by Luanne Rice
When they reached the shore, Tom jumped out and tied up the boat. He reached for their son, and Bernie kissed him, knowing that she was saying goodbye. Her tears spilled onto his cheeks; he smiled. Tom placed him in a tiny boat, hidden in the bulrushes. He pushed him, and the boat drifted away.
Bernie woke up. The hospital room was filled with gray light slanting through the windows. She was still crying, but when she touched her face, she felt grainy crystals. Her tears had turned to salt. They’d fallen from her cheeks, onto her son’s face.
Looking down, she saw that they’d healed the scratch.
It was gone, completely. Not a trace of blood or swelling remained. Thomas’s cheek was completely smooth. Bernie gasped, and stared, thinking she had to be mistaken. She’d prayed for a sign, but this wasn’t what she wanted….
Married couple, parents together, the Blue Grotto, Love my son, crystal tears, ice tears, the healed scratch…Bernie’s mind raced with messages. Her heart knew one thing only: that she loved her baby more than her own life. If she was supposed to give him up, if that’s what was best for him, that was what she’d do.
“Nurse!” she cried. “Help me!”
Within seconds she was surrounded by nurses—asking what was wrong, comforting her, taking Thomas from her arms. She trembled, kissing him, reaching for him. She would see him again; she and Tom would have the chance to kiss him and hold him, to say goodbye to him for good. But when she looked back on the entire sequence, Bernie knew that that was the moment she had really said goodbye to her son: when she’d wakened from her dream of silver water.
“The mass is over, go in peace,” the priest said now, a lifetime later. “To love and serve God and each other.”
“Amen,” the congregation said.
“Amen,” Bernie said, blessing herself, rising to her feet.
She filed out the back of the church along with everyone else. The priest stood on the sidewalk outside, shaking hands. Bernie nodded, thanked him for mass. She walked several blocks through the neighborhood, then turned to walk the rest of the way along the river.
Wondering where Seamus lived, whether he saw the Liffey every day, she gazed east, toward the river’s seaward end. Morning sun had broken through the clouds. Silver light poured through, bright rays slanting down from the sky onto the river’s surface.
The river gleamed, as if molten silver. Bernie stared at it, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. She wondered whether there were rushes in the Liffey’s marshes, a place for a tiny boat to drift and find safe harbor. She thought of Moses, and she thought of her son.
Faith was a true mystery, she thought. On good days, it all came together. She would wake up in the morning, and she could see everything lined up before her. She would know that if she took a certain action, she could count on a predicted outcome. Any fears and doubts would be assuaged by her knowledge of God’s love.
On bad days, she felt as if she were standing in thick fog. She couldn’t see where she’d come from, and she definitely couldn’t see where she was going. Whatever lay around the bend might hurt her or the people she loved most. Demons could be lying in wait—they almost certainly were.
On bad days, she needed her favorite line in the Creed, to get her through: faith in that which is seen and unseen. Usually it was the unseen part that scared her. Today it was the seen.
She saw that silver light, and she couldn’t stop seeing the look in Seamus’s eyes. Only she knew what it meant—she doubted that Seamus himself was aware. All that anger, hurt, fury in those beautiful, clear blue eyes had been caused by Bernie herself.
Her son had loved her. She knew that down to every bone in her body. She had felt it while he was growing inside her, but she had seen it when he’d lain in her arms, looked into her eyes. They had loved each other, mother and child. They’d only had two days together, but that was enough. Sister Eleanor Marie had been right: they had bonded.
And she had betrayed him.
She hadn’t meant to, but that’s what had happened when she gave him away. Strangers had taken him from his mother’s arms. She had known that she wouldn’t see him again, but he hadn’t understood that he wouldn’t see her.
Bernie had counted on something, and believed in it all these years she’d been a nun—until this trip to Dublin: the myth of her son’s happy family. If he’d had a real family, would the pain in his eyes have been so vivid? She would never know.
“Thomas James Sullivan,” she said out loud, staring at the silver ribbon of light, spread across the mouth of the River Liffey.
When Tom got to Bernie’s apartment that morning, he climbed the stairs with his heart pounding and thoughts racing. He had lots of ideas, plans, ways to make everything better. Until midnight, he’d lain awake in his room overlooking Merrion Square. When it was obvious he couldn’t sleep, he’d climbed out of bed and slipped outside.
He’d walked the streets of Dublin, haunting the places he and Bernie had gone, hoping for clarity. Past Trinity College, the Custom House, O’Connell Street, then back across the Liffey, up Grafton Street to O’Malley’s Pub. It was closed of course, but he could have used a pint.
Walking through St. Stephen’s Green, past homeless people sleeping on benches, he stopped and stared. Young people, some of them. Tom stared down at one redheaded kid, praying that that hadn’t ever been Seamus. Their son had made something of himself—and Tom was overcome with pride, just thinking of it.
Bernie was wracked with guilt for what Seamus had gone through, and Tom could understand. He sometimes felt the same way, for not talking her out of the decision she’d made. But instead of feeling worse for having Seamus reject them, Tom actually felt better than he’d felt in years.
