Her Name Is Rose

by Christine Breen

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I needed to wait until it was too late for you to do something.

  I was excited to tell you I was pregnant when I came home that time at Christmas. Excited to be starting a family. I’d meant for it to be a surprise. I was three months then. You didn’t notice.

  I went back to Dublin after you broke our engagement. I didn’t tell my parents I was pregnant. I’m sorry about that, but it would have made them too sad and they would have tried to stop me.

  I just wanted my baby to grow up with a mother and a father. With parents who lived together and loved each other.

  I hope you will forgive me …

  Love,

  Hil

  P.S. Her name is Rose.

  The social worker’s head was tilted as she read and Rowan noted the dark circles under her eyes. She was older than he’d first thought and there was something deeply melancholic about her. She looked up suddenly and said, “When was this?” There was an odd urgency in her voice.

  “About twenty years ago,” Rowan said. “Why?”

  “It’s just—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She looked down at the box of tissues. “I’m … I’m not sure what I was thinking. Sorry. I was reminded of something.” She paused another moment. “It’s signed ‘Hil,’” she said, returning the letter to Rowan.

  “Short for Hilary. Her name was Hilary Barrett. She’s dead now. She died—”

  The clipboard slipped down Ms. McGowan’s lap. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp clack, a sound as if something had snapped or been freed, or, as in an old lock, a key had been turned. Her face paled. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she retrieved the clipboard. “Sorry.”

  “Ms. McGowan, what’s wrong?”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Yes. She died before she could mail me the letter. Her parents kept it and for their own reasons didn’t tell me. That’s why I only just found out. Purely by accident. If I’d known—”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to hear that. Poor girl.”

  “She was … lovely.”

  “No. I mean—”

  “What?”

  “I mean, of course. Poor girl. I hope she found comfort in knowing she placed her baby with a loving, adoptive couple. A very courageous thing to do.” Her voice had changed. It was like Sonia McGowan had momentarily gone on autopilot. “It seems you have all the information already, Mr. Blake. I’m sorry to tell you that adoptions made legally in this country are closed. You know what that means?”

  “It means all identifying information is private. Yes. I checked your Web site. I understand I can join some contact register.”

  “Yes. That’s true. You can register as the natural father.”

  “I’m not a natural father!”

  “You’re not the natural father?”

  “No … I mean, yes I am … well, according to Hilary. And I have no reason to question that. But it’s a distortion, there’s nothing natural about it.”

  Sonia performed a minor smile again. She’d recovered her color, and now unclipped some papers from her clipboard and handed them to Rowan. “The terminology is unfortunate. We often hear that from adoptive parents who prefer the term ‘birth parent’ to ‘natural parent.’ But, well, we’re all in the same—to use your word—distortion,” she said. “Here’s a form. Take it with you and look it over. You can decide what level of contact, if any, you’re open to in the event the adopted person in question is also registered, and, more importantly, also open to contact. Although I have to tell you it is entirely her choice to be contacted. Or not. And if she has requested no contact, we must all abide by that.” She looked down. “I hope you understand. Sometimes it turns out adoptive children, when they become adults, are open to being approached by members of the original birth family. I’ve known of several cases where it has turned out well. But also, I’m sorry to say, I’ve known cases, in my personal experience, where it hasn’t.”

  Rowan accepted the form and folded it without looking. He kept his eyes on Sonia. His eyes teared. She lifted her eyes and noticed. He’d previously noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Is there anything more I can help you with, Mr. Blake?” she asked. “I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way. And I can only imagine the state of shock you must be in. I wish, really, there was something more I could do for you. Is there anything else?”

  Rowan noted the shift. Sonia had returned from autopilot and was back in manual mode. He studied her a moment because he imagined Sonia McGowan was trying to tell him something. “I’m sorry, Ms. McGowan, but do I get the feeling that you know something you’re not saying?”

  “There is nothing I know of that I can share with you,” she said, looking away. She closed the file. She straightened the line of her cardigan. She took a tissue from the box and tucked it into her sleeve.

  “Nothing?”

