by Tara Heavey
‘You mean I can have my baby back?’
‘Of course you can have your baby back. She’s still your baby.’
She was her baby. Her baby.
My baby.
Once the phone call was over, Emily was beside herself. ‘Oh, my God, oh, my God.’ She was still pacing, holding her face in her hands. She had to see someone, tell someone, touch someone. She ran out to the main part of the garden. Aoife wasn’t there. She’d gone to give a lecture. Seth wasn’t there. He was out working on a proper job. Uri was nowhere to be found. But Mrs Prendergast was walking slowly up to her house, oblivious to everything around her. Emily ran to her. ‘Mrs Prendergast!’
Mrs Prendergast stopped and turned, startled. Emily sensed that she’d thought herself alone in the garden. She reached her and flung her arms around the older woman’s neck, startling her even further. She squeezed her, then let her go, amazed at how fragile she had felt. How vulnerable. She drew back and looked at Mrs Prendergast as if for the first time, a woman she’d always viewed as formidable rather than frail. Mrs Prendergast’s face was uncertain, her cheeks slightly flushed. ‘What is it, my dear?’
‘I’m getting my baby back. They’re giving her back to me.’
‘Your baby?’ Now Mrs Prendergast was staring at her as if she had two heads.
‘Yes. She’s mine. My baby.’ Emily started to cry. Big, fat, happy tears, completely devoid of shame.
The older woman was still staring at her, in amazement now, but with a strange expression in her eyes that Emily was too preoccupied to register. ‘That’s wonderful, my dear. I’m very pleased for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Emily laughed through her tears, like a summer shower, and hugged Mrs Prendergast again.
‘Can I get you anything? Do you want to come into the house and sit down?’
‘No, thanks. I’d better get home and start organizing myself.’ Emily moved towards the gate, half walking, half running. ‘’Bye, Mrs Prendergast.’
‘Goodbye, my dear.’
Mrs Prendergast watched Emily until she was really alone in the garden. Then she wrapped her shawl tight around her shoulders, hugging herself, even though the day was warm. She was no longer ramrod straight: with no one to watch her, she was a tiny figure passing beneath the shade of the ancient apple trees, back into the house that had sheltered her secrets for most of her adult life.
The handover was organized for Friday morning. Emily arrived ten minutes early and Stephanie drove her to the foster-family’s home. Emily was ready. At least, she thought she was. The house wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting, although she hadn’t known that she’d been expecting anything. It was small and neat and modest. Emily realized she was put out that they hadn’t placed her daughter in something more palatial. Her next thought was that it was a damn sight more than she could offer. Oh, God.
The car drew to a halt and it was time to get out. Incredibly, her legs were still functioning and she accompanied Stephanie to the front door. They rang the bell and waited. A man of about sixty answered. He nodded at Stephanie, clearly recognizing her, and stood aside to let them enter. He stared at Emily, averting his gaze when she caught him. They were ushered into a living room, where a woman sat in the centre of a couch, an infant in her arms. She looked more grandmother than mother. This surprised Emily, but she didn’t dwell on it as she was far too busy staring at her daughter. Everyone whispered in deference to the sleeping child.
‘You must be Emily,’ said the woman.
Emily nodded.
‘I’m Marie. Why don’t you sit down beside us?’
Emily perched on the edge of the couch, her eyes fixed on the baby’s face.
‘I’d have known you anywhere,’ said Marie. ‘She’s the image of you.’
‘Is she?’ Emily allowed herself a smile. Was that true? She couldn’t see it. But she recognized her daughter, or felt she did.
‘Wouldn’t you like to hold her?’
‘Won’t she wake?’
‘Here. Sit back.’
Emily eased herself into the couch and accepted the warm, floppy weight of her child. The baby stirred but remained sleeping. The minutes passed. ‘Have you done this before?’ asked Emily.
‘Thirty-nine times now, including this little one,’ said Marie, ‘and each time it’s like giving up one of my own.’
Emily looked at her properly for the first time. ‘I’m sorry.’
The woman touched her arm. ‘Don’t be. I’m happy for you both. Very happy.’
‘Are you ready?’ said Stephanie, gently.
Emily nodded and eased herself up off the couch.
‘Here are all her things.’ Marie handed an oversized bag to Stephanie while she addressed Emily. ‘You’ve got nappies, wipes, Babygros and other clothes, the little teddy she sleeps with and a bottle for later.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re more than welcome. Take good care of each other.’
‘We will. I’ll send you photos, let you know how she’s getting on.’
‘Will you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d really love that.’ Marie planted a swift kiss on the baby’s forehead and turned away.
Emily stepped out of the house, feeling as if she were stealing her own baby.
Of course, the baby woke up and started to scream as soon as they attempted to strap her into her car seat. Emily sat in the back beside her and held a bottle to her lips. It kind of worked.
‘I’ll take you home,’ Stephanie said.
‘Would you mind bringing me somewhere else instead?’
