Alternatively, I could just come clean and tell her what’s up with me. That would be the most simple and logical way to overcome this. I am a grown woman. This should be easy. I open my mouth. And close it again.
Maybe shoplifting isn’t so difficult.
I open my mouth a second time, but before any words come out, my mother’s hand in on my knee.
‘Whatever it is, you can tell me.’
How does she do that? How do mothers just know?
‘Go on, just talk to me, Evelyn. Whatever it is, I’m here for you and you know I will support you with everything I have. So please, stop me worrying and just spit it out.’
I take a deep breath. I want to tell her. I just don’t know where to start.
‘You can start at the beginning or the middle or the end. I just need to know what’s going on with you. I’m your mother and I need to know.’
I still can’t seem to find the words. I remember when a school friend of mine got pregnant when we were about eighteen, my mother acted like it was the end of the world, not just because she was young, but because she felt her life was now ruined and that the baby wouldn’t have the stability of a family. She sat Tara and me down at the dining room table to receive ‘the talk’, the beginning, middle and end of which consisted solely of telling us that the only contraception we need concern ourselves with was abstinence.
I look into the wing mirror, trying to decide whether to come clean. I’m not even sure if I am pregnant yet. Yes, I’m divorced and single and jobless and broke, but not so sure about the pregnant bit yet. What a star daughter I turned out to be. Best to wait and check for certain. If I am, I will tell her, no question. And if I’m not, then there is no point in causing unnecessary fuss.
‘I’m fine, Mum, just a bit under the weather. A few days’ rest and I’ll be grand.’
My mother swerves into the side of the road and brakes hard. She turns off the engine and I realise that she’s serious. She wants to know. And it looks like neither of us is going anywhere until she gets her way.
‘Right, maybe I should go first,’ she says. ‘I had a lot of time to do some soul-searching when I was in Rome, so here goes.’ She places her hand on my knee again and pats it gently, but keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.
‘I only ever wanted you to be happy. When your dad died, I was desperately heartbroken. I wanted to press pause on life. Put everything on standstill, keep everything close and safe. I couldn’t cope with reality. When you said you were getting married and were going to stay local, I thought – selfishly – Thank God. I won’t be alone. And I put my needs, my fears, ahead of your happiness. For that I am deeply ashamed.’
I nod, tears welling in my eyes. I’ve never heard my mother speak this way, so candidly, so openly. And I’ve never heard her say she felt ashamed before. Certainly not like this.
She glances off to the side, retreating into the past.
‘He was wonderful, your dad – the love of my life. I knew he was the one for me. He listened to me. He always paid attention. There is no greater way to show love than by paying full attention. Inspecting the tiny details of someone else’s character like they are precious diamonds, sparkling in between our pinched fingers. Your father made me feel that way from the very first day we spent together. Like every word counted, like every glance was sacred, every moment was a gift, a celebration, an opportunity to love.’ She places her other hand on top of mine and strokes it affectionately. ‘But you know all this, you loved him too.’
We smile at each other, at his memory, at the memory of the fun we had, all those good times.
‘I miss him. And I’ve been less without him. And I want to say sorry, my darling.’ She opens her watery eyes to meet my gaze, spinning her wedding ring around her finger. We both slip back in our seats, resting our heads to the side. I reach out and hold her by the hand, her fingers frail and soft in mine.
‘Mum, there’s no need.’
‘There is, Evelyn. The truth is, I understand why you split from James. I could see you diminishing. And then I was scared that you’d diminish further if you took off somewhere full of strangers, and that would beat you down and hurt you further. What could I do? The parental dilemma – wanting to protect you and toughen you up at the same time; wanting to give you wings but also keep you in the nest with me…’
‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m okay – you don’t have to worry about me. I’m all right by myself, I promise.’
‘When you become a parent, you have conversations with your kids about what they want to be when they’re older. And you press them to say “teacher” or “dentist”. But what you really mean is that you want them to make their way in the world so they can be happy. The short answer is I want my children to be happy. Somehow I think I’ve garbled that message along the way. And it’s unintentional, but I realise that I’m in some way to blame for making you unhappy and adding pressure to you. And I want to say that you never have to fear what I will think, because my thoughts will always lead back to you, my wonderful, brave, kind daughter, and the fathomless love I have for you.’ She taps her chest. ‘All in here. Always here.’
I am a blubbing mess now. She hands me her tissue.
‘So forgive me, Evelyn. I was wrong to add to your hurt after you and James broke up. I should have supported you, but I punished you and I can only try to make up for that now. Maybe we have all believed lies about how romance and marriage should be, but I tell you this one thing I’ve learned: when you are at home alone, all you miss is love. The feeling of it, the memory of it, the ache of its absence.’
She wipes her nose and straightens up. ‘So now, if you’re ready, tell me. What’s going on?’
