
“Hi, Jonathan.”
“Hi.”
Silence reigned for a few seconds, longer than was comfortable but not long enough to be awkward.
“You don’t sound like I thought you would,” he mused, eventually.
“Don’t I?”
“No.”
“How did you think I’d sound?”
“I’m not sure. More Irish, I suppose.”
“Well, I’m speaking in my very best phone voice at the moment. If I were to speak normally, you wouldn’t understand a word I said.”
“Really?”
“No. Well, not quite. Maybe a bit.”
Jonathan laughed. “How do I sound?”
“Very British,” Sinéad said decisively.
“Oh God, will that be a problem?”
“It might be.”
“Should I cancel the trip?”
“I think you’d better.”
They both laughed.
“Your exams start tomorrow, then?”
“Yes.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Such confidence.”
“I know, and probably misplaced.”
Another silence, longer than the first one; they were finding it difficult to replicate the easy back-and-forth of their text conversations. They both began to speak and then stopped.
“Sorry, after you.”
“No, you first.”
“Okay.”
They both started to speak again, drowning the other out, interrupting one another. Now things were becoming awkward.
When she was sure he wasn’t going to speak, Sinéad attempted to steer things toward more serious territory.
“There must be a lot of things you want to ask me, Jonathan.”
“Yes, but I think we should wait until we meet before getting into the heavy stuff, don’t you?”
“I agree,” she replied, “but you must wonder why it took me so long to reply to the letters.”
“Yes, I have wondered a little.”
“Well, I just want you to know that it wasn’t because I didn’t want to meet you, nothing like that. The problem was with me and my issues. I suppose I was worried that I wouldn’t match your expectations.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m not exactly a success story, you know!”
“None of that stuff matters to me. I just wanted to find out about you and get to know you.”
“Still, Jonathan, you must have been expecting something a little different.”
“I didn’t really know what to expect. You’ve not been a disappointment so far, anyway.”
“Haha, you’re too kind.”
“Honestly, I really like you. We get on great, don’t we?”
“Yeah, we do, don’t we? I like you too, Jonathan. You’re a credit to your mum and dad.”
“I’m not having that! It’s all me, they had nothing to do with it.”
She laughed; he had a strange sense of humour, a bit like her father’s.
“Seriously, though, they must be very proud of how you’ve turned out.”
“I suppose they are, but I have my moments too.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. Have they decided yet whether they’ll come to Ireland?”
“I’m still not sure about my mum. Dad is dead keen, he’s booked time off work and everything, but she’s been quiet about it.”
“Oh God, do you think it would be too upsetting for her? Is that why she doesn’t want to come?” Sinéad asked, panicked.
“She hasn’t really said anything, but I suppose it’s pretty tough on her.”
“Do you think we should cancel it for the time being?”
“No, no. I should probably have a chat with her really and see how she feels.”
“That’d be a good idea,” Sinéad agreed. “Would it help if I spoke to her?”
“I’m not sure about that; not yet, anyway.”
“Okay, Jonathan.”
More silence.
“Any news?” Sinéad asked hopefully.
“Not really,” Jonathan replied, wondering whether he should tell her about Melanie and what they’d done last night. “And you?”
“No, it’s all quiet here too.”
“Right.”
“Will we say goodbye, so?” she asked.
“Okay, Sinéad. I’ll call you next week when my exams are over, but we can text in the meantime.”
“Great. Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“Please tell your mother that she has no need to feel threatened in any way. I don’t want to come between the two of you.”
“Thanks, Sinéad. I’ll try to speak to her about it over the next few days.”
“Okay, Jonathan. Very best of luck with your exams. Talk soon.”
“Bye, Sinéad.”
He hung up. It seemed to have gone quite well. There’d been a few silences, but they’d talked quite a bit too. It’d be much easier the next time, and easier again the time after that; and once they’d met, they’d be chatting all the time. Chatting and texting.
He went back downstairs. Margaret was still at the breakfast bar.
“How did it go?”
“It was fine, Mum. I’m more interested in how you’re feeling about the whole thing, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?”
She really was a terrible actor.
“It’s okay, Mum. I realise this is hard for you.”
“Don’t be silly, Jonathan. I’m thrilled for you, I really am.”
“I know you are, but what about you? How are you feeling?”
“Don’t you worry about me, love. This is a b
ig deal for you.”
