‘Here.’
‘Or you just turn up. I don’t even know your surname.’
‘Cunningham.’
‘Okay,’ I said before registering it. Cunningham. So ordinary. But what had I been expecting? ‘Well right, now I know.’ He leaned to the side and shut the bathroom door, never moving his feet. The compactness of the room accentuated his size. ‘How did you know it was on today?’
‘My latest social worker told me,’ he said, walking over to the dresser and absent-mindedly flicking through the piles of paper. He held up a plastic pocket. ‘This is everything St Patrick’s Guild had. They were never actually a home for mothers, or an orphanage, you know. They were more of a holding pen, for babies. And they kept very neat files’ – he pulled out the pages so I could see – ‘like the Nazis.’
What must it do to someone, to discover who they are when they’ve already spent thirty-three years being someone else? I wanted to reach out, as I had been doing to people all day. I wasn’t sure if we offered our hands in times of sadness to comfort others or to reassure ourselves that we were not alone, but I wanted to place my hand on his bare forearm, to feel the muscle and veins and flesh of it. I also wanted him to stop talking. I didn’t want to know.
There were a few sheets of paper that had fallen from the dresser to the floor. On the back of one page was a question mark, drawn as long as the page itself. The house was quiet and there was no noise from the street below. It was just me and Andy and, somewhere in the middle, Henry.
‘Frances Clinch contacted St Patrick’s Guild via a private residence in County Wicklow on the morning of October third. She had given birth to a baby boy the night before that was not expected,’ Andy read from one of the sheets. ‘Frances Clinch had already given birth to one child, a boy whose adoption had been agreed.’
‘Henry.’
‘She was not expecting twins. She wished the baby to be removed from her care as soon as possible and placed with another family. She made no further requests.’ He placed the sheet on the dresser. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘No great mystery. Had a child, didn’t want him, gave him away to whoever would take him quickest. I’ve been to that house in Wicklow. I was there the day I met you. Frances stayed at it for a few months, I think, waiting to have Henry.’
I sat beside him on the bed. ‘She didn’t know you, Andy.’
‘She didn’t even know about me. Henry was in her thoughts the entire time she was pregnant, but for the whole nine months I didn’t exist. She was going to give him away, yeah, but at least she knew he was there. I didn’t exist in her mind or anyone else’s, not until the moment I came out of her. That must have been a shock.’ He gave a hollow laugh. I removed my hand from my stomach.
‘I existed to her for less than eighteen hours. Can you believe that? That’s how much time there was between my birth and my deposit at the hospital, as they call it here. Less than eighteen hours. Of course Henry got the better life. He’s the real one, the one who existed, and I’m the substitute.’
‘Andy—’
‘And no wonder Mum finally got a baby. They would have given me to anyone.’ He dropped his head, defeated. ‘I’m moving on from this stuff now. It’s endless and it leads nowhere. It doesn’t matter anymore.’
I budged over closer and pushed my arm and hip and thigh into his. I wanted him to know he was not alone. I held my hand out and he rested his palm flat against mine, like the gentlest high-five.
‘I never needed anything from anyone until I came here. I never cared that much, about anything. But once I started, it was endless. The more I know, the less I know. You could wade through this stuff for ever and never get anywhere, so I’m done. I’ve moved on.’
‘Moved on to what?’ I asked reluctantly. I didn’t like seeing him like this. I wished he would stop.
He lifted his head and looked at me. That face with the remnants of one I had loved like no other. I fought the urge to reach out and press my thumbs lightly over the lids of those pale blue eyes.
‘I know enough about who I was,’ he said finally. ‘That’s over, it’s done. We only get one life but that doesn’t mean there’s only one path. There are a million ways to live.’
My gaze swept over the modest array of possessions scattered about the bedroom. There was a backpack against the wall with an airline tag still around the strap. That was the bag he’d brought to Ireland; it was the kind most people brought to the gym.