Stephanie helped Emily lug the buggy out of the boot and assemble it on the footpath, then click the car seat into the frame. There was so much to know, and that was even before you got to the baby.
Although the day was balmy, Emily placed a blanket over the now sleeping form of her daughter. Then she let herself in through the wrought-iron gate, newly painted by Uri – who was the first person to see her.
He approached her, smiling. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to. Doing a little babysitting?’
‘You could say that.’
Uri peered into the buggy. ‘Where did this little one come from, then?’
‘Me.’
‘Pardon?’
‘She came from me, Uri. This is my daughter.’
Uri looked from Emily to the baby and back again. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
She could see the questions passing across Uri’s face but he contained them. Instead he stepped up to Emily, held her by the upper arms and kissed her on each cheek. ‘Mazel tov.’
Emily felt close to tears.
Then Aoife came rushing over and she was in tears. ‘Emily! You’re here. You’re both here.’ She leaned into the buggy. ‘Oh, she’s so like you, and I’m not just saying that.’ Then she embraced Emily with abandon, rocking her back and forth in her arms, both of them laughing through their tears.
Seth and Mrs Prendergast approached with some caution. They stared at the baby, then at Emily.
‘Is she yours?’ Seth said eventually.
‘She is.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s her name?’ said Mrs Prendergast, unable to resist reaching out and touching the child’s cheek with her dry fingers.
‘Rose,’ said Emily, looking down at her daughter. ‘Her name’s Rose.’
Mrs Prendergast nodded, then turned and walked away.
Aoife insisted that Rose and Emily stay with her for that first night. She didn’t have to do much persuading. Rose screamed well into the early hours, waking even Liam. He snuggled into his mother’s warmth, half asleep. ‘Has Katie come back to us, Mama?’
Aoife hugged him close. ‘Go to sleep, my darling.’
The next day, Aoife drove mother and daughter to Kilkenny.
‘What time are they expecting you?’ They were almost there.
‘They’re not
.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t tell them I was coming.’
‘Why not?’
‘I wanted to surprise them.’
Aoife had a horrible thought as she glanced at Emily’s impassive profile. ‘You did tell them about Rose?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What?’
Luckily, there was a layby coming up for Aoife to skid into. ‘Jesus Christ, Emily. What were you thinking?’
‘I couldn’t bring myself to tell them over the phone. And, besides, they’re less likely to reject her if they see her in the flesh. I mean, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Of course she’s beautiful. But, Emily, you should have told me they didn’t know. What do I do when we get there? Do I come inside the house or do I just drop you off? Or do I wait outside in the car in case –’
‘In case they kick me out.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to put it like that. But – You don’t think they will, do you?’
‘I don’t know. I hope not.’
‘So do I.’
They sat quietly for a while, staring out of the windscreen, lorries whizzing by at intervals and shaking the car.
‘Will you come in with me?’
‘I don’t see how I have any choice.’
‘I’m sorry, Aoife. I didn’t mean for you to feel emotionally blackmailed.’
‘It’s not that. I just need to pee. Really badly. And it’s all your fault for making that tea before we left.’
It was a traditional farmhouse. Nothing cute about it, just functional. Some effort had been made – rambling roses up the side wall – and it was neat. But it was what it was.
They arrived close to lunchtime and, to Aoife’s untrained eye, it seemed that no one was around. But, said Emily, given the location and the time, that was impossible. She removed the sleeping Rose, complete with car seat, and carried her into the house. Aoife followed close behind.
The large kitchen was empty but showed signs of life – pots bubbling and steaming on an old Aga. Emily placed Rose and her car seat carefully in a vacant corner, facing the wall. Footsteps approached from the hall and the two women looked at one another. A third entered, an overflowing laundry basket under one oxter. She looked just like Emily, only her colours were less vivid. She stopped dead. ‘Emily!’ Her face creased into a smile. ‘This is a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?’ She put the basket on the massive kitchen table and hugged her daughter.
‘Hiya, Mammy.’ Aoife watched Emily sink into her mother as if she was afraid it was to be for the last time.
Mrs Harte met Aoife’s eye over her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Hello.’
Aoife nodded. Emily disengaged herself. ‘Mammy, this is Aoife, a good friend of mine. She drove me down. Aoife started the whole garden thing – remember I was telling you?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Emily’s mother, in case you hadn’t guessed. Why don’t you sit down and take the weight off?’
Aoife took a chair. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Harte.’
‘Oh, none of that. Call me Bridget.’
Aoife was amazed at how young she was – no more than mid-forties – and realized how inaccurate her vision of Emily’s mother had been. She was only about a decade older than herself.
Rose chose this exact moment to whimper. It was a delicious sound – not ready to wake up yet, just settling back into her dreams. Three sets of eyes swung towards the car seat in the corner.
‘You have a baby!’ exclaimed Bridget, rushing over to examine her. ‘Ah, would you look at her. How old?’ She addressed Aoife.
‘Um. Eight months, but –’
‘Eight months. What a gorgeous age. What’s her name?’