  Not for the first time, it seemed to Rowan, Sonia McGowan fought with herself. In that small room off the square where each day the light and shadow crossed a gray wall she was struggling with something. She pushed back a strand of her hair at her temple. Her voice broke as she began to speak, quietly, haltingly, “Her name is Rose—”

  “I know that!”

  She hesitated, then she looked at Rowan Blake. “What I mean is, well, adoptive couples often change the name that the birth mother has chosen because, obviously, it is fully within their rights as the legitimate parents to chose a name of their own.”

  Rowan showed in his face he didn’t understand.

  One more time, she said, “Her name … is … Rose.”

  * * *

  Minutes later, Rowan walked down the steps of the Adoption Board and hurried along the southern side of the square. Sonia had told him nothing more, but somehow he felt she’d told him everything. A missing piece? He felt a connection he couldn’t explain. He heard children calling. Beside the railings an open-air art exhibition was taking shape. Rowan walked the perimeter of the square, passing the impressive Georgian row houses with their twelve-paned windows. Wall plaques marked the residences of famous Irishmen. Wilde, Yeats, Synge, O’Connell, Russell, Le Fanu.

  What must it have been like for Hilary in the midst of all this greatness to bequeath her baby, their baby, to Dublin?

  He stopped dead and hung his head. She had done the right thing. He wasn’t a natural father. It was just a word and the word was false.

  When he returned to his room at the Merrion there was a message. Pierce had discovered that Irish birth records are recorded in something called the “Register of Live Births.” “Furthermore,” the voice message said, “they are public records, Rowan. And, therefore, accessible to anyone!” Pierce advised visiting the research room—ASAP—in the general registrar’s office at the Irish Life Centre on Lower Abbey Street.

  Rowan returned quickly to the lobby and asked the porter to direct him. He hurried down Grafton Street to College Green, passing the front arch of Trinity College, and onto Westmoreland Street. He was surprised at the heat of the Irish summer now that the sky had cleared of clouds. As he raced along he took off his jacket. Her name is Rose became a refrain that kept repeating, keeping time to his steps.

  From Westmoreland Street he crossed a busy junction with Japanese tourists in green hats, and backpacking youths in shorts, and middle-aged American tourists in white sneakers. He crossed O’Connell Bridge, wider than it is long, side-stepping pop-up stalls selling postcards and earrings and scarves and pashminas. An old Romanian Gypsy, holding a paper cup, squatted on the bridge’s middle point. TELL THE FUTURE read the card at her feet. He stopped and fetched a coin from his pocket and dropped it in the cup, but did not wait to hear his future as he quickly crossed over the black River Liffey.

  Two streets farther down he arrived at Lower Abbey Street. He pulled his jacket on, finger-combed his hair, and entered.

  A porter directed him up to the third floor to the research
room. It couldn’t have been any easier. He stood outside the door and peered in, not knowing what he expected to find but imagining there would be something discreet or inaccessible or something. Maybe he needed a letter. Some legal document? A permission slip? But no, it was just a librarylike space with about forty individual wooden desks lined up like a classroom. A young man with short hair, wearing glasses and a rugby shirt, sat at one of the desks, like a student studying. A large book lay open in front of him and beside him was a notebook and pen. Another youngish man behind a counter fronted by shelves of books looked up from a computer screen when Rowan approached. He was wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater vest. They were the only people in the room.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a birth record,” Rowan said hesitantly.

  The clerk smiled and replied in the most neutral-sounding voice Rowan had ever heard, “No problem. What year?”

  “What year?” Rowan said. “Um … 1990, I think.”

  “You can look through a couple of the indexes if you’re not sure. From 1990 to 1995?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure. It’s 1990.”

  “Right. Just a minute. Take a seat, I’ll bring the index over to you.”

  He was dumbfounded at how simple this was. Rowan’s heart pounded. Was he doing the right thing? He reasoned he had to know more. But this was too easy and something about it seemed wrong. Maybe once he knew more, then … well … then he’d know if he was doing the right thing. Either it would feel right or it wouldn’t. His gut would tell him. Either he’d make the putt or the shot would go wide. Follow the line, Burdy would have said.