I am ready now. I am ready to talk and I know that she is ready to listen. And together, whatever lies ahead, I know that I will make it, because I have this amazing woman backing me all the way. We have reached a new understanding, and we sit here not as mother and child, but as two women who have loved each other for as long as time itself; we are my forever family.
I start at the beginning. I tell her all about the pub and how amazing it was to build it up, to watch it grow. And then I tell her about Colm dying and Christy breaking the news that we needed to close up, and how the place is up for auction and how overnight we lost everything we’d worked for. I explain that that’s where all my savings went, so I’m pretty much on the breadline. And then I tell the part of the story that is new to me. The part that I don’t even know yet. The part that may change every story hereafter.
When I’ve finished, she turns the key and starts the engine.
‘And this Danny is a good lad, then?’
‘Oh yes, he’s a very good lad,’ I tell her. ‘You’d like him. He took good care of me.’
She gives a sideways glance at my tummy. ‘I bet he did.’ Brightness flushes her cheeks, and for the first time since we said goodbye to my father, I see my mother’s smile flood back into every feature in her face.
We swerve back into the road and the fear lifts from my shoulders. Because whatever happens now, the days of pretending and hiding are long behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Once we are back home, my mother takes Muffin out for a walk and I have some time to myself. There’s just one thing on my mind. Just one job that I need to do. I prepare myself to discover that it might all be in my imagination. That the stress theory could still be the actual reason, in which case I’m going to have to get checked out by my doctor and that might mean change of a completely different kind: a string of tests and blood samples and visits to clinics and medication.
Whatever happens, I need to begin. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and thrust the white plastic stick underneath me. I try to muster the best, longest and straightest stream of wee in the history of squatting women. Bingo, I pee like a racehorse and seem to hit the tiny target according to the instructions: so far so good. Now all I can do is wait.
I sit on the edge of th
e bath and stare at the wee-soaked stick for exactly one hundred and eighty seconds. Then I raise it to my eyes, fully expecting an answer of some kind. An emoji, a tick or a cross, the pink lines as described on the box…
There is nothing there. It looks the same as it did when I first unwrapped it.
I shake it. I hold it up to the ceiling and then turn it upside down towards the floor.
No change.
I set it down on the side of the sink and wait. Maybe I should do another one. Is it faulty? Or I have I imagined this whole thing and jumped headlong into something without proper evaluation? It’s not like this’d be the first time that has happened.
Maybe my dates are wrong. Maybe my phone calculator isn’t working. Maybe I had a period in between and forgot. Maybe it was such a light period I didn’t even realise it was a period. Maybe I’m just completely losing my mind.
I’m disappointed. This test is a bit like flipping a coin; the result can often help you discover what you really want. But it’s not giving me heads or tails; it’s a coin that’s been flipped and landed on its side, teetering between two completely different outcomes.
The phone rings in the hallway. I’m not in the mood to answer it; I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Mum’s out, so I’m sure if they want her they’ll ring back or leave a message. If they want me, they can call my mobile.
It stops ringing, and seconds later, I hear my phone ring out from my jacket pocket. It’s an unknown number, probably a sales call, but I take it just in case it is an emergency of some sort.
‘Hello, Ballybeg Real Estate here, is this Evelyn Dooley?’
‘It is.’
‘Co-owner of The Cottage, Sea Walk, Ballybeg?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Great, we’ve been trying to get hold of you. We’ve had some news regarding the sale of your cottage. I’m happy to inform you that an offer has been made on your property. Cash buyer, no chain. Full amount. They would like to take occupancy immediately.’
I double-check. This sounds too good to be true. Did some millionaire just rock up to Ballybeg sometime this morning with a burning desire to drop everything and move into the cottage? I only saw James last night and he never mentioned a viewing, which he would have done if he’d known about it.
‘So someone is buying the cottage for cash without even seeing it first? I’m sorry, but this doesn’t add up. I think there has been some kind of mix-up – perhaps you have another cottage on your books?’
I hear the rustle of pages and a cupped hand over the phone whilst some enquiring whispers take place. Sounds like it is a mistake after all.
Two disappointments in one morning. Not sure how much more of this I can take.
‘Ms Dooley? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, still here,’ I answer flatly.
‘I’ve checked our files and consulted with my colleagues, and I can assure you there is no mistake.’
I stand from the rim of the bath and try to process what this means.
It means freedom.
It means I’m no longer tied to James, or the cottage. It means I’ve got some money in my account. And with all that, I’m back in action. And back in action means moving forward.
‘Well, I don’t know what to say! That’s fantastic! Yes. You’ll have to run it by Mr O’Connor, of course, but as far as I’m concerned, that sounds exactly what we wanted, more than we’d hoped for.’
The realtor laughs down the line. ‘Well, considering it’s Mr O’Connor who has put in the offer himself, I doubt you’re going to find him contesting it!’
‘I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly? Did you say that the offer came from James?’ I’m more confused than ever.