“Please, Mum,” he said. “I need to know you’re okay with this, and I don’t think you are.”
Margaret sighed deeply. “It’s just dredged up a lot of emotions for me, Jonathan; that’s all.”
“What kind of emotions, Mum?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jonathan.”
“Tell me, Mum.”
She looked at him helplessly, tears welling in her eyes. “I just don’t want to lose you, Jonathan.”
“Mum! You’re not going to lose me.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mum, I promise. You’re my mum and I love you more than anyone in the whole world. No one will ever take your place, no one. No matter what happens with myself and Sinéad, no matter how well we get on, you’ll still be my mum. You’ll always be my mum.”
“Are you sure, Jonathan?” Margaret asked, no longer trying to hide her vulnerability.
“I promise you, Mum. Sinéad even said the same thing.”
“Did she? She sounds nice, Jonathan.”
“She is, Mum. You’ll see that when you meet her.”
“I don’t think I can come with you, Jon. Is that okay?”
“Of course, Mum. Dad and I will go. It’ll be a boys’ holiday.”
Margaret chuckled. “He’s so looking forward to going.”
“I know; he hasn’t shut up about it since I told him.”
“He’s got so many things planned, you’ll hardly have time to meet Sinéad!”
“I know,” Jonathan laughed.
“Do you think you’ll be okay, just the two of you? You won’t fight or anything?”
“We’ll be fine, Mum. All that stuff is forgotten now.”
“Good, Jonathan.”
“I’m glad we had this chat, Mum.”
“Me too.”
“Just remember,” he said, fixing her with a steely gaze. “You’re my mum, the best mum in the world, and I love you.”
“I love you too, Jonathan.”
They hugged. Margaret did feel better; she didn’t have to pretend any more. Maybe there was room in his life for the two of them, an English mother and an Irish mother, a mum and a mammy. He was lucky, in a way, having two women who loved him. Some kids didn’t have anyone.
20
When the date had been decided she’d cheerily circled it on her calendar and set about telling the world her son was coming to visit. It was exciting having something to plan for, having a purpose in life. But even then, as Sinéad made all the necessary arrangements, chose which outfit to wear, rehearsed what she might say to him, the nerves were bubbling under the surface. She chose to ignore them; it was weeks away, there was nothing to get worked up about. As it drew ever closer, however, as the reality of the situation began to kick in, she began to dread the arrival of that fateful day. A sense of growing unease surrounded her, increasing on a daily basis, threatening to reach fever pitch and send her completely over the edge. At one point, with only a week to go, she decided to cancel, even going so far as to compose a text explaining her reasons. I’m really very sorry, it’s not your fault. Maybe we can try again in a few months? She couldn’t send it, though; she couldn’t do that to him. That was the coward’s way out, and she was sick of being a coward. She was going through with this no matter what. She would face her fears and stare them down. Dealing with those nerves wasn’t easy, though, especially when her mother was on hand to voice her worst fears at any given moment.
“What if you have one of your fits?” she’d asked.
“I don’t have fits, mammy.”
“Ah, you know what I mean.”
“They’re called ‘panic attacks’. They’re not fits.”
Patricia pouted at the distinction; they seemed like fits to her.
“But what if you have one, Sinéad, what will you do then?”
“I won’t have one, Mammy.”
“I hope not. The poor child won’t know what to do with you.”
Although she’d assured her mother she wouldn’t be having any ‘fits’, Sinéad was less confident herself. It might have been more than a year since her last anxiety attack, but there was a reason for that. She led a regimented life, one suited to her needs. She didn’t go anywhere or do anything. She didn’t work, she lived alone and didn’t answer to anyone but herself. Her life consisted of routine, safe and predictable routine. This allowed her to exist in relative harmony, and helped to keep her anxiety attacks at bay. However, once she’d replied to that letter her peace was disturbed. She was now hurtling towards something she couldn’t escape, and it terrified her.
Her father and Adele did their best to reassure her. “What have you got to be anxious about?” they’d ask. “Sure, aren’t ye getting on great?”
It was true; they were getting on great, but that meant she had something to lose. If she fucked it up from here she’d regret it for the rest of her life. It would be the latest in a long list of failures. Poor oul’ Sinéad, she can’t do anything right.
