Текст книги "Her Name Is Rose: A Novel"

Автор книги: Christine Breen

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Thirteen

When Pierce arrived at the White Horse Tavern in Chappaqua it was empty except for Rowan. He was sitting near the front window, staring at the piece of paper in his hands. He folded it when his brother approached. Pierce came over quickly, sat down opposite. They stayed like that a few moments, Pierce watching Rowan, and Rowan watching three small boys sitting on a bench across the street. They were horsing around and laughing.

“What’s happened?” Pierce said.

The bartender, a young woman in shorts and a polo shirt, came to the table.

“I’ll have another,” Rowan said. And to his brother, “You want something?”

His brother looked at Rowan’s empty glass, then to the bartender, and said, “No. No, thanks. I’m fine. Maybe water.” Then to Rowan, he said, “Buddy? It’s early for that. Let’s wait till we’re back at Mother’s.” The woman shrugged and went away.

Rowan didn’t get angry. He might have, but he didn’t. Something was happening to him. He wasn’t sure what. He said, “Allow me to quote the proverbial words of the great Irishman Edmund Burke,” he said, “I may be turning over a new leaf.”

“What?”

“It’s a Coke. I’m drinking Coke.”

“Good. That’s good.” Pierce paused. “Sorry.” And then, as if unable to remain patient any longer, Pierce shifted in his chair and made to get up. Half sitting, half standing, he said, somewhat exasperated, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

“Will I need a drink for this?”

The bartender laid the Coke in front of Rowan and raised her eyes. When she was out of earshot, Pierce said, “Okay, tell me.”

Rowan recounted the entire incident. The barking dog, Jack Barrett, the red maple, the American flag, Marjorie Barrett, and the letter. He showed the letter, but didn’t give it to him. “Hilary had written this but she never sent it. Her parents found it among her things.”

“Oh, Jesus. It’s addressed to you.”

Rowan looked again out the window where a woman, about the age of their mother, was tying the shoes of one of the little boys. “Yes, it’s addressed to me.”

After a time he turned back. “She did have a baby. A girl.”

Pierce might have prepared for something like this, but the look on his face showed his shock and his hand rose instinctively to cover his brother’s outstretched hand.

“Jack blames me for Hilary’s death.”

“So they kept it from you? And…” Pierce paused briefly. “I’m so sorry, Ro. But it’s…” He looked at Rowan. “It’s kind of…” He didn’t say more but surveyed his brother’s face to calculate how he was taking this. Rowan was oddly calm. There was a sense of determination about him that hadn’t surfaced for a long time. He’d spent too many years ignoring the insidious way alcohol had crept, like a slowly growing fungus, into his life. He had fooled himself, but all the time there was a part of him that understood if only he could … if only he could kill the rot, his life would be better.

“I’m going to Ireland.”

*   *   *

The next afternoon, Pierce drove Rowan to JFK for an evening flight to Dublin. Rowan had phoned his office to say he was taking a week’s vacation. It was last minute but he’d be contactable by cell phone.

“I wish I could go with you. Here,” Pierce said. “Mother gave me this to give to you. Put it in your suitcase.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t ask.” Pierce rolled his eyes. “Just scatter them somewhere.”

Rowan registered with a similar rolling-eyed expression. He understood. Burdy’s ashes.

The only tickets left to Dublin that night were in business, but Rowan didn’t want to wait a couple of days for a cheaper fare. When he’d settled in and was offered complimentary champagne, he chose orange juice instead. One day at a time, he thought.

Rowan had never been to Ireland. Burdy had always meant to take him on a golf trip and to show him the statue in St. Stephen’s Green of his great-great-great-grand uncle, the Irish patriot, Robert Emmet. But it never happened. Why was that? Rowan had been too busy. That’s why. It was his own fault. Another lost opportunity. The road to regret is paved with inaction. When he stopped long enough to think about it his regrets were many. After it had ended with Hilary there had been other women but nothing amounted to anything lasting or meaningful. He couldn’t say why, really. He regretted that he hadn’t tried harder. He regretted, too, that he hadn’t spent enough time with his mother. For too long all his regrets had been absolved by alcohol.