The young man had tremendous heart and strength, belief in himself, in his own convictions. He had a good job, driving for the Greencastle, and he had big dreams, to start a law degree. Tom had worked hard nearly every day of his life, and he knew that a strong work ethic had gotten him through. Bernie, too. Seamus had inherited that quality from his parents, and Tom hoped that work brought him the same rewards it did them.
Seamus had every reason to resent, even hate, his parents. Tom had seen Bernie scanning his cheek for evidence of that goddamn scratch. Back when it had happened, Tom had tried telling her that it had probably been just a nick from her fingernail—nothing serious at all. If it had “healed” during the time it took for her to dream that dream, it probably hadn’t been one bit serious in the first place.
But that damned scratch, coupled with Bernie’s dream of their son in that tiny boat. Moses all over again, Tom had said at the time. Jesus Christ—it didn’t mean they should set him adrift on the sea.
Now, finally, twenty-three years after the fact, Bernie was seeing the light. The real light—of love, not of religion. Sister Eleanor Marie had shown her true colors, hiding the documents related to Seamus’s birth and transfer to St. Augustine’s. Whatever had gone on there to keep him from being adopted, Tom could only imagine.
Bernie had to be wondering herself. Tom thought of what Sister Anastasia had said, about Kathleen, how their son had been so loyal to her, he’d wanted to stay. Tom understood the power of love, and he believed that his son was capable of something like that.
But Tom just hoped that Bernie’s heart was finally open enough to allow for new possibilities. Maybe she would feel so betrayed by Sister Eleanor Marie, and so inspired with love for Seamus, that she would rethink her vows.
Climbing the stairs to her flat, he heard her open the door. She stood there waiting as he reached her landing. Seeing her dressed in jeans, a soft sea-green shirt setting off her hair and pale skin, he felt a shiver go through his whole body.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked, standing beside her.
“I didn’t, really,” she said. “How about you?”
“The same,” he said.
They seemed frozen in place. She was gazing up at him, and he was doing everything he could t
o hold himself back, not touch her. He wanted to hold her; he’d wanted that all night. After what had happened, he felt closer to her than ever.
“What should we do?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Try to see him again,” Tom said.
“Should we go back to the hotel? I don’t want to upset him in front of his coworkers.”
“Where else, though? We don’t know where he lives.”
“I know,” Bernie said. “You’re right.”
They gazed at each other, and it was harder for Tom to restrain himself. She looked so beautiful, standing there. Seeing her in normal clothes unlocked something in him—he’d been so well behaved for so many years, seeing her day after day in her long black habit and veil, rosary beads hanging from her belt, reminding him she wasn’t his and never could be.
“We could call the hotel, ask for his home number,” she said.
“They wouldn’t give it out,” he said. “I could ask Sixtus or Niall to have one of their investigators look him up.”
“Investigators?”
Tom nodded. “Lawyers use them all the time.”
“We don’t want to involve your cousins, do we?” she asked.
“I want them to know, Bernie. I always have.”
“Know what?” she asked, frowning.
“That we have a son. That we loved each other…That I still love you.”
“Tom,” she said, stepping away.
He couldn’t help himself. Reaching for her hand, he held it with both of his. He was staring into her blue eyes with such intensity, he thought he could see straight into her soul. Her emotions were so raw, pouring out, impossible for him to read.
Even though Tom had known Bernie most of his life, she was still a mystery to him. She kept so much of herself hidden; even the parts that she showed seemed too complicated for him to understand. He often felt he needed her to translate, explain the look in her eyes or the expression on her mouth. But she never would—that was the point. Bernie was a puzzle—even to herself, he strongly suspected.
“Bernadette,” he said, cupping the back of her head.
She closed her eyes, leaned into the pressure of his hand. He saw her fighting with herself; her forehead was furrowed with worry, eyes moving behind her eyelids like someone having a troubling dream. He bent down, brushed her lips with his. She didn’t pull away, and he felt electricity all through his body.
“I love you, Tom,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Bernie—”
She stiffened slightly, stepped away. Her tangled red hair looked so beautiful and disheveled; he wondered how she had ever fit it all under her veil. His heart was pounding, and he held on to her hand a few more seconds, until she pulled it back.
“I love you,” she said again. “I always have.”
Suddenly his heart fell. She’d told him she loved him before, many times. Nuns had no shortage of love, and Bernie was no exception. The thing was, she wasn’t using her “nun’s love” voice, the one he’d heard her use with her students, the novices, the other Sisters back at Star of the Sea, even Tom’s helpers on the grounds crew. This was different, deeper, troubled.
“What are you trying to say to me, Bernie?” he asked.
“We’re in the midst of something enormous,” she said. “We’ve just met our son, Tom. You and I are both stirred up, and we can only imagine what it’s like for him.”
“It makes me want to be with you,” he said. “That’s never changed, but now I know it more than ever.”
“Don’t talk like that!” she said. “This is confusing enough, Tom.”
“Then let’s make it less confusing!” he said. “Let’s make it really simple. I love you, Bernie. I want us to be together.”
“I’m a nun,” she said.