‘That’s right. He’s buying you out so he will be the sole owner. He has added an extra amount as he believes he owes you for interior work that you carried out on the property that has enhanced its value over time.’
Oh James.
‘So the amount you will receive, should you accept, will be two hundred and twenty thousand euros. Are you happy for me to proceed?’
Oh. My. God.
‘Yes,’ I tell him breathlessly. Two hundred and twenty thousand euros. ‘Please proceed.’
I have no air in my lungs. This is just amazing. Closure for both of us. A chance for James to start afresh in the cottage and enough of a nest egg for me to move out of Mum’s house and set myself up with my next step. Whatever the next step is.
‘Thank you, Ms Dooley. We’ll be in touch if we need anything from you.’
I am so proud of James. It makes sense to me now. He must have held off until he knew for certain that we were not getting back together. If I hadn’t come home and met up with him, who knows how long he would have waited? This tells me he’s finally accepted it. That he’s listened. And understood. And that he’s ready for the next step too.
Just as I thank the realtor and hang up, something catches my eye. I pick up the stick and stare at it in disbelief.
Where there was a blank white window, now there are two pink lines.
But… When did…? How…? Wait…
I hold it right up to my face, in front of my nose, and stare at it cross-eyed until I can’t focus any longer. Because there they are. There are now undoubtedly TWO very pink lines in the little window at the top of the stick.
I grab the back of the box and reread the instructions. I actually read them out loud so I don’t misunderstand. ‘“Two pink lines indicate a positive pregnancy.”’ I look from box to stick, box to stick, box to stick. I stand up on the closed toilet seat and push out the little window, holding the stick in the sunshine just to check the lines are still there in the open air, in the natural light. They are not budging; if anything, the line on the right is getting even pinker.
I turn the stick upside down and shake it all about.
Those lines ain’t moving. Two pink freakin’ lines.
How can it be that my whole life has changed in the space of five minutes, somewhere between the sink and the toilet in this little bathroom?
I feel as though I can hear Colm’s rasping voice in my ear. Master plan, Evelyn, it’s all part of the master plan.
I hear Mum and Muffin crunching the gravel as they walk back up the path. Wait till she gets a load of this!
Two pink lines. I place the positive pregnancy test in my cupped hands and make my way down the hallway, carrying it like it is the most cherished piece of plastic the world has ever seen.
It’s the most cherished piece of plastic in my world, that’s for sure.
Chapter Thirty
I wait in the kitchen for Mum, wanting to surprise her. But I hear a car stop in front of the house, and she’s talking to the driver, whoever it is. It could be anyone from the postman to a lost tourist. Once she gets chatting, she could be a long time, so I stick the kettle on and wait for my news to sink in.
I place my hand on my tummy and try to imagine all that’s going on in there. The new human assembly line. The wondrous creation of a brand-new living being, all happening behind my belly button. It’s unfathomable. It’s overwhelming. I can’t believe it’s happening, because even though my body appears to be doing the work, my mind had no idea that I was pregnant until I chucked my guts up this morning. Now that I really know it is happening, I’m excited and not nearly as scared as I thought I would be.
For starters, I understand that Danny might not be as excited about it as I am. I know his fears; I know he’ll be worried. I’d love to imagine that he’d want to be part of this baby’s life. I’d love to imagine he’d want to be part of my life. I already miss him. I miss everything about him. And I will be able to tell this baby that I love their father very much. Because I do. But even if he’s not a father like mine was to me, living in the same house and available all the time, we can still work it out. That’s what families do, whatever shape they take. And the fact that he has told me about the potential for heart trouble means that I can let the
doctors know straight away. They can monitor, they can advise, they can do all sorts of miraculous things if we start early and get fully on board with what may or may not lie ahead.
This does not faze me. Pregnancy? Birth? Single parenthood?
I’m ready for everything.
And then it occurs to me: it’s not just about me any more.
With my finger, I trace a heart around my belly button and whisper, ‘We are ready for everything.’
I hear a car door shut outside and the mumble of a low male voice chatting with my mum. It’s probably James, wanting to finalise some paperwork or get my signature on a document. I’m glad he feels he can call up here, come in for tea. I’d like to think that now we’re on the other side of this, we can be friends.
But when I peek through the curtains, I see that it’s not James’s car at all; it’s a cab. And unmistakably, the tall, smiling man with the dark auburn hair and the chocolate-brown eyes following my mother to the front door is Danny.
My hands fly to my face and I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. What the hell is he doing here? In Ballybeg? With my mother!
There are a thousand things that should be going through my head right now, but the one that elbows out all the others is that he came after me. He’s found me. He had his chance to tour, to play, to follow his dream. I let him go, but he’s here.
My heart soars in my chest. Danny is here.
I scramble past my mother as she enters the hallway. I swing the front door wide and race down the path. When I reach him, I look into his big dark eyes. He’s smiling at me, and for the first time since the moment I met him, we’re looking at each other without a trace of fear or reservation.
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