And who could tell with fate? Perhaps the son was designed to be a shadow of the father, something predisposed even before his birth. What if my attempts to intervene made no difference? What would be, would simply be. Que será, será. Why try to fight what seemed written in stone, or perhaps in the stars? What if God’s cosmic sense of humor was cynical? Maybe he got a kick out of watching history repeating itself. My dear Liam had played the piano, gone off to war, and died. In all likelihood Jamie would do the same. I callously wondered if Jamie might even get a girl pregnant before he trucked off to war and an early grave.
Finally I told my mind to be quiet—to just shut up! Quit dwelling on all that was negative and pessimistic and frightening . . . I reminded myself of what Hal had often said, whenever I was fretting over Jamie or life in general. He’d quietly put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Why work yourself into a fit over things you can’t control, Colleen? Why not simply pray?”
Maybe he had been right. Perhaps prayer was my only ally now. And so I did pray. But first I had to apologize for imagining God as some heartless practical joker. I had a feeling that wasn’t quite right. Then I prayed for help and mercy and wisdom. And then I fell into a fretful sleep and dreamed some crazy, mixed-up dreams involving Liam, Hal, and Jamie.
The next morning, I got up early, but I was not refreshed. I didn’t feel the least bit rested or peaceful, and I wasn’t even happy about being here in Ireland. Doubtful thoughts clouded my head as I pulled on my quilted bathrobe and opened the curtains. It was still dark out, but the sky looked as if it might be clear again today, and I could see a sliver of golden light off to the southeastern horizon, out over the ocean. It seemed likely that we could have another nice day, not that I cared since I felt certain another storm brewed, one between Jamie and me. Yet, I knew what had to be done. I knew I must place one foot in front of the other, and I must speak to my son, and somehow I must make amends. I would take the high road and apologize for how things went last night. I would forgive him for his wasted college money and his deceptions, and I would tell him that we needed a fresh start.
But would I tell him the truth about his father? I still felt unsure. Was it best to just get these things out in the open, to lay my cards on the table and see what happened next? Or was it wrong to burden him with my mistakes? It was too early to figure that out. Instead, I slowly bathed, then dressed, shivering in the cool air of the bathroom and wondering why the Irish hadn’t discovered the lovely convenience of bathroom wall heaters.
Then I busied myself in my room until 7:30, and although I knew it was still pretty early for Jamie, I went out and tapped on his door. When there was no answer, I tapped a bit louder. Surely he hadn’t gotten up and left already. I hadn’t heard a peep from his room since last night. And he’d come in so late. I knocked even louder now, calling out his name, and eventually I heard some thumping around, and he opened the door, blinked sleepily at me, and asked me what time it was.
“It’s after 7:30,” I told him. “I was going down for breakfast and wondered if you’d like to join me. I think we should talk.”
“Give me a few minutes,” he said groggily as he closed the door. “Gotta wake up and stuff.”
This seemed reasonable, so I got my new book, an Irish novel set in the eighteenth century, and went down to the lobby to read for a while. Then, when it was a quarter past eight, I went on into the dining room. I figured forty-five minutes was plenty of time for Jamie to clean up. I knew that, if in a hurry, like back in high school and he had slept in too late, that boy could be out the door in five minutes flat.
I ordered a pot of tea. But after another fifteen minutes, with no Jamie, I went ahead and ordered my breakfast.
“My son seems to be running late,” I told the waitress as she brought me my bacon and eggs. Then, although I ate slowly, glancing every now and then to the door, I was finally finished with my meal, and the only thing left to do was to sign for the bill and go back upstairs to see what was keeping Jamie. I hoped he hadn’t sneaked out on me. It was nine o’clock when I knocked on the door again and after a couple of minutes, Jamie answered, looking exactly as he had the first time.
“I waited for you,” I told him in a slightly irritated tone. “For an hour and a half.”
He yawned. “I must’ve fallen back asleep.”
I studied his red-rimmed and slightly puffy eyes, then remembered he’d had a late night, which made me suspicious. “Were you out drinking last night?” I demanded.
“I had a couple of pints, no big deal.” He frowned.
“Look, I didn’t bring you all the way over to Ireland just so you could go on a drunken binge every night.” I instantly regretted my words, aware that my voice sounded just like an old fishwife. But it was too late; like a gun that had been shot, my bullet words were out and they had hit their mark.
“I haven’t been on any drunken binges, Mom.” He was closing the door now.
“I heard you coming in after one in the morning.” I wedged my foot in the door, keeping it open. Part of my brain warned me to be the grown-up here, to talk reasonably and make peace, but the other part was putting up its fists, ready to go the next round.
“I was listening to a band.”
“After midnight?”
“What is this?” he shot back at me, eyes narrowed. “The Irish inquisition?”
“Well, I’m your mother, Jamie. And I brought you here to—”
“Yes, you are my mother,” he said loudly. “Although I doubt that anyone would’ve known that last night when you raked me over the coals and didn’t even acknowledge my music. What kind of mother does that anyway?”