“You don’t look like one,” he exploded, gesturing at her jeans, her lovely green shirt, red hair tumbling over her slim shoulders.
“I’m trying to figure things out,” she said. “And I didn’t want to be wearing my habit when I first met him. I didn’t want anything to be between us—any excuses or symbols, anything that would distract him from seeing me as his mother.”
“He’s not here now,” Tom said, his pulse racing. “And you’re still not in your habit. You’re questioning your vows, Bernie. It’s so obvious. I’ve known it since that night at the convent, when you threw your veil on the floor.”
He saw her shaking, backing away. She turned her back to him, staring out the window. The river flowed past the quay below, dark and austere. Out by Dublin Harbor, it took on a silver cast, reflecting the argent dawn.
“We’re not going to talk about this now,” she said, and he could hear in her voice the effort it was taking to stay calm. “We need to find Seamus, talk to him. He must be very upset, Tom. It was a tremendous shock for him, meeting us.”
Tom knew that she was talking about herself, too; it had been a great shock for her, reuniting with her son. As great a mystery as Bernie was, Tom believed he knew her better than she knew herself. He knew how she’d suffered all these years, the penance she had done day after day, night after night, for giving birth to a little boy and then giving him away.
Tom had seen the pain in his friend’s eyes, and he had witnessed the message she had carved into the Blue Grotto back in Connecticut: I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil. It came from the Bible, from Song of Songs, the canticle that Bernie had always said was a love song.
“Bernie,” he said, standing behind her, hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t, Tom,” she whispered.
“I won’t push you until you’re ready,” he said.
“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice falling so low he could barely hear.
“I think I do understand,” he said. “Better than anyone. ‘I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil.’”
“Oh God,” she said.
“Come on, Bernie,” he said, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. “Let’s go find Seamus.”
And after a moment she turned around and, without meeting his eyes, got her jacket. His hands tingled, holding it for her as she put it on. Then she locked the door behind her, preceded him down the stairs. And they climbed into his cousin’s car, and headed back to the hotel.
Thirteen
He’s not here,” said the doorman at the front door of the Greencastle, when Bernie and Tom showed up asking for Seamus. “He’s out sick from work today.”
“Is he all right?” Bernie asked.
But then a cab drove under the portico, and the doorman shot Bernie and Tom an apologetic glance, and he opened the door and started to help unload the passengers and their luggage.
Bernie stood off to the side, feeling unsure of what to do next. She had pushed Tom away pretty hard, and he was being uncharacteristically silent, waiting for her to speak.
“What do you think?” she asked after a moment.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he really is sick, and he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t want to see us,” Bernie said. “That’s the reason, don’t you think?”
Tom didn’t reply. He was gazing across the courtyard, to a row of silver Mercedes parked along the wall. The young man they’d seen polishing his car yesterday, talking to Seamus, wasn’t there. Bernie wished he was, so they could speak to him, find out if Seamus was okay.
Just then a horn blared, and Bernie jumped. Tom’s arm came protectively around her, and he pulled her out of the way. She figured it was just an aggressive driver, arriving at the hotel in a hurry, but when she peered through the car’s windshield, she saw two familiar faces grinning at her.
“Hold on tight,” Tom muttered. “The Kellys have arrived.”
“Well, look who we have here!” Sixtus exclaimed, bounding out of the driver’s seat, throwing the keys to the valet. “Cousin Thomas and Sister Bernadette. How are you, Bernie?” he asked, coming around the car and giving her a huge hug.
“I’m
fine, Sixtus. It’s so good to see you…. And Billy, too. Hello there!”
“Sister, wonderful to see you!” Billy said. “Tom told us you’d come to Ireland on business, but he’s been very recalcitrant, not bringing you to the house for dinner. Liza is most displeased with him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bernie said, smiling. There was nothing like the boisterous Kellys to cheer her up, make her forget her darker thoughts of a few minutes ago. “I’ve just been very preoccupied.”
“Traveling incognito?” Sixtus asked, raising his eyebrows at her street clothes.
“Don’t give Sister Bernadette a hard time,” Tom said.
“Ah, that’s right. You’re her designated protector. Well, whatever you’re wearing, Sister, it’s great to see you,” Sixtus said.
“Thank you for what you did for my niece,” Bernie said, changing the subject quickly, referring to the legal situation that had brought her brother’s family to Ireland just a few weeks earlier.
“Yes, Regis Sullivan—quite a lovely girl. Her father didn’t deserve the trouble he got over that business at Ballincastle, and neither did she. I was glad to represent her at Children’s Court. The judge was quite happy to let her go.”
“Still, we’re so grateful,” Bernie said. She shivered, knowing that her brother John’s return home to Connecticut after six years in Irish prison for a crime he hadn’t committed, his reunion with his children, had sparked her and Tom’s deep longing to see their own son. Families were amazing, with all their secrets and connections, the way present events always seemed to echo what had happened in the past. A great deal of her family’s history had taken place on the west coast of Ireland.
“It’s very rewarding,” Sixtus said, “to be able to help a young person. Seeing your niece, helping her to let go of all that pain, to move on from the events at Ballincastle and be able to live a good life—that’s worth everything.”