‘Let’s not stay here,’ I said, turning back to him with a sudden burst of enthusiasm that all did not have to be lost. ‘Let’s go back to mine and make a big dinner and listen to music.’
‘I need to meet his parents, Grace.’
And I need to press my mouth against yours and feel your arms across my back, and have them be yours and his and one-and-the-same.
I curled my fingers, digging the nails into the flesh of my palms. How was it he’d come back to me and still I could not have him?
‘Okay,’ I said. I gave up, I had to. He was always on the verge of slipping away again.
I got up from the bed, clearing my throat as I reached down to where I’d thrown my bag inside the door. I scrolled through my contacts, stopping at Conor W. Isabel was better on the phone, but probably not today.
‘It’s ringing.’ I held it up to him, so he could see that I really was phoning them. I prayed it would go to voicemail.
‘Grace.’ Conor’s voice not exactly cold, but wary. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wondered if I could call around tomorrow.’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘It’s . . . I can’t really explain on the phone. But it’s important. I need to talk to both of you.’
‘Isabel has been in bed since we got home. I don’t think she’ll be up to—’
‘It’s really important.’
Andy was still as a statue. He didn’t dare to breathe lest he miss a beat of the conversation. His eyes flicked at each of Conor’s responses, as if he was already taking their willingness to meet as a reflection on him.
‘All right. In the evening.’
‘Good,’ I said breathlessly, not realising I had been holding mine too.
‘I’m in the office all day but I’ll be home around seven. I’ll make sure Isabel is here.’
‘That’s fine, thank you. We— I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I put the phone back in my bag, and hesitated over it. Did he want me to go now? Should I pick up my things and leave?
But Andy was standing, stuffing money and keys into his pockets.
‘Come on,’ he said, stepping over me to open the door. He took my hand in his, cold and sturdy and coarser than the one I knew before. I had taught myself not to hear his accent or the quirks of his speech, shortening words into a language of fun. And at the same time I had brought myself to focus on his nose – his skin and his hair and his nose – to know that he was different. Andy was him and not him.
‘Grace?’
His eyes were kind and knowing. My stomach flipped then settled completely, quenching an unease that had festered since morning. It had been a long day. His thumb stroked the back of my hand. I was shocked by the intimacy of it but I didn’t pull away. I wanted to cry with exhaustion and relief.
‘Come on, Grace, let’s go. I’ll even cook.’
FORTY-FIVE
We stopped outside a house with a For Sale sign in the garden.
‘How much would that place cost?’
‘A lot,’ I said, stepping out onto the street of the quiet estate to do a quick scope.
‘Half a million?’ Andy sized up the generously proportioned property. ‘A million?’
‘Do you actually want to know how much the house would cost? Are you thinking of buying?’
‘Just making conversation, passing the time.’
‘Well, I’m happy for the time to drag on, thanks very much.’ The road was empty. I guess most of the commuting residents were already back home, preparin
g to tuck into their dinners. ‘All right. You wait here,’ I said. ‘Behind the tree. I don’t need the neighbours going into hysterics. His parents should get first dibs on that.’
‘Did Henry grow up here?’
‘They moved here when he was born,’ I said, pushing him towards the tree. ‘They were in Clontarf before, I think, on the north side of the city. Most of the people living here knew Henry all his life. They were at his funeral. They dropped food into his parents afterwards. They sent Mass cards. They’re not expecting to see him loitering in Rosedale now or ever again.’
‘More people would recognise me here than in any housing development in Australia,’ mused Andy. ‘That’s crazy, ay?’
‘Insanity.’ I rounded on him. ‘How can you be in such a good mood?’ Ever since I’d set up this meeting the night before, Andy had returned to his usual self, as if a weight had been lifted from him. Meanwhile, my stomach was in the kind of knots that meant I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, although I was still taking the vitamins. I kept looking behind me, afraid Conor or Isabel was about to walk out their front door.