The day before Jonathan’s arrival, and with her nerves shot to pieces, she went to see her counsellor, for what she hoped would be a morale-boosting chat. Unable to afford a private psychologist, she had had to make do with Phillip, a state-funded shrink, whose services came free of charge. He wasn’t exactly Freud but he provided a soundboard, and he never judged her no matter how negative she was, or how much she moaned. A thin, middle-aged man with sandy hair and a piebald beard, he didn’t seem like the kind of person in whom you’d confide your deepest, darkest secrets, but over time she had grown to trust him.
“What exactly is it that you’re afraid of?” he asked, settling down in his chair.
“I’m afraid of fucking it up, Phillip.”
“In what way, Sinéad?”
“I don’t know exactly; by saying something stupid or upsetting him, I suppose.”
“And what would happen then?”
“He’d run back to England and never contact me again.”
Phillip leaned back, studying Sinéad thoughtfully. They sat in a pokey little room at the local community centre, the sound of the junior karate team being put through the motions could be heard from the adjacent sports hall.
“Do you honestly think that would happen, Sinéad, after the connection you’ve developed?”
“It could,” she said gloomily.
“Do you think Jonathan would be willing to throw it all away after coming so far?”
“He doesn’t even know me, Phillip. Once he realises what I’m really like, he won’t be interested anymore.”
“Hasn’t he already said he’s not bothered about things like that?”
“He has,” she conceded, “but he doesn’t know I’m a chronic depressive!”
“We’ve spoken about this before, Sinéad. There is no shame in suffering from depression or anxiety.”
She shook her head dismissively. “It’s not even that, I’m just worried that I won’t be able to cope. I’ll get myself into such a frenzy that I’ll end up in the hospital, while he’s waiting at the park wondering where the hell I am.”
“That won’t happen, Sinéad,” Phillip said calmly. “You will feel tense, that’s natural, but so will he.”
“It’s hardly the same thing, Phillip.”
“How do you know?” he countered. “Maybe Jonathan suffers from anxiety, too?”
“No, he doesn’t,” she said, irritably.
“Look, forget about that. What you need to understand is that should the worst happen, should you suffer a panic attack, everything will still be okay. He won’t run back to England or think any less of you, and it won’t mess everything up.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “And what if I end up in hospital?”
&nbs
p; “You won’t end up in hospital, Sinéad. Practise your breathing exercises, read those books I gave you about cognitive behaviour and maintain positive thoughts. You’re strong, Sinéad, stronger that you realise, and you can do this. I know you can.”
“Thanks, Phillip, you’re very good.”
He waved her words away. “Be sure to let me know how it goes, Sinéad.”
“I will,” she said, “if I survive it.”
She decided to spend the night alone, rejecting Adele’s offer of a few glasses of wine and a final pep-talk. The last thing she wanted was a hangover on the day she met her son. Instead she’d cooked herself a nice dinner, done some washing and spent a few hours tidying up her flat; it had never been tidier, not even on the day she’d moved in. She’d hoped that the housework would tire her out and send her to bed early, exhausted. Not a bit of it. At 10.30 she was upright and alert, staring at the television, one worst-case scenario after another racing through her mind. She rehearsed the answers that she had prepared for all the questions he was bound to ask.
Question One: Why did you give me away?
Answer: I was young, alone and afraid. Girls didn’t bring up children on their own those days, it just wasn’t the done thing. (This sounded hollow and insignificant, but then so did everything.)
Question Two: What about my father?
Answer: His name is James Fitzgerald. I haven’t seen him in many years, he left as soon as he found out about you. I can help you find him if you like. (She really hoped he wouldn’t ask about his father; this was to be their day and no one else’s).
Question Three: How come you never had more children?
Answer: My husband brought it up constantly but I hadn’t had the courage to tell him I was still haunted by the child I’d given away and couldn’t face the thought of having another. He left me shortly after.
Question Four: Did you ever wonder about me, or try to find out about me?
Answer: There’s not a day gone by when I haven’t thought of you. From the moment I left the hospital until this very second, I’ve thought of you constantly; wondering what you were doing, what you looked like, how you talked, how you laughed. Every birthday, every Christmas, I’ve imagined you opening your presents, happy and smiling, and prayed that your life had turned out well (she would probably cry when delivering these lines, but it had to be said). I vowed that I wouldn’t seek you out until you were older. I was afraid of unsettling you, disturbing your life and upsetting your parents. (Would she have sought him out, even when he was older? It would have been something she’d have planned on doing until the day she died).