What Matters Most
Page 12
Standing on the front step, leaning back to look up at her window, he started feeling worried. Why wasn’t she answering the door? Sister Anne-Marie talking about a “dark night of the soul” made his skin crawl. It smacked of both hokey pop-psychology and crazy mysticism, and Tom didn’t like either.
He stared at the front door, assessing the lock. He’d left the lock picks he’d bought for the convent back in his room, figuring he’d never need them again. Running his fingers over the hardware, he knew that with one good hit with his shoulder, he’d break the doorframe.
Just then the door flew open and a beautiful red-haired woman stood there. She was tall and lean, with a thick cream Aran Isles sweater over jeans. Even in the gray light, her red hair glinted with strands of gold. They framed her delicate pale face, highlighted the sadness and purpose in her clear blue eyes.
“Bernie!” he said.
“Hi, Tom.”
“I was just coming to pick you up.”
“I know,” she said. “I was watching for you out the window, saw you talking to Anne-Marie.”
“She’s worried about you. And so am I.”
“There’s no need for that,” Bernie said sharply, sounding like the Star of the Sea Mother Superior he knew and loved. “Do you have the address?”
“For the Children’s Home?” Tom asked. “Yes, I do.”
“Then let’s get started,” she said. “I’m ready now.”
“If you say so, Sister Bernadette Ignatius,” he said. He stared at her, wanting to hear her say that was no longer her name. His spine tingled, and he knew he was still aching to hear those words he’d always dreamed of—Bernie telling him that she’d made a mistake, that after all these years she’d figured it out, realized that they were meant to be together.
But she remained silent. She just stared back, her blue eyes grave, reflecting the stone-colored sky and river. Then, after the line of traffic passed by, she ran ahead of him across the street and stood by the BMW, waiting for him.
“Have you eaten?” he asked as they settled themselves in the car.
She shook her head.
“Then we have a stop to make before we go.”
Bernie was too upset to fight him. He drove her to a familiar spot: O’Malley’s Pub. They had come here so often when she was pregnant; it seemed fitting to be here again now. They took a scarred wooden booth in the back, at the end of the long bar, and Tom ordered for both of them: shepherd’s pie. He had a Guinness as well, but Bernie passed.
The front door and windows faced the street. They were open, and from inside the dark room, Tom could see the window boxes planted with fuchsia. Brilliant explosions of color. He tapped Bernie’s arm so she would look and see.
She nodded, gazing out, appreciating the pretty flowers. They barely spoke, but Tom didn’t care. He just wanted her to have some sustenance, gain her strength back. Did this feel as familiar to her as it did to him? All those months twenty-three years ago, when they’d sat here together and he’d tried to get her to eat….
“Our own personal Tir na Nog,” he said. “Remember?”
She nodded. “This was our sanctuary,” she said.
“It hasn’t changed at all,” he said.
“The shepherd’s pie is as good as ever.”
“The Promised Land of the Saints,” he said, translating Tir na Nog, “should have really good shepherd’s pie.”
That made her smile. She raised her fork to her mouth, smiling at him as she ate a little more. He felt that he was egging her on, enticing her to eat a few more bites, just as he would have done with a child who was a difficult eater.
“Thank you, Tom,” she said when she was done. “That was good.”
“It was,” he said, finishing his Guinness. He left her sitting at the table for a minute while he went up to the bar to pay the bill. His heart was racing as he thought of what they had to do next. But when he returned to the table and held out his hand to Bernie, he caught the eye of a man at the next table, sitting there with his wife.
Tom saw a sort of recognition in the man’s eyes—as if the man thought Tom was just another guy out to lunch with his wife—that gave Tom a pang in his chest. It brought back so clearly how he and Bernie had come here to forget that they weren’t like other couples.
They still weren’t.
Giving a friendly nod to the guy at the next table, Tom put his arm softly around Bernie’s shoulders, and led her out the door to the car. It was time to find their son.
Ten
The Dublin neighborhood was filled with nice houses and tall trees, small gardens and station wagons and minivans. Families lived here. Bernie took it all in, wondered what the children living in St. Augustine’s thought of that. Walking home from school or the park, did they look at these houses and wonder why they didn’t have places like this to live?
Tom drove down the street, not saying a word. Bernie held the documents in her hand; it felt sticky with sweat. Her throat was closed tight; if she saw her son right now, she wouldn’t be able to speak.
They pulled past the sign, the name in cold black wrought iron: St. Augustine’s Children’s Home. A circular drive brought them to the front of a large brick building, unadorned by shutters or columns. Even with the car window down and Bernie straining to listen, she couldn’t hear the sounds of any children playing.
She held her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. The papers said that this was the right place; Baby Boy Sullivan had been sent here directly from Gethsemani Hospital, the same day that Bernie had signed the papers.
Gazing up at the front door, she wondered who had carried him through. Had it been Sister Eleanor Marie? Sister Theodore? Had he clutched at her with tiny baby hands, not wanting to be left behind? Bernie remembered the way he’d flailed his arms, wailed to be fed.
“Let’s go,” she said to Tom, opening her door, forcing the words out, partly to keep from remembering their son’s cry.
