What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  “Because I want to put things in perspective. So you’ll understand.”

  “Understand what? Why you didn’t want me? I don’t care about that. My life is fine now, it always has been. I don’t give a crap about Star of the Sea, or the money you gave up, or why you like going to Rutland Fountain. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. He stood there nodding. Seamus saw that hard look in his eyes again—as if he really wanted no part of Seamus, as if he wasn’t here to act all fatherly, to bond with the son he’d thrown away. No, it was something else.

  “So, why don’t you leave now?” Seamus asked.

  Tom exhaled. He reached inside his old tweed jacket, fumbled his hand in the inside pocket. “I am going to leave now,” he said. “But I want to give you this first.”

  Seamus didn’t want to take anything from him, not one thing. He half expected the guy to pull out a wad of cash—in spite of all his words about renouncing family money, about water and thirst, maybe he thought leaving Seamus with some blood money would kill his guilt.

  But it wasn’t cash. Tom held out a picture of Kathleen.

  Seamus grabbed it; it was a school picture, not the group kind, but an individual portrait taken the year he and Kathleen had parted. She was smiling at the camera—that wildness in her blue eyes, that insecurity Seamus knew so well. Her cheeks were pink, her skin flawless. And she wore a braid—long, thick, and dark, swung over her left shoulder. Seamus had braided her hair that morning…he saw the little bump where he hadn’t pulled one of the strands tight enough.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Sister Anastasia,” Tom said. “When we went to St. Augustine’s, looking for you.”

  Seamus saw the tiny hole in the top white border, where Sister had pushed the thumbtack, holding it to her office wall. He ran his thumb over the small hole.

  “Why did she give it to you?”

  “I wanted to see Kathleen,” Tom said. “Because she’s so important to you.”

  “Well, she’s gone,” Seamus said harshly. “I lost track of her. So it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Sister gave me this as well,” Tom said, reaching into his pocket again, slowly pulling out a postcard. He handed it to Seamus, and even before Seamus took it, he knew. He felt electricity shooting through his body, from the postcard that Kathleen had touched, written, and sent.

  The picture on the front was an aerial shot of coastline—wild waves crashing on jagged rocks, with a row of tremendous mansions looking over a rugged path along the top of a seawall. The Cliff Walk, Newport, Rhode Island, was written in white script over blue sky at the top.

  Seamus tried to keep his hands from shaking. He turned the card over, and there was her handwriting. Kathleen’s tiny script, trying to fit as many words on the card as possible…He ran his thumb over her name, felt his eyes blur, making it hard to read.

  Dear Sister Anastasia,

  This is where I live now, with a family in a house like one of these. I’m a cook! Who would have thought that all my years in the kitchen at St. A’s would have paid off like this? I love my work, and have never been happier. As you might have heard, my parents brought me to America, and I’ve never left. I think of you, and all the Sisters, so often. I think of James, too. Do you ever hear from him? If you do, will you tell him I send my best regards?

  Blessings and love,

  Kathleen Murphy

  Seamus read and reread the words. He hadn’t been this close to Kathleen in nearly ten years. There was so much information encoded in the postcard’s photo, in her words, in her mention of her parents. Seamus wanted to be alone with the card so badly, his body was screaming for it—he wanted to push Tom Kelly out the door, just fall into his chair and be alone with Kathleen’s postcard.

  “She asks for you,” Tom said.

  Seamus just stared at her writing. He didn’t care that Tom had given him the card, that he had done that kindness. He just wanted to shut the man up, get him the hell out, let Kathleen’s presence fill him up.

  “She doesn’t know you as Seamus,” Tom said. “She doesn’t know where you live, where you work.”

  “No,” Seamus said sharply. “And I don’t know where she lives, where she works either. Except that it’s someplace called Newport, Rhode Island, and it’s far, far away.”

  “It’s a plane ride away,” Tom said.

  Seamus glared at him. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of knowing he’d never been on a plane, didn’t even have a passport.

  “She calls you James,” Tom pressed. “Doesn’t it bother you, that she doesn’t know you’re known as Seamus now?”