Andy leaned against the tree where I had instructed him to remain until I had delivered the greatest shock these people had received since the last one. He scrunched his face up at the evening sun. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he said serenely. ‘They’ll be glad to see me.’
I let out a hoot, regretting it immediately and hoping nobody peered out their window to see where the noise had come from. ‘I’ll be about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, maybe—’
‘Maybe none, I know. But there’s no way they won’t want to see me. I know it.’
I made my way slowly towards the house. Both Isabel’s and Conor’s cars were parked outside.
‘Good luck,’ Andy hissed. I turned around but he was obscured by the tree. Why did we both feel I was the one who needed luck?
The shrubs in the front garden were perfectly pruned. There wasn’t as much as a slug on the path and you could, as they say, have eaten your dinner off the porch. I made my way, as slowly as was reasonable, towards the door. Scooter was barking before I’d rung the bell, and I heard Conor telling him to be quiet.
The door opened to Isabel’s tall, thin frame. Conor was coming up the hallway behind her still shouting at the dog in that gruff tone you hoped humans only ever used on animals.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Isabel, not looking any better than when I’d seen her the day before but not looking any worse either. ‘Conor said you’d be calling.’
‘Let her in, Isabel.’
The door pulled back and I went to step inside but Scooter, whose movements had rarely been more than a plod the past year, bounded past me through the threshold, over my feet and down the garden.
‘Scooter! Scooter!’ Conor was out the door after him. ‘Get back here! Scooter!’ Conor strode rapidly down the path – he would never run, not in front of anyone anyway – and I realised too late what was happening. I started to go after him and the dog but the course of events was unstoppable. Conor froze at the end of the garden, only his side profile visible to me and Isabel as he stared agog in the direction of the barking.
‘What is it?’ said Isabel, first to me, then to her husband. ‘Conor? What is it?’ She went to make her way down the garden path too but I put an arm out to stop her.
‘Wait.’
‘Hello, boy. Hello.’ The Australian accent clear and distinct.
‘Who’s that?’
I didn’t know what to tell her so I told her nothing. ‘Wait,’ I said again.
‘Hello, sir.’ Andy’s voice travelled over the neighbour’s bushes and up the path.
‘Conor?’
But her husband could not hear her. He was going through the same things I had gone through that bright afternoon when Andy appeared on my doorstep. I strained to listen as if I might just hear the blood pounding in his ears, blocking out all external sound.
‘Conor,’ I said, finally breaking away from Isabel and rushing down the path. ‘This is Andy, Conor.’ I tried to get it all out as quickly as possible. ‘Andy is from Australia. He came to Ireland looking for his brother. This is Andy. It’s not Henry.’ Why did it sound like I was lying? This is Andy,’ I repeated, slower. ‘He’s Henry’s twin brother. He grew up in Australia. He’s here to find . . . He’s looking to find out about where he came from. He was adopted, Conor. Like Henry was. They were twins and they were adopted.’
I stood directly in front of Conor, speaking into his face, trying to obstruct his line of vision and break the spell. ‘It’s not Henry. It’s not him, Conor. It’s his brother.’ Still he did not move.
‘How’s it going?’ said Andy from behind me, more nervous than he sounded earlier. ‘It’s a real pleasure to meet you.’
‘What is going on?’ Isabel called from the step. ‘What are you saying about Henry? Who are you talking to? Conor? Conor?’ There was no point impeding her, the inevitable was in motion. Isabel came down the path towards us, watching her step as she went.
If the neighbours weren’t at their windows already, they would be now. You could only hear a scream like that once. It was the noise of a banshee, the sonographic expression of unspeakable sorrow and it made my blood run cold. There were months of pain in that scream, and for the first time I considered that my own loss may not have been the greatest.
I caught Isabel by her right arm and finally Conor moved, getting his hand under her left one just in time.
FORTY-SIX
Istood in the immaculate, cream living room, walking from mantelpiece to couch before getting up again and retracing my steps. Andy was perched awkwardly on a dining chair. I gave him a reassuring smile but neither of us spoke. We were waiting.