Burdy had warned him that it was in his genes, this alcoholic inheritance, and there was only one way to beat it. “I’ll only say this one time because I know you will find your way. You don’t have to hit bottom with this thing. It’s an elevator going down, you can get off any floor you want.”

In his pocket, he fingered the Irish coin with the harp and the hare, the threepenny piece, Burdy’s lucky golf ball marker.

*   *   *

Seven o’clock in the morning, steady rain falling, a Turkish taxi driver dropped him at the Merrion hotel in Dublin’s city center. Emerging from the car, Rowan tilted back his head and let the rain fall on his face. He looked around at the pale gray granite columns and gated entrance of a large, lead-domed building across the wide street. Government buildings, the taxi driver told him. Even though the driver was a foreigner he pointed out all the cultural sights. Croke Park. The Custom House. The Liffey. The Bank of Ireland. Trinity College.

“Good morning, good morning. May I take your luggage, sir?” An elderly porter in top hat and tails said. He’d been standing, waiting at the hotel’s discreet front door.

Rowan wasn’t normally a guest at hotels with porters in top hats but he’d chosen this one because it was around the corner from the offices of the Adoption Board. His credit card would take another hit. “No, I can carry it. Thanks.” He looked up and down the street but didn’t move.

“Will I get you an umbrella, sir?”

“Is Merrion Square that way?” Rowan nodded to the right.

“Yes. Right there, sir. And the National Gallery is just across the street. But it’s not open yet. Are you sure you’re not wanting me to take your bag, sir?”

“No. Thanks. I’ll check in now.” Rowan followed the porter into the front room of the hotel, where a tall, blond receptionist named Sabine checked him in and a few minutes later a young man with a middle-European accent showed him into a garden-view suite. (Thus far the only Irish person he’d actually encountered in Ireland was the old porter, whose brogue was strong, maybe by way of compensation.)

“We have upgraded you sir,” said the young man. “May I show you the room’s amenities?”

By the time he was shown into the marble-floored bathroom, Rowan said, “Thanks. I think I can manage from here,” and handed him a five-euro note.

In a tangled mixture of grief, shock, and a jet-lagged trance then, he looked down at the enclosed garden, the reflecting pool, clipped boxwood hedging, the blooming campanula and white calla lilies and a very old magnolia tree. He wished in a way he’d said yes to his mother’s offer to accompany him. But it was too soon after Burdy. He was grateful Pierce was able to stay and attend to her as well as to Burdy’s estate.

Rowan leaned against the window frame and looked down at the order of the garden, and in his mind he laid out the distorted architecture of what he now knew: Hilary had had a baby, a girl, and placed her for adoption. In Ireland. He was now in the category known as a “natural” parent. He had learned on the Adoption Board’s Web site that he could officially sign up as such, the natural father, with the “National Adoption Contact Preference Register.” In one fell swoop he was a father, if only in the literal sense of the word. He had called the Adoption Board and explained that he was arriving in Dublin from New York the next day and needed an appointment. Urgently.

*   *   *

After a brief nap, mainly to clear his head of jet lag, Rowan accepted an umbrella offered by the gentleman porter and walked out, turning left outside the hotel, into a cloudburst. A few yards farther, he turned right onto Baggot Street. Place names suddenly jumped out at him as he passed along: O’Donaghue’s, Doheny and Nesbitt, Toners. Names on a postcard Hilary had sent him after arriving in Dublin to attend Trinity College. She’d been doing the pub crawl with the other American exchange students, she’d written and invited him to come visit. It panged his heart to think about it now.

Rowan hadn’t told Hilary before she left for Ireland that their relationship was over.