I pushed open the door now, worried that our voices might be disturbing other hotel guests, not that there were many this time of year. Still, this was uncomfortable—and embarrassing.
“We need to talk, Jamie,” I said firmly as I went into his room and closed the door. I stood before him with my hands on my hips, just the way I had done so many times while he was growing up, times when he had to be nagged to clean his room, or to finish his homework, or to undo some childish prank. More than Hal, I had been the disciplinarian with my son, and it seemed I wasn’t ready to give up my role yet.
“Sit down,” I commanded him, pointing to his unmade bed. To my surprise he did this without arguing, and I sat on the chair across from him.
He perched on the edge of his bed just staring at me, but I could see the hurt in his deep blue eyes, and I knew I was the one responsible for it. And I knew why. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to face that just yet.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I was coming at this thing completely backward. After all, he’d been the one to make that shocking confession last night. I still couldn’t believe how casually he had lied to both Hal and me, pretending to go to college when he’d been wasting our money and just playing around. For two years he’d kept up this deception. What made him think it was acceptable to take our money, abuse our trust, and then lie about graduating? We hadn’t brought him up to be like that, and I had every right to be indignant and angry. And yet . . . was I using these emotions for a smoke screen?
“Just say it, Mom,” he said, breaking into my internal battlefield. “Tell me that you’re ashamed of me, that I’m a good-for-nothing son, that I’m useless and hopeless, and that I stole the tuition money from you. Just say it. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
I blinked, then took in a sharp breath. “Yes, I am disappointed in you, Jamie.” I reminded myself I had meant to be in control here. I had planned to be mature, whether or not I felt like it. I wondered how Hal would handle this. Probably much better than I was doing. “I really did want you to go to college, and I wanted you to graduate too. I thought a college degree would be your ticket, your way to get a solid heads-up in life, a key to success. And I wanted it even more after you decided not to go into the family business. I can’t deny that it hurt me to hear that you’d deceived us, Jamie. I think it would�
�ve hurt your father too.”
“Yeah, I know, Mom.” He held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “But at least Dad would’ve forgiven me.”
Now that stung. “I’ll forgive you too, Jamie.”
He scowled. “Yeah, maybe you’ll forgive me, but not until you get good and ready. Not until you’ve punished me first.”
“I don’t want to punish you,” I said. “I just want you to understand how I feel. You used your father’s money . . . pretending to go to school . . . you took advantage of him, Jamie. And he’s not even here to defend him—”
“Are you trying to lay some big guilt trip on me? Maybe you really do think it’s my fault that Dad had a heart attack. And he’s not here to set us straight.”
“No . . . no, that’s not it.” I felt lost now. I was saying things that really didn’t matter, going down rabbit trails that had nothing to do with why I brought Jamie to Ireland in the first place, or what I felt I needed to tell him. I leaned over and placed my head in my hands, trying to figure it out. What was I supposed to do here?
“Then what do you want, Mom? You want me to get a job and pay you back that money? Would that make it better? I can do that if that’s what it’ll take to—”
“No, Jamie,” I said, sitting up and looking at him, preparing myself for what I knew I had to do. “It’s really not about the money.”
“It’s just that I’m a loser, isn’t it? That I dropped out of college, and now you’ll have to tell all your friends that I’m just a—” “Jamie, that’s not it!”
“Well, what is it, Mom? What is making you act like such a weirdo? Why are you making such a humongous deal out of something that’s over and done with—something I can’t change even if I wanted to? I told you that I’m sorry. And I can work to pay you back, if that’s what it takes.”
“That’s not—”
“And I don’t know why you’re so opposed to my music. It’s not even rock and roll. Man, I actually thought you would like it.” His eyes glistened as he stared at me, looking like a lost and confused boy now. “I cannot believe that I actually thought that you would like it!” He picked up his pillow and slammed a fist into it. “What a complete dope I’ve been. About everything.”
“I did like it, Jamie,” I spoke quietly now, measuring my words, trying to gauge if this was really the right time or not. I had imagined it happening so differently. I’d planned to tell him when we were doing something fun, perhaps on a ferryboat ride, or driving through the countryside, or enjoying a nice meal. Not like this. Not with him still wearing his rumpled pajamas, sitting here in his messy hotel room, punching his pillow like an eight-year-old. I hadn’t imagined myself feeling this close to the edge, sitting here with clenched fists and on the verge of tears. This was all wrong. But maybe that didn’t matter.
“So why did you act like that?” he demanded. “Like you thought it was so weird when I played the piano, as if my music made you miserable and that you’d just as soon never hear me play again? Why, Mom?
“Because . . .” I took a deep breath. “It was the way you played the piano last night, Jamie.” The words were coming out so slowly, one at a time in a mechanical way, as if someone else was doing the talking for me, like one of those new “chatty” dolls—you pulled the string and out came the words. “It was the style that you played, Jamie . . . it sounded exactly the same as . . . well, it was the same way that your father used to play . . . and when I heard it I was shocked and it felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach or pulled the rug out from under me . . . I felt confused and upset and I just didn’t know how to deal with it and consequently I reacted poorly.”
