Rain and Revelation

by Therese Pautz

  “Did he seem to like her?”

  “He didn’t think much of her. She’d follow me around. Sometimes I’d convince her to go out with us, but she’d sit back and sulk.”

  “I thought maybe she and Paddy, you know, got together.”

  Linda raises her finely tweezed eyebrows and shakes her head. “No, I’m pretty sure that never happened. When I left to go to university in London, I told Paddy and some others to keep an eye out for Annie and ask her to go out. Paddy said he would. The next thing I hear, she’s married Seamus. My parents told me. Not Annie.” She purses her lips. “That hurt. I called, and she told me about being with Seamus a couple of times and getting pregnant. It was…unexpected.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Linda sips her water. A breeze from an open window ruffles her hair.

  I say, “Please. I really need to make sense of why she tried to kill herself.”

  Linda’s eyes meet mine. She nods and says, “I didn’t see her getting together with any of our mates. Your mother didn’t trust people easily, especially men.”

  “Ma never said anything about her childhood,” I say, realizing I’d never thought to ask her about it either.

  “She didn’t tell many people.” Linda unwinds the scarf around her neck. “Let me tell you. Your grandmother’s straight from Satan’s womb.” Her tone is harsh. I stare at her with my mouth open, unsure what to say. I’ve never heard my grandma described this way. “Oh, yes, she is. Have you seen your mother’s feet?”

  Ma always wore ratty brown slippers in the house and boots whenever she went outside. “No, now that I think of it, I haven’t.”

  The melancholy sound from a cello drifts down the hall. A door squeaks shut, and only the muffled sound of the strings lingers.

  “Well, I did once. They were completely scarred. When I asked Annie about them, she came up with some flimsy reason why they looked like that. But, eventually, she told me.”

  Linda reaches for a pack of cigarettes under a stack of papers and tries to extract one. It’s empty. She tosses the wrapper toward the bin. It misses. The ashtray on the edge of her desk is full of butts. She picks up one that is half used and turns it over in her fingers.

  “Your grandmother made her pick the switches. She told me that she had to pick the right branch. Not too short. Then remove the leaves. If she took too long picking it—or if she chose one that was too old and brittle—the beating lasted longer. It was for anything she felt Annie did wrong. Not cleaning the grout completely with the toothbrush and bleach. Eating her crisps too loudly.” She lights the cigarette. “Annie said she used to scream, and your grandmother would stuff a dirty sock in her mouth.” She inhales deeply and then blows the smoke through gritted teeth. “Lovely God-fearing woman, my arse.”

  “Did she tell Granda? Anyone?”

  Linda shakes her head. “She really did have problems trusting people.”

  I mutter, “Mr. Walters knew that.”

  Linda stamps out the cigarette. “He tried to get me alone once, and I told him in no uncertain terms to stay the hell away from me. Told his wife, too. I warned Annie, but she said he was nice, and that I misunderstood him.” Linda flips her head back and her face contorts. “Like hell I did.”

  “Did she tell you about a relationship with him?”

  “Not in so many words, but I knew.” She pushes the ashtray away and doesn’t look at me. “She stopped talking to me about him. In a way—and I feel bad about this—I was relieved that she had someone else to talk to. She didn’t hang on me as much.”

  “Do you think he could be my father?” I ask.

  She turns toward me and shakes her head. “Seamus is your father. I never heard any differently. And he’s a decent guy. A bit dull compared to Paddy, but kind and very loyal.”

  “What do you know about their relationship? Da and Paddy’s?”

  “What’s to know? Mates for a long time. They played rugby. Inseparable, really. I have no idea if they are still friends or not. Are they?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  Linda glances at her watch. “Eliza, I’m sorry, but my husband is waiting for me, so I have to go now.” She straightens her skirt. “I wish I could have been more helpful.”