  “Jesus Christ! She knows me,” Seamus said, shooting him a look of fury. “Names don’t matter with us. You don’t know what we’ve been through. We have a connection that goes beyond names, words, postcards, pictures.”

  “Connections die,” Tom said harshly. “Get that through your head. No matter how strong you think they are. If you don’t take care of them, they’re gone.”

  “What do you know about it? You’re the one who kills your connections with people. Where’s that girl who had the vision? You forsake your fortune for her, and then what? And what about your family? The Kellys? You just walk away from what matters to them? And what about me?”

  “Seamus,” Tom said, his voice shaking. “That’s why I’m here. Because of you. Because I don’t want you to make the mistakes I’ve made. Fight for what you love, Seamus. Fight for Kathleen.”

  “I don’t have to fight for her! I have her, in my heart. We have each other. You talk about holy? That girl who had the vision? You say you gave up so much for her? Kathleen’s more than that to me. You could never understand!”

  “The hell I couldn’t,” Tom said. “I love someone like that, too.”

  “Not like me and Kathleen,” Seamus said stubbornly.

  “More,” Tom said.

  And that was all Seamus needed. Rage filled him like hot lava, flowing over, making him shove Tom Kelly against the wall. How dare he say he loved someone more than Seamus loved Kathleen?

  “You don’t know what love is!” Seamus shouted, punching Tom in the face. Blood poured out, all over the tweed jacket. Tom tried not to fight back, but Seamus didn’t want to give him any choice. His fists flew again and again. “She’s everything to me! You can’t know love like what we have.” Seamus landed another punch, bone cracking against bone. Tom tried to hold him off, arms stiff, face twisted in a grimace.

  “I do know it, and I have it for your mother,” Tom said, ducking as Seamus pounded him.

  “You’re lying, you’re delusional,” Seamus said, slamming Tom against the wall. “If you loved her, you’d have married her. You’d have kept me! Goddamn you, don’t say you love her like I love Kathleen!”

  “Seamus,” Tom said, dodging a blow, Seamus’s fist crashing through the plaster of the wall behind.

  “Don’t say you know what love is,” Seamus yelled. His hand was broken, but he didn’t care. He swung again, trying to claw Tom’s face. “First you say you loved that girl who had the vision, now you say you love my mother—you fucking bastard!” He wound up, ready to give it to Tom once and for all, and Tom clocked him. Reeling from the blow, Seamus retched.

  “They’re the same person,” Tom said, catching Seamus in his arms, holding him in a bear hug. Blood was streaming from his nose, and from Seamus’s knuckles. Seamus weaved, dizzy and sick.

  “What?” Seamus asked, his head spinning.

  “Your mother,” Tom said, holding him, tears mixing with the blood on his face. “I’ve loved her my whole life. She’s the girl who had the vision. She’s a nun, Seamus.”

  “No, I saw her…Bernadette Sullivan…”

  “Sister Bernadette,” Tom said with a sob. “Sister Bernadette Ignatius.”

  “I don’t get it,” Seamus said, shaking.

  “She joined the convent,” Tom said. “That’s what her vision was about—making that choice. I let her
, Seamus. That’s what I’m saying—I didn’t fight hard enough. We had you, but she had already made up her mind.”

  “She became a nun? My mother?” Seamus asked.

  Tom nodded. He went to the sink, soaked a dishtowel with cold water. Then he went to the freezer, filled it with ice cubes. Pressing it to the side of Seamus’s head, he looked into his eyes. The blueness there shocked Seamus; he saw that exact color and intensity every morning, shaving in front of the mirror.

  “I never wanted to hit you,” Tom said. “You have a hell of a punch. I thought you were going to kill me.”

  “I got carried away,” Seamus muttered.

  “God,” Tom said, looking down at Kathleen’s postcard. Blood had spattered all over it. Seamus grabbed it, began to wipe it off. Of everything that had just happened—the fight, the news that his mother was a nun, learning that Kathleen lived in the United States—none of it affected him like seeing Kathleen’s words obliterated by blood. Seeing that was too much for Seamus, and he bent his head so Tom wouldn’t see him crying.