Nor had he told her straight off when she came home for Christmas, even though he had several occasions to. They’d gone out a couple of times. Muscoot’s, the White Horse, once to Nino’s. He hadn’t told her it was over until just before she returned to Ireland after the holiday. He’d met someone else. He was sorry. It was just the way it was. He wasn’t ready to get married. They were parked outside her house, the car running. Snow covered the lawns and white lights decorated the bare tree outside the Barretts’ house, he remembered. She got out of the car without a word. Midway up the path, she turned and came back. She opened the door and dropped the engagement ring on the seat and walked the path to her parents’ house.

Remembering now the look on her face, Rowan felt sick. There was something about the way she reacted. He’d been too indifferent to consider how deeply it might affect her.

Along the north side of St. Stephen’s Green he passed the Shelbourne Hotel, crossed the street, and walked along the outside railings of the great square, which, the porter had told him, was once the oldest urban space in the world. Opposite the top of Grafton Street, Rowan continued along the edge of the green and within a few yards pulled up short. There, posed as if in midspeech, stood the tall, thin statue of Robert Emmet, arms free at his sides, one palm open and turned toward the sky. Rowan was struck by the likeness to his grandfather. It was in the nose.

Rowan walked around the green and back past the hotel. The old porter waved a white-gloved hand as Rowan passed. When he reached the address on Merrion Square just before two in the afternoon the rain had eased. He stared at the blue door, its glass fanlight reflecting a bit of sky and marshmallow cloud and a little green from the trees in the gated park across the street. People passed as he waded in a pool of uncertainty, anxiety, and immense regret. He drew in a long, deep breath, like a swimmer on the starting block. He sucked and held his breath and, in one long whoosh, let it out: Whoosh.

Inside, a tall, thin woman in a black cardigan sat at a desk. She was on the phone and motioned with her hand for him to wait. His breath quickened.

She soon hung up and stood. “Mr. Blake, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Rowan put out his hand.

“Sonia McGowan,” she said, taking it lightly. “Come, this way. Please.” She started walking and Rowan followed. “You’re just arrived from New York? You must be tired.” Without waiting for him to answer, or looking back, she continued. “How was your flight?”

She led him through an open door into a small room with a corner window that looked out onto a gray wall, and indicated an old armchair. Rowan sat and the woman took the seat opposite. There was a small table between them with a box of tissues, a pen, and a clipboard holding paper. The linoleum floor was so polished his shoes squeaked when he shifted position to recross his legs.

“How can I help you?” she said.

Rowan thought she sighed before reaching for the clipboard. He didn’t think he could begin.

“Go on, please.”

“Well…” He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked around the room a moment. “I think I’ve just become a father.”

She didn’t say anything right away but a minor smile softened her face. It was brief. “Tell me whatever you know. You’ve requested a meeting with the Adoption Board, presumably because there’s some connection to us—”

Rowan interrupted and spoke quickly, “I found out two days ago that a young woman I was dating over twenty years ago had a baby, and she gave her baby…” He paused, searching for the right words. He didn’t want to say them.

“She placed her baby for adoption?”

“Yes.” Rowan nodded. “That’s right. I believe.” He sat back in his seat and let out a long, soundless whistle. He put his hands on his knees and clasped them and shifted his weight forward.

“I see,” Sonia McGowan said, “and just to be clear, Mr. Blake, you’re questioning whether the baby was adopted here? In Ireland?” She was writing on the form held by the clipboard.

“I’m not suggesting it, Ms. McGowan. I know it to be true. I have a letter from her, the baby’s mother, telling me that she did.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope and eased the letter carefully from it. He looked once more before handing it over. It was folded in four and well creased.

She read it.

Dear Ro,

A year ago I had a baby. A girl. She was born in Dublin. I gave her up for adoption a couple of weeks after I gave birth. She was placed with a very loving couple in the west of the country a few weeks later. I’ve had confirmation from a social worker at the agency that an adoption order has been granted to her new parents. So now it’s legal. That’s why I’m writing.

Our daughter is now someone else’s. I met them, Rowan. They will give our baby everything we couldn’t. A home, and parents. Plural.

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.