Jamie just sat there with the most confused expression. I knew he was trying to put this together, to make sense of my completely senseless confession.
“Huh?” His head actually cocked to one side, like a bewildered puppy. “I didn’t know Dad played the piano.”
“Yes, that’s right. Your dad, I mean Hal, didn’t play the piano . . .”
“But you just said—”
“Your fatherplayed the piano, Jamie.” I took in a deep breath, bracing myself. “Your father, a man you never met, a man named Liam O’Neil, played the piano—in almost the exact same way that you played it last night, Jamie. And it was just too much for me to deal with at the time.”
Jamie’s eyes were huge now. “What are you saying?”
“I’m trying to tell you something,” I continued. “It’s not easy, and it’s a big part of the reason that I brought you to Ireland in the first place. Hal Frederick was not your real father. Certainly, he was your dad, Jamie. And he was a fine dad. But your real father, your birth father, was Liam O’Neil.”
Jamie shook his head as if he was trying to get water out of his ears. “What?”
“I know you must be shocked by this,” I said calmly. “Probably similar to the way I felt last night, only far more so.”
“Shocked?” He stood up now. “Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe it. What exactly are you saying here, Mom?”
So for the second time in twenty-four hours, I told my story. Only this time I edited a few things, telling the story in the way that a mother would want her only son to hear it. “I was young and foolish and in love,” I finally admitted. “Liam did ask me to marry him, but I had no idea I was, uh, with child. And being young and foolish, I wanted to have a real wedding, so I told your father that I’d wait for him to come back. He was only supposed to be in Hawaii for a few weeks, working out some communications problems on a battleship. But he arrived just a few days before Pearl Harbor . . . and he never made it back.”
“My real father died in Pearl Harbor?” Jamie was pacing across the room now, running his hand through his already messy hair. “My real father was a stranger named Liam— what was his last name again?”
“O’Neil.”
“Was he Irish?”
“His parents were Irish; they had immigrated before he was born. Liam grew up in the Boston area. He’d gone to Annapolis and was an officer in the Navy when we met.”
“A military man?”
“Yes, one who was killed in a battle where they never even got to fight back.”
Jamie was still pacing, shaking his head as he tried to absorb all of this, trying to make heads or tales of my crazy mess. I felt sorry for him. It was a heavy load for a young man to carry.
“So my whole life has been a complete sham?” He turned and glared at me now, as if I had planned this whole thing just to hurt him. “A total lie?”
“No, Jamie. It has not been a sham or a lie. You are who you are no matter who your parents were or what they did.”
He narrowed his eyes and studied me. “So, are you really my mom?”
“Of course!”
“How do I know for sure? For all I know, you and Dad might’ve kidnapped me at birth. Maybe I have real parents living somewhere else right now. Maybe it’s Barney and Martha Smith of Little Rock, Arkansas.”
“It is not Barney and Martha Smith of Little Rock, Arkansas!”
“How do I know?”
“Why would I lie to you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Mom, you tell me. Why did you lie to me?”
“How in the world was I supposed to tell a little boy that his birth father had died? What difference did it make?”
“It makes a difference, Mom!”
“How? How could this change anything?”
“Remember all the crud I went through with Dad and not wanting to go into the shoe business?”
“Of course.” I felt a small stab of guilt now. Perhaps I should have told him sooner.
“Well, maybe if I’d known that my real dad was actually someone else, well, maybe things would’ve made more sense.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You said my real dad played piano too?”
I nodded without speaking.
“And something in me was just bursting to play piano, Mom. Don’t y
ou get that? And if I’d known, I could’ve told you and Dad the truth about quitting college and getting into music. It would’ve made sense.”
I considered this. “And it would’ve hurt your dad, Jamie. He felt you were his son. He treated you like a son. He loved you, believed in you. We were his family. And when he married me, knowing full well that I was expecting, he only asked one thing.”
“What?”
“For me to never mention a word about Liam again.”
“You broke your promise, Mom.”
“Not to Hal, I didn’t. I never did say a word to him, or anyone, not while he was alive.” I swallowed hard. “But I thought you had a right to know, Jamie. Would you rather I hadn’t told you?”
He sat down and punched the pillow several times. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know much of anything at the moment. Except that you lied to me. My whole life has been nothing but a great big fabrication. James William Frederick is nothing but a fraud.”
“That’s not true, Jamie. You are blowing this way out of proportion.”
“It’s my life, Mom!” He stood and opened the door now, obviously a not-so-subtle hint that this conversation was over. “If I want to blow it out of proportion, or just blow altogether, well, I guess I can.”
I stood and walked to the door. “Well, just know this, Jamie. Liam O’Neil was a fine man. A good man. And you are very much like him. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Jamie studied me. “Maybe I’m not ashamed of him, Mom.”
I stared at my son. I knew what he was saying. He was ashamed of me. And why not? For all these years, I’d been ashamed of myself. It only made sense that he would feel the same.
An Irish Christmas Page 9