  After a few minutes the clerk placed a large red book—the index—in front of him. “There you go … 1990. Do you know the name?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Great. Then this will give you the reference number for the complete entry in the register. The surname is recorded in the name of the mother,” the clerk explained, “if the father’s name is not known.” He looked deliberately at him and Rowan felt as if he’d just been poked in the chest.

  He opened the book and let it fall open in the middle. He side-glanced, as if too guilty to look, at the names:

  Murphy. James. 1 November 1990. Murphy.

  Murphy. Kieran. 16 May 1990. Godkin.

  Murphy. Leah. 29 September 1990. Flynn.

  The book was organized alphabetically. Surname. First name. Date of birth. Mother’s maiden name. He allowed himself a small chuckle. My Rose here amongst all these great Irish names. Safe here among her own. Rowan thumbed backward to the Bs.

  Barr. Liam. 5 July 1990. Barr.

  His eyes scanned quickly down the list. He was looking for Barrett. She’d probably used her name.

  And there it was. Barrett. That was easy.

  He looked around the room quickly, furtively even. Then he stared at the entry. His breath stopped.

  Barrett. Rose. 30 June 1990. Barrett.

  June 30th? She’s going to be nineteen at the end of the month!

  He stood up and brought the book back to the clerk. His mind was racing. He needed air. The fluorescent lights were painful. A surge of guilt ripped through him.

  “Find what you were looking for?” There was that calm voice again.

  “Yes. June thirtieth…”

  “Do you want a copy of the original?”

  The original? “The original? Um … actually … I wonder…”

  “You looking for something else?”

  “I was wondering … you see. I’m looking for…”

  The clerk watched Rowan as if he knew exactly what he wanted, like he’d known from the minute the tall, smart-looking Yank in his tweed jacket entered his library. He spoke with the same air of neutrality as before. “Adoption records?” he said.

  “Yes,” Rowan said, surprised. “Is that possible?” He felt accused.

  “Yes. Public records are open to the public. You can look in the index of the Adopted Children’s Register. If that’s what you want? You said 1990, right? That’d be the second volume.”

  Evidence of how easy this was turning out to be left him reeling. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The clerk, whose ID tag said LIAM, looked at him impassively, but knowingly. About thirty years old and tall like Rowan, but that’s where the comparison ended. This guy was nice. He probably had nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of. He probably has a wife and two kids. And they were happy kids, a girl and a boy. And they were lucky to have a father like Liam, and, as if in testament, a tissue paper flower, a lemonade-colored sunflower—the handiwork of a child—adorned the left pocket of Liam’s sweater vest.

  “I’ll bring it over,” Liam the father said.

  Rowan returned to the desk he’d been sitting at, but he struggled to settle down and kept making small adjustments to his hair and shirt collar. He took off his jacket. Finally he rolled up his sleeves, carefully, slowly, to his elbows.

  Liam appeared moments later and landed a large black book in front of him. Thump. “The records are logged alphabetically by last name of the adoptee,” he said. He looked down at Rowan, who forced himself to meet the man’s steady gaze, full-on. “It could take you a good few hours to find a match, though. The adoptee’s real name now is what you’re after,” he said pointedly. “You’re looking first for the birth date. Then you find a name. But be aware there might be more than one entry on the same date. Just because you have a name from the index doesn’t mean the same name will be in the register. Only the birthdate will be the same.”

  Rowan now had two clues. He opened the volume and started. He pushed aside feelings that chased his thoughts. This was wrong, blatantly wrong. This information should be private. Isn’t that what Sonia had said, information about adoptions in Ireland is closed. What does “closed” mean if not sealed? Shouldn’t it be inaccessible? To the public? Or something?

  The first name was Aherne. Michael James. 16.05.84. It was going to take some concentration. He isolated the numbers by placing his left hand over the names and using his passport, still in the pocket of his jacket, as a ruler to scan each page for the year ’90. At the top of the third page, at Ballagh. Sean. 23.04.92, he suddenly closed the book. He couldn’t do it—it wasn’t right.

  Liam approached when he saw Rowan had closed the book. “Are you finished?”