Conor and I had all but carried Isabel into the house. Andy offered to help but it was better if he kept his distance. She kept repeating the word ‘no’, and Conor had taken her upstairs. That was twenty minutes ago. The door to the front room was open and occasionally I wandered into the hallway. Indistinguishable panic wafted down the stairs, but the only words I made out were Isabel saying: ‘But I had him, I had him. I remember.’
Conor must have given her something because when they finally reappeared in the living room she was calm. Tranquil, even. They came in, Isabel smiling, Conor frowning, and sat. Isabel on the sofa, Conor in the armchair by the window and Andy still on the dining chair as if on a pedestal, an object of curiosity. With the four of us now present, we continued to exist in silence. Isabel stared at Andy, he stared at her and Conor focused on the window.
‘So Henry was adopted.’
I think all three of them had forgotten I was there.
‘No,’ said Isabel.
‘Yes,’ said her husband.
She didn’t correct him.
‘Right, and he had a twin?’ I looked to Andy. He’d wanted to come here, these were his questions, but someone had to get the ball rolling. I tried again: ‘Andy was his twin.’
‘We didn’t know,’ said Isabel vaguely. ‘He had a twin . . . Did he? We didn’t know. You didn’t know, did you, Conor? You didn’t know there were two?’
‘Of course not,’ her husband snapped back. ‘Of course I didn’t know.’
The room returned to silence. Isabel stared at Andy in amazement, contorting her face in response to whatever was going on in her head. I concentrated on the photograph of Henry in his graduation cap and gown and the sound of Scooter barking frantically from the back garden.
‘We had been trying for a baby for years.’
‘Isabel.’
But she ignored her husband. ‘I got pregnant easily, but it never stuck. My body kept letting me down.’
‘You don’t have to tell them this.’
‘We hadn’t talked about adoption until a girl at Conor’s office got pregnant. We said we’d take care of everything and she’d give us Henry. It was very simple. Do you remember, Conor?’ But he wasn’t looking at her. ‘She was delighted that we wanted the chil
d. She had no plan, did she, Conor? She didn’t know what she was going to do. We said we’d find somewhere for her to stay, look after everything, Conor would make sure she got her job back. She didn’t know anything about nutrition; she could barely look after herself. She was only a child. Wasn’t she, Conor?’
Andy continued to sit immobile, watching Isabel as her mouth moved. I presumed he was taking this in.
‘And did she go to live with you?’ I asked.
‘She told her family – and Conor told everyone in the office – that she’d been posted to France for six months. They all thought it was very glamorous, didn’t they, Conor?’
‘And she came here?’ I pressed gently, not wanting to disrupt her flow now answers were coming so readily.
‘We didn’t live here.’
‘To Clontarf, then? Did she go to live with you in Clontarf?’
Isabel looked at me like I was stupid. ‘How would we explain that to the neighbours?’
‘Then where?’
‘The house in Wicklow. It had a name . . . What was it called, Conor? Father Clogher, long dead now, he was our parish priest in Clontarf, he found a nice couple in Wicklow and they looked after her. She was happy there, wasn’t she, Conor? They were a really nice family and they were really good to her. Isn’t that right, Conor?’ Isabel didn’t look at her husband as she sought these confirmations. She was talking to me but her gaze never left Andy.
‘We saw the place for ourselves,’ she said. ‘She asked us to call in a couple of weeks before Henry was due – the only time I ever met her – on our way to the airport for our holiday. We had to collect her postcards. Remember, Conor? They had pictures of general seascapes on them so you couldn’t tell where they were from. It was very clever, wasn’t it, Conor?’
Conor didn’t as much as flinch but I was getting irritated on his behalf. Andy was still just watching, not saying a word.
‘What postcards?’ I asked, doing my best to quash my frustration. ‘Why was his mother giving you postcards?’
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