  My ankle’s stiff when I get up and set my foot down. I limp somewhat as we walk down the hallway. When we reach the front door, a group of girls darts past us into the school. Linda returns their waves. After I mutter thanks for taking time to talk to me, Linda embraces me. Her silk scarf brushes my cheek. “Please tell Annie I say hello and would love to see her.” As she releases me, she says, “Take care of her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I can’t believe that Grandma, who made my First Communion dress, abused Ma.

  People pass by, engaged in conversation. Avoiding their faces, I look down, trying with every fiber of my body to hold it together as I walk the few streets to the car. My hands shake as I dig for my keys in the bottom of my bag. Inside the car, I pound the wheel and hunch over.

  After I finally calm down, I call the hospital and ask for Ma. Again I’m told she refuses calls and visitors. I beg the clerk to let me talk to the doctor. After waiting for what seems an eternity, I’m told Dr. Kilkenny is unavailable. She will see me tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.

  After three months of waiting, it’s something.

  A hotel nearby looks dodgy, but it’s cheap and will do for tonight. I buy fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and retreat to my small room with peeling paint and stained carpet. I call Ryan. It goes straight into voicemail. Lying on the lumpy mattress, I pull up the thin blanket that reeks of cigarettes. Flipping through the channels on the clunky television, I think about Ma and her miserable childhood. About everything.

  Eventually, I drift into a restless sleep.

  The next morning I easily find St. Patrick’s University Hospital on St. James Street. A prominent plaque recognizes Jonathan Swift as the founder more than 250 years ago. The receptionist directs me to Dr. Kilkenny’s office. There, a woman with grey-sprinkled hair held back with a pair of slides, gets up and walks around her desk to greet me. Dressed in dark trousers and a tasteful sweater, she extends her hand. “Mary Kilkenny. It’s nice to finally meet you. Your mother’s a delightful woman.”

  I stand there awkwardly. “I never heard anyone describe her like that.”

  “How would you describe her?” Dr. Kilkenny points to a small, round table near the window and motions for me to sit down.

  I sit on the edge of the high-backed chair. “I dunno. It’s just, she never did anything. Just cooked and cleaned. Looked out the window.” Dr. Kilkenny settles in the other chair, smoothes her sweater, and folds her hands on her lap. I look expectantly at her and say, “So is she better?”

  “Improving. She especially likes the group sessions and interacting with some of the other residents.”

  I lean in. “When can I see her?”

  Dr. Kilkenny’s eyelids droop, hooding her wide-set eyes that are magnified under her thick, round glasses. “Dear, I know you made the long drive to see her. But she has chosen to separate from family while she tries to get well. I know that’s hard to understand.”

  “But she let Da visit.” My voice sounds whinier than I intend.

  “Yes. She needed to talk to him about some things.”

  I stare at a vase full of flowers in the middle of the table. A few chrysanthemum petals have dropped onto the polished surface. I look out the window into a courtyard where people are clustered on benches beneath a grey sky. Swallowing hard, I say, “But I need to see her. There are things I need to talk to her about.” I try hard not to, but I cry.

  “Of course you do.” Dr. Kilkenny reaches for a box of tissues, takes one out, and hands it to me. Her voice softens. “What I have to do, though, is make sure that it’s the right thing for your mother.” She touches my arm gently. “Dear, she’s really making progress, and I don’t want to set her back.”

  I wipe my
eyes. “How could seeing me set her back?”

  Dr. Kilkenny gathers the fallen petals from the table and holds them in her hand. “It’s normal to feel anger and hurt. It’s hard for your mother to face you because she didn’t want to hurt you.”

  Outside, in the hall, a child starts wailing. I turn and look out the door into the hallway. A toddler has flung himself onto the floor. A man reaches down and picks up the flailing boy, catches my eye, and mouths, “Sorry.” Dr. Kilkenny gets up and closes the door, which muffles the retreating cries. I grab another tissue and blow my nose. Dr. Kilkenny sits back down and pushes the tissue box closer.

  The silence hangs like the morning fog. I look out the window into the garden. There’s a small fountain. In addition to the patients sitting on the benches, there are couples walking along the path holding hands.