  As he reached for the book, Rowan put a hand on his arm. “No. Wait. I’m not.”

  “Okay. No problem. Just so you know, we close at half four.”

  Rowan opened the book again and found where he had left off at Ballagh. He fingered his way down the years again: 82. 76. 94. 77. 92. 81. 90, passing names: Barry Becket Berrigan Bigley Blaney Bonfield Bowen.

  His finger stopped. 30.06.90.

  There she was. Bowen. Rose. 30.06.90 Dublin.

  Her name was Rose Bowen.

  Fourteen

  “Well, that was a right bummer,” Conor says when Rose finally tells him why she left her violin on the tube. She talks about Roger and her confusion. About how he’d walked out of her rehearsal. About her humiliation and how she’d bolted from the master class midpiece. About her tutor’s bleached hair and the poster on his wall.

  “What an arsehole. I promise you not all surfers are like that,” Conor says. “You should request a rematch with the Kiwi dude.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Finish what you started. We can take Gerty for a spin.”

  “A spin to London?” Rose laughs.

  “Why not? We’ll get to know each other. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to take a few days off. Come on, it’ll be a blast, and your mum won’t be back from Boston for a couple more days. You don’t want to be all on your own, do you?”

  After Conor’s cajoling and teasing that she owed it to him—after all, wasn’t he the kingpin in the drama of her violin? And didn’t he have a vested interest here?—she decides maybe it’s a good idea. She’s at loose ends and in a kind of limbo. Okay, she texts Roger, and writ
es she’s coming to finish the Bach sonata. And she’ll be there on Tuesday. And she’s bringing her own audience.

  That Sunday morning, the day after Rose spoke with her mother in Boston, she and Conor set off across the Irish Sea. They drive from Clare to Rosslare, take the ferry to Pembroke, and arrive in South Wales. They talk about all sorts of things. How he likes to get up early and check the surf forecast. How she likes to eat only toast with almond butter in the morning. That he supports Arsenal and she doesn’t know anything about football except her dad rooted for Chelsea. That they’re both believers in Vitamin D, and sushi, and lovers of beaches, and Munster Rugby, and cats. In the late afternoon, they head for a funky B and B in Llangennith down the Gower Peninsula, a surfing spot Conor knows about from the surfboards.ie forum.

  But on that midsummer evening, in high season, there is only one single room left. Conor insists Rose take it. He rightly senses she is feeling anxious about a hundred things: her mother, Roger, him, so he offers to sleep in the van with his surfboard. He’s done it before, sleeping up and down the west coast of Ireland, searching for surf. “Not to worry,” he says, “I’m kitted out for it.” Standing in the room, the window wide open and the curtains letting in a breeze full of sea scent, Conor corners Rose against the wardrobe. He raises his hands to brush away her hair and holds her face. He kisses her. Rose doesn’t resist. Her head is against the hard wood of the wardrobe. Her arms go loose and hang at her sides. She holds her face up as Conor kisses her, teasingly at first then temptingly and then no-holds-barred, full-throttle.

  Abruptly, he stops and steps back.

  “See you in the morning, Rosie.” He gives a swift flick of his head and goes out. She hears his footsteps until they disappear. A moment longer, she thinks, and she would have ripped her clothes off.

  * * *

  When she lays her head down later with the surf beating below, Rose thinks about her father. Luke hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about these sorts of things. Relationships with men. She is sure he meant to, but … she wonders when her parents first had sex. Sex? It’s the only thing on her mind. Should she, shouldn’t she? He’s out there in the van. She could go to him. She’s all at sea. Frustrated, she gets up from the bed and takes out her violin. She doesn’t play the Bach sonata, or a jazz piece, or a jig or a reel. Nothing fits her humor, so she practices her scales, pianissimo, in three octaves in the minor keys until her fingertips hurt and her bow arm tires. The scales give her form and content and she can practice style. She starts with single notes, then moves on to double notes. Separate bow. Slurred bow. Spiccato. Vibrato. Fast bows. Slow bows. Marcato in the upper half of the bow until somebody taps on the wall next door. “Quiet.” She puts the violin down and falls asleep.