‘Rose,’ said Emily. ‘Mammy, you have the wrong end of the stick.’
Bridget looked up at her daughter in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
Aoife watched Emily draw herself up to her full height. ‘She’s mine.’
Understanding and denial fought for dominance on Mrs Harte’s face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The baby. She’s mine.’
Aoife was sure the clock hadn’t been ticking as loudly in the seconds beforehand. But now it was all she could hear, as if it signalled the imminent detonation of a bomb.
She and Emily watched as Bridget’s complexion turned from cream to pink to puce.
‘Mammy, are you all right?’
Bridget was holding on to the side of a dresser as if to support herself. Wordlessly, Aoife got up, took her free arm, walked her to a chair and sat her down. Then she searched for a kettle and switched it on.
‘Mammy, say something.’
Bridget was gripping the side of the table. The table that had been scarred by a thousand coffee cups. She appeared to be whispering something to herself.
‘What did you say?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Bridget turned to her daughter, her face now a somewhat normal colour. ‘How could you possibly have a baby?’
‘Well, I did it the old-fashioned way. It wasn’t a virgin birth, if that’s what you mean.’ Emily’s words were defiant, but Aoife noticed that she kept her eyes lowered.
‘No. I mean she’s eight months old. Where has she been all this time?’
Emily sighed and sat down heavily in the chair beside her mother. ‘She was in a foster-home. I was going to have her adopted but I couldn’t go through with it.’
‘But your pregnancy…’ Bridget was shaking her head slowly.
‘I was small. I wore baggy clothes. And then when I was heavily pregnant I just didn’t come home. Remember last summer when you were put out that I wasn’t here for the weekends?’
Bridget nodded as if in a trance. Then, all of a sudden, she seemed to come to. ‘Who’s the father?’
‘A boy in college. He’s not important. He didn’t want to know.’
‘So you had the baby – you had Rose. In hospital?’
‘I had her in hospital, yes.’
‘Who was with you?’
‘No one.’
The words reverberated around the kitchen as their impact resonated with all three women. Bridget’s face crumpled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think you’d understand.’
As both women began to cry, Aoife slipped out of the kitchen and closed the door quietly behind her. She found herself in a long hallway with a porch at the end. There, a boy – around eight or nine – was in the process of kicking off a pair of mucky shoes and simultaneously shrugging a schoolbag off his back.
‘Hello,’ said Aoife, walking towards him.
‘Well.’
She assumed that ‘well’ passed for ‘hello’ in these parts. ‘I take it you’re Emily’s brother.’
He nodded briefly. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Aoife, a friend of Emily’s.’
He nodded, apparently uninterested, and walked past her towards the kitchen door.
‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Emily and your mother need some privacy.’
‘But I came home for me dinner.’
‘Just give them five minutes. Go and watch some cartoons or something.’
The boy eyed her resentfully. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
‘Actually, I was looking for a toilet.’
27
They didn’t see Emily for the rest of the summer. She was on maternity leave. At first it was strange without her. But the others grew to fill in the gap. There were reminders of her everywhere, in the purple spikes of lavender – French, not English – and when a breeze or a childish hand jangled the wind chimes. In the evenings Aoife would sit beside Emily’s night-scented stock like a woman intoxicated. Sometimes Seth would be with her and they would talk until late, the children playing around them, well past their bedtime. It was only a matter of time before they asked the questions that remained an unspoken
barrier between them.
Aoife went first. She had faced more in life and was less fearful. It was like a confession box, that clump of night-scented stock. ‘Do you see much of your wife, Seth?’
‘Every time I pick Kathy up or drop her off.’
‘Of course. What’s that like?’
‘All right. It was weird at first but we’re used to it now.’
‘Is she in another relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must be strange. Knowing that Kathy has another father figure in her life.’
‘Mother figure.’
‘Pardon?’
Seth turned so that he was looking at her. She could see his eyes clearly now. Hazel flecked with blue and green.
‘She has another mother figure. Megan left me for a woman.’
Several heartbeats were missed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘That must have been tough.’
He shrugged and looked down at his feet.
‘Did you feel – I don’t know – emasculated or something?’
‘If you mean did I feel like she’d cut off my balls then the answer is yes.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Ouch is right. It didn’t help that she was so open about it. She still lives in the same neighbourhood and doesn’t try to hide it. I’m not saying she should or anything but it would be easier for me if everyone didn’t know. Can you imagine the lads down the pub? It doesn’t really go with my macho image.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
They were both quiet for a while.
‘Have they grown back, then?’
‘What?’
‘Your balls.’
He laughed – she liked making him laugh. ‘I almost have a full set.’ He looked at her. ‘Your turn.’
‘What?’
‘You know. You got my sordid details. Now you tell me yours.’
He was smiling but his eyes were serious. Had he been as curious about her as she had been about him? It took her a while to speak.
‘My husband died,’ she said eventually. ‘A little over two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you already know?’
‘How would I?’
‘I told Emily a while back. I wasn’t sure if she’d said anything to anyone.’