  I look toward the wall with its cracked plaster and say, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a mother, a father, or a home anymore.” I hold my head in my hands. “And I don’t have any idea how to help her.”

  “You can help her by giving her the space she needs. And by taking care of yourself,” the doctor says.

  Choking back tears, I reach for my bag. It’s caught on the leg of the chair. I tug, but it’s stuck. Still, I yank on it. Dr. Kilkenny folds her hand around mine. She sighs. “Let me talk to her and see if we might arrange a short visit.” She raises a finger. “But I’ll be there to cut it short if I deem it necessary.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you.” I scoot my chair back. Then I think of something. “Were you there when Da came?”

  “For the first visit. Not the second.”

  “The second?”

  “The next day. He bought her some new clothes and brought them by.”

  I sit back. “But he never shops. Except for fishing tackle.”

  “Your mother was pleased. And touched. I don’t think she asked him to do it. Up until then, she wore the clothes we provided, which aren’t very smart.”

  “I don’t recall a time when he bought her a gift for her birthday or Christmas without my help.”

  “He did a fine job. After that, she started fixing her hair. Just combing and parting it differently, at first. Then she asked if she could get a haircut. Now she has an adorable style that suits her.”

  I can barely form a picture of Ma in my mind from before, let alone imagine what she might look like now. It dawns on me that I don’t even have a picture of her.

  “How long do you think she’ll be here?”

  “Your mother is actually staying at St. Edmundsbury, five miles from here, just outside the village of Lucan. There, she has her own room. When your mother’s ready, we’ll look for transitional lodging.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “She’s decided not to go back to Louisburgh. We’re exploring options.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” I say.

  Dr. Kilkenny shakes her head. “She doesn’t need or want you taking care of her. That’s one of the reasons that I’m not sure she’s ready to see you. We’re working on getting her strong enough to deal with the issues that contributed to her depression, and you have been her sole reason for living.”

  “Then why did she try to kill herself?”

  “I’m not sure if this will make sense to you. On one level, your mother, by trying to take her own life, reclaimed it.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  “It’s hard to understand, I know, but she took control. She made the choice about living or dying.”

  “That’s rubbish!”

  “Your mother never felt she had power. Others made choices for her, or she felt compelled to make certain choices based upon circumstances. Your mother didn’t see any future or have any hope when she came in. Now she’s seeing that she does.”

  “But if she gets away from Louisburgh, it’ll be better.”

  “She carries memories with her wherever she goes. Her thought process affects her moods and her behavior. She’s making choices about where she’s going to live, what she’s going to do, and how she’s going to interact with people in her life. She wants a relationship with you, but she needs to figure some things out for herself, as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “There is the issue of earning money, as your mother didn’t continue her education or have a trade. But she’s proving to have a gift with pottery, and we’re exploring options. We’re taking it step by step.”

  “I’ll get a job. A flat.”

  “You should take steps to take care of yourself.” She pauses, eyes magnified by her thick lenses. “I can even recommend a therapist for you. It might be helpful in dealing with your own feelings.”

  My back straightens. “I’m quite fine, thank you.” I stand. “I’m sorry I took so much of your time. Will you call me when I can visit her?”

  “Absolutely. Please write down your number so I have it.” Dr. Kilkenny slides a tablet over.

  As I write my number, I say, “Whether she wants my help or not, I’m going to get to the bottom of things that do affect me.” Then I hand Dr. Kilkenny my number, thank her, and walk out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Low, grey clouds obscure the sun as I leave St. Patrick’s Hospital. As I amble toward the car, a breeze blows my hair into my eyes. The air is crisp. Passing an Internet cafe, I catch a whiff of roasting coffee beans. It lures me inside. People of varying ages and ethnic backgrounds crowd the tables. I order cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso and wait until a computer becomes available.