  “Seamus,” Tom said, his hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all I have of her,” Seamus said through hot tears.

  “No,” Tom said. “That’s not true. You just said yourself, you love her. You have the deepest connection I’ve ever heard of.”

  Seamus held on to her card, eyes closed shut, trying to feel her with him now. It didn’t matter whether she was across the Atlantic or right here in Dublin—the fact was, he hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. She still called him James. Their bond had been broken, probably the moment he’d walked away from her on that beach outing, just before her parents came to take her away.

  “It’s not real,” Seamus said. “I’ve been lying to myself.”

  “No,” Tom said. “It is real. That’s what I came here to tell you. Don’t let her slip away, Seamus. Don’t make the mistake I did. If you love her as much as you say you do, go find her.”

  Seamus didn’t look up, just kept staring at the bloodstained postcard he held in his hand.

  “Whether you want to hear it or not,” Tom said, still holding the ice pack to Seamus’s head, “that’s why your mother and I came looking for you. Because we love you. We’ve messed it up as badly as two people can do, but we had to find you, and tell you.”

  “It’s not the same,” Seamus whispered. “You weren’t in my life. Kathleen was. She’s everything to me. We were everything to each other….”

  “You’re right,” Tom said. “It’s not the same at all.”

  Seamus nodded, shaking, wanting him to go now. As if Tom sensed it, he reached for Seamus’s hand so he could hold the ice pack himself.

  “You should go to a clinic,” Tom said. “Have your hand seen to. I could take you—”

  “No,” Seamus said. “I’ll go myself.”

  “I’m going to leave now,” Tom said. “We’re going to fly back to Connecticut on the late flight tonight. Your mother and I.” He stopped himself, and Seamus couldn’t look at him. He heard Tom trying to pull himself together, hold in whatever it was he wanted to say. “I’m just so glad to have met you,” Tom said.

  Seamus didn’t reply.

  “Nothing has ever mattered to me more,” Tom said. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah,” Seamus said. “Well…”

  Tom walked to the door. When he was safely across the room, Seamus looked up. He met his father’s eyes. Their gazes locked and held, and Seamus felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. Tom’s eyes were blue, clear, gleaming with an emotion Seamus had never seen before. He didn’t even know what it was called.

  “You go find her,” Tom said, his expression changing, hardening.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’m leaving this right here,” Tom said, reaching into his pocket again, placing a small square of paper on the counter by the door. “It’s my cousin’s card. Sixtus Kelly. He’ll get you a passport overnight. Like you said earlier, the rich get things done.”

  “I’m not rich. I couldn’t pay him.”

  “He wouldn’t take your money. By the time I fly out tonight, Sixtus will have heard all about you. He’ll be expecting your call. Do it, Seamus. Get yourself to Newport and find Kathleen.”

  Seamus found himself staring. “What’s that?” he asked, seeing Tom lay something else on the counter.

  “The address of Star of the Sea. The phone number is for my cell phone. It doesn’t work from Ireland, but it will once you get to the States. You’ll get me if you call. And I’ll help you find Kathleen.”

  That was it. Tom took three strides across the floor, shook Seamus’s hand. Seamus looked up at him, thinking of a thousand things he suddenly wanted to say. He hated the man who had abandoned him at birth, but he understood the man who stood before him now—he looked like a ghost of someone who had once been in love, who had once loved a woman enough to forsake everything.

  “Goodbye, Seamus,” Tom said. “Make sure you get that hand looked at.” And then he walked through the door and was gone.

  Seamus heard his footsteps descending the stairs, fading away. The strangest thing was, he found himself thinking it would have been nice to have Tom drive him to the clinic. It was just a fleeting thought, and Seamus pushed it away. He always took care of himself. But still, it would have been nice to have someone drive him, someone who cared.