“Sister Eleanor Marie has had plenty of time to warn them we’re coming,” Tom said quietly, as if she had to be reminded.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “Our son came here first. She can’t erase the truth of that. And he’s surely not here now…. Come on. Let’s go in.”
Tom climbed out, but Bernie was already halfway up the wide granite steps. She glanced over her shoulder, waiting. The look in his eyes pierced her; the years fell away, and he was the young man she’d fallen in love with. She shivered, overwhelmed. He saw, and put his arm around her shoulder.
Walking up the steps, she felt herself trembling, and she knew it wasn’t just because of where they were going, but also because of where they had been. When she and Tom had had their child, she’d been on the verge of becoming a nun. They’d never given themselves a chance to be a family, never given their boy a chance at being their son. It felt bizarre to be here in street clothes, yet that morning, getting dressed, she had felt unable to put on her habit. Going to O’Malley’s, she had seen that couple looking at her and Tom as if they belonged together.
Inside the main hall, all was quiet. An office lay straight ahead. Through glass doors, Bernie saw nuns at desks, on the phone, bustling around. She stood still, listening hard. From the left she heard distant laughing and calling, almost as if it were happening in an echo chamber. It frightened her, thinking of their son in such a quiet, sterile environment.
“Do you hear that?” she asked Tom.
“No,” he said. “What?”
“Just…where are the children? I don’t see any, and the only laughing I hear is coming from way down the hall. Do they keep them locked up?”
“Calm down, Bernie,” he said. “We’ll find out.”
And then he took over. He held the glass door, and she walked into the office. He stood at a waist-high Formica counter, strangely like the one at the hospital’s records office, as if the order had gotten a bulk rate on office equipment, and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said loudly.
“Thank you,” Bernie said.
“Thank you,” Tom said. “We’re—”
“Why aren’t there any children around right now?” Bernie asked shakily.
“They’re on a day trip to the beach,” the nun said, smiling. “We try to take them at least twice a summer. It rained so much in August, here we are, into September.”
“But what are those voices, coming from over there?” Bernie asked, pointing down the hall.
“That’s the infirmary,” the nun said. “A couple of our kids are just getting over bad colds. The doctor thought it best they stay behind this time. Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to them….”
Tom raised his eyebrows at Bernie, as if to say “See?” She ignored him, but felt reassured. Ever since walking through the front door, she’d felt on edge, assessing every inch of the place.
“We’ve come to find out about a boy who lived here. Our son,” Tom said.
“Ah,” the nun said, standing very still. She was in her early thirties, thin and wiry, with a kind, steady gaze and unflappable smile. Opening a drawer, she pulled out some papers. “These are the forms for you to fill out. It’s a slow process, but you can get started today. Start with his birth date, and any—”
“He was born January 4, 1983,” Tom said.
The young nun nodded. “Well, as I’m sure you must know, we have to be very careful about giving out information about our residents. As a matter of fact—”
“Sister Felicity,” an elderly nun said from the back of the office.
Hearing her name, the young nun turned around. “Yes, Sister Anastasia?” she asked.
“I know who these people are,” the old nun said, coming forward. She was tall, gently stooped, with a lined face and bright gray eyes. Crossing the office, she looked past Sister Felicity, past Tom, straight at Bernie. Feeling the nun’s gaze upon her, Bernie’s skin tingled. She touched the counter to steady herself.
“Did Sister Eleanor Marie warn you about us?” Tom asked, putting himself between Bernie and Sister Anastasia. “It doesn’t matter if she did. I swear, we’ve come all the way from America, and…” Bernie read the old nun’s expression, saw the love and warmth in her gaze, and put her hand on Tom’s arm to stop him.
“No one had to warn me about you, Thomas,” Sister Anastasia said kindly. “And dear Bernadette…I’ve been waiting for you. Please, come with me.”
She came around the counter, reached for Bernie’s hand. Bernie took it blindly, and crying as if she were a lost child who’d finally, after longer than she’d ever thought she could bear, found her way home, let Sister Anastasia lead her down the long yellow hallway, with Tom walking close behind.
The office was large, with one half devoted to a desk, chair, and sofa, and the other half given over to a dollhouse, toys, and a child-sized table and chairs painted in primary colors. Pictures covered every inch of wall space: finger paintings, drawings, pictures colored by children of all ages. And photographs—school portraits, group pictures, candid shots of kids at the beach.
Tom watched Bernie wipe her eyes, blink blurrily at the wall. Was she wondering, like Tom, whether their son was up there? Tom waited for her to sit on the sofa, then lowered himself beside her. Sister Anastasia handed her a box of tissues and took her own seat behind the desk.
“What did you mean,” Tom began with a protective glance at Bernie, “when you said you’ve been waiting for us? We’ve heard that a lot since we got to Ireland.”
“Several things,” Sister Anastasia said. “First of all, you were right—Sister Eleanor Marie did call, to tell me that you had James’s file.”
“James?” Bernie asked, her voice breaking.
“Yes,” Sister Anastasia said. “Your son.”
“We named him Thomas,” Bernie whispered.