  The buzz of people and caffeine rejuvenates me as I search the Internet for possible jobs. I debate calling Maeve to check in on things at the B&B, but I know she’d bite my head off for implying that she might not have everything under control. Even Granda hasn’t called me in weeks. Suddenly I recall that he was negotiating the purchase of a flat in Dublin that he intended to let out short-term. It dawns on me that it might be available if the deal closed before he went on holiday. I send him a quick email to check.

  When my cell phone rings an hour later, I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it anyway. A monotone voice informs me that she’s the scheduler at DNA Specialists. “I was told to set up a time for you to review the results of the testing. Or we can put them in the post.”

  I say, “There’s no place to mail them. I’ll come by.” I can barely hear her, so I step outside. “I thought it would take a week or so?”

  “It can, but not always. There are several slots open tomorrow. We also had a cancelation for today at two o’clock, although that’s short notice.”

  “I can come today,” I tell her.

  The testing center is located at the edge of the business district near the waterfront. Its red brick building has a crumbling façade. The building next door is for sale. As I walk toward the entrance, I smell rotting fish. Inside, the lobby is littered with discarded bottles and wrappers. The tenant list directs me to the fourth floor. The elevator is out of order, so I clomp up the stairs.

  I’m breathless when I reach the fourth floor. The hall is lined with doors bearing the names of different tenants. At the end is a glass door marked “DNA Specialists.” A bell rings when I push the door open. An unattended reception desk is feet from the door in the windowless office. Magazines cover a faux-wooden table that separates two wooden chairs. Within a few minutes a girl with spiky hair and pierced eyebrows arrives and says, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Eliza Conroy, and I have a two o’clock appointment.”

  “Oh, right.” With a look of complete boredom, she checks my identification and leads me to an office just off the reception area.

  A man in a wrinkled brown suit with his hair swept to the side of his balding head rises and holds out his hand. “Patrick O’Neill. Please sit down.” He motions to a chair and slips on black-rimmed reading glasses. “I was just reviewing the test results.”

  The chair wobbles as I sit and shift my weight to find a steady position. My ankle thr
obs from climbing the stairs. My breath is rapid and high in my chest. Leaning forward, I wait while traffic hums outside the closed window. In the other room, the receptionist cackles on the phone about a band she wants to see.

  Mr. O’Neill furrows his brow as he ruffles through the paper. “Let’s see…” On his desk, between towering stacks of files, are a half-eaten sandwich and a metal ashtray filled with butts. He keeps flipping through a file. At one point, he coughs and spits into a handkerchief.

  I look back toward the receptionist. She’s filing her nails and flipping through a magazine while talking on the phone. Outside the window, a pigeon alights on a ledge, then flies away. The receptionist squeals and then covers her mouth. She turns her back toward the wall. I can’t hear the conversation now.

  Finally, with a heavy sigh, Mr. O’Neill returns the paper to the file and closes it. “I’ve looked at the test results for Seamus Conroy, Paddy McDonald and William Walters.” Pushing his reading glasses onto top of his head, he leans back in his chair. The air is stale. It reeks of perspiration. He looks at me with bloodshot eyes and says, “There’s no match.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Seagulls squawk and dive for food along the waterfront. It’s been hours since I left with the news. Still, I keep walking.

  I tell myself that I have to accept that I may never know who my father is. Da said Ma didn’t remember anything when he found her in the pasture. Who knows what happened after Paddy left Ma there alone? Does it even matter now? I pull my jacket in tighter and stare at the boats in the harbor, the wide expanse of water, and the thick dark clouds.

  As I walk, unsure where I’m going, I tell myself that I can’t help Ma…that I have to accept that Ma may choose not to see me. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever.

  A horn sounds, deep and low. A stiff breeze slaps my face. Dr. Kilkenny’s words resurface in my mind: “Take care of yourself.” I yank up my collar and turn back toward my car. From the car, I phone Granda. When he answers, I hear loud voices and traffic in the background. I tell him that I’m in Dublin and ask if the flat is available.