  Now, holding Kathleen’s postcard, Seamus sat back and closed his eyes, his broken hand throbbing. His body quivered from the fight, but it had all gone out of him now. Across the room, on the bookshelf beside his bed, he had an atlas. He knew he could look at it, find Newport, Rhode Island. Find Kathleen…But for now, he just held the Cliff Walk postcard; knowing that she had written it was almost enough.

  Sixteen

  Tom made an excuse, and the Kellys were understanding about the sudden change of plans. At least that’s what Tom told Bernie, before he fell silent and stopped talking. They sat together at the airport, by the gate, waiting for their flight to be called. Bernie wore her black habit and veil, her white wimple, rosary beads hanging from her belt. Tom had arrived at her door to pick her up, given her a disgusted look, helped her with her bags.

  “Tom! What happened to you?” she asked, reaching out to touch his face. He had a black eye and bruised cheek, and an obviously broken nose.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “No, I’m not ready! We can’t get on a plane like this—you have to go to the hospital!”

  “All they’ll do there is ice it,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Your nose is broken!” And it was, obviously: long and aquiline, it had always had an appealing bump from where he’d broken it once before, when he and John were horsing around as kids. Now the bump was even more prominent, bruised and red. Dry blood streaked his jacket.

  “Who cares?” he said. “Look, I got us the last two seats on the last flight. If we’re leaving, let’s make that plane.”

  “I’m surprised you’re in such a hurry,” she said, gazing up at him.

  “You said you wanted to go home, Bernie,” he said. “When you say you want something, I take you seriously. You don’t want to go back to Doolin, we won’t go.”

  “Tom…” she said, touching his arm. But he flinched, pulling away, grabbing her bags.

  She had left the key with the Loyola resident advisor, climbed into the waiting car. She’d been afraid it would be one of the Kellys, insisting on driving them to the airport, but she needn’t have worried; Tom didn’t want to explain things any more than she did, and he’d arranged for a cab to drive them. Nice and anonymous.

  Now, at the airport, her mind spun with questions. Mainly, what had happened to Tom? She had to know, but was afraid to ask. He’d gone into the men’s room, taken his jacket and shirt off, changed into a blue T-shirt and black windbreaker. When he came back, she saw that the swelling around his eye and cheek had gone up; his eye was nearly sw
ollen shut.

  “Who did you fight with?” she pressed.

  “What’s the difference?” he asked.

  “Was it Seamus? You went to see him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I went to see him.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

  Tom gave her a long, cool look that made her squirm with discomfort. He was staring straight through her, regarding her in a whole new way. “Because I had to speak to him privately,” he said quietly. “Father to son.”

  “How did he take it?” Bernie asked.

  Tom didn’t reply, but raised his eyebrows. His bruised face said it all, and Bernie felt herself blush.

  “He did that?”

  “We got into it,” Tom said.

  “Why?”

  She watched him attempting to contain himself. She’d known Tom so well for so long, she could read every mood, often know his thoughts before he spoke them out loud. Right now, seeing him try to control his emotions, viewing the cuts and bruises their son had given him, she bowed her head, trembling, afraid of what he was about to say.

  “Because he’s angry,” Tom said. “He hates what we did to him. Who wouldn’t? Put him up for adoption, left him in an institution his whole childhood?”

  “But we didn’t know that would happen,” Bernie whispered. “We never intended it. We wanted love for him, Tom. A life with a wonderful family…”

  “He didn’t get that,” Tom said harshly.

  “I know.” Bernie thought of her meeting with Sister Theodore. She’d told Tom the bare bones of what had happened with Sister Eleanor Marie. “By now, Sister Theodore has probably called the Provincial Superior, told her what Eleanor Marie did to him and Kathleen.”

  “Bernie,” Tom said, “are you that bureaucratic to think it makes one bit of difference? So what if the Provincial Superior finds out? What’ll she do? Strip Eleanor Marie of her ‘command’? Send her for therapy, to heal her rotten childhood? Who cares, Bernie?”

  “Tom,” she said, shaking and shocked by his tone.

  “Lives were ruined,” he said quietly. “Our son’s and Kathleen’s.”