“I know,” Sister Anastasia said. “But we already had several boys named Tom and Tommy. So we used his middle name, to help him have his own identity.”
Tom watched Bernie take that in, register the information. It moved him to think his name meant so much to Bernie, even now.
“What did it matter,” Bernie asked, “how many Toms there were? Once he got to his adoptive family’s home, he’d be the only one….”
“Yes,” Sister Anastasia said slowly. “Theoretically.”
“‘Theoretically’?”
“You’re assuming he was adopted, dear.”
“He…” Bernie stopped, stunned. “He wasn’t adopted?”
Sister Anastasia shook her head, and Bernie cried out. The truth washed over Tom in waves, and he saw Bernie sitting there frozen, and Sister Anastasia just gazed across her desk with unwavering love and compassion.
“Why else were you waiting for us?” Tom finally managed to ask. “You said there were other reasons.”
“Because over time I came to know about Bernadette. Her identity was protected for most of James’s stay here, but after many visits by Sister Theodore, I asked questions. And learned about who Sister Bernadette is, and how she came to the convent. I’ve believed for some time that the force that led her into our order would eventually lead her here, to search for James.”
Tom was silent, watching Bernie. She was pure white, eyes wild blue, filled with pain and terror.
“Was something wrong?” Tom asked. “Is something wrong? Is that why you thought she’d be pulled to look for him?”
Sister Anastasia stood up. Her hands clasped behind her, she walked around the desk, gazed out the window at the courtyard. It was blacktop, with weeds growing through the cracks, basketball hoops at either end, two large plastic tricycles left on the side, several balls strewn around. Realizing that that was where the children played hit Tom like a punch in the stomach.
“This is hard to say to any parent,” Sister Anastasia said without turning around. “You made the best decision you could, and no one here will ever question that. But this is a difficult place to grow up. As much as we love each child, there aren’t enough of us to go around. Even if it were one-on-one, and the reality is far from that, St. Augustine children are needy. They’ve lost so much, before they even get started.”
“It was hard for James?” Tom said.
Sister Anastasia nodded. “It was,” she said.
“Oh no,” Bernie said, breaking down. She sat on the sofa, face in her hands, and sobbed. Tom wanted to soothe her, touch her, but he couldn’t move. He stared out at that tarred-over playground and felt tears scalding the back of his throat.
“What was it like for him?” Tom asked harshly. He could see that Bernie’s heart was already broken—he didn’t believe that any answer could be worse than what she must be imagining.
“He was, and is, very loved,” Sister Anastasia said. “And very bright. He made friends easily. His personality is great, exuberant, wonderfully mischievous.”
“He had good friends?” Tom asked.
Sister Anastasia nodded. “Oh yes. He certainly did.”
Something about her tone made Tom start, give her a searching look. Bernie was sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at Sister Anastasia, hanging on every word.
“He had one friend in particular,” Sister Anastasia said. “Almost from the first day he came here.”
“What was his name?”
“Her name, actually,” Sister Anastasia said. “Kathleen Murphy. They were inseparable. Their cribs were next to each other in the nursery, and they bonded instantly. They were the same age, in the same classes, had the same interests….”
“Did they remain friendly?” Tom asked.
“They did,” Sister Anastasia said. “For a long time.” She fell silent, turning back to the window.
“He lived here his whole childhood?” Bernie managed to ask after a few moments.
“Until he was thirteen,” Sister said, her back to Bernie a
nd Tom.
“What happened then?” Tom asked.
“It had to do with Kathleen,” Sister Anastasia said. “She was taken home by her birth parents. James…well, he couldn’t bear to be here without her. He left.”
“Ran away?” Bernie asked, her voice hollow.
“Yes, dear.”
“Where did he go?”
Sister Anastasia shook her head. “He never told me. He returned for a short time—hoping he could learn where Kathleen was living. I gave him her address, but by then the family had moved away. James came back to St. Augustine’s—keeping a promise he’d made to me. But it didn’t last.” She paused, looking over at Bernie.
“Why didn’t you contact me?” Bernie asked, standing up.
“I thought about it, believe me,” Sister Anastasia said.
“But you didn’t?”
“I was ordered not to, by the powers that be. As I said, at first your identities were kept completely secret. But the more Sister Theodore came to check on James, the more I realized that his family was somehow connected to the church, or our order. She let it slip one day…and of course I knew who you were.”
“You did?”
Sister Anastasia nodded. “We’re proud of you, Sister Bernadette. You run a wonderful school in the United States, and many of us have dreamed of making trips to see the Blue Grotto, where you saw the Blessed Mother.”
“It’s still there,” Tom said, thinking of how much work he’d done over the years, keeping the grotto in good shape, touching up the masonry, scrubbing the moss off the shaded stone walls. He thought of the words Bernie had carved into the stone this summer, how they’d been one signpost leading them to this moment.
“So, why didn’t you contact me?” Bernie asked. “Once you figured out who I was?”
“Sister Eleanor Marie, through Sister Theodore, was very persuasive. Theodore argued that it would be harmful for all concerned. You were in no position to claim your son—you had left him in our care, and we were doing the best we could. It’s just that no one could have predicted that an adoption would fail to materialize.”