She didn’t say anything to Timmie until later that night, when the other nuns were putting the children to bed, despite arguments and protests. They had had a ball at the lake, and loved staying up late at night to tell ghost stories, which they were about to do now in their tents, scaring each other to death.
The two women sat side by side at the fire, as Timmie roasted one more stick of marshmallows and offered them to Sister Anne. She always enjoyed talking to her, and had enjoyed the time she had just spent with them. She was sorry to be leaving in the morning, but they were already busy in her office, preparing the October shows, even though they were still more than two months away. This was always a busy time for them.
“I’m glad you came up to join us, Timmie,” Sister Anne said quietly. “You’re an enormous blessing for these children. Not just because of what you do for them, but because of what you demonstrate to them. You show them that even if you had a hard beginning yourself, you’ve managed to have a wonderful life.”
It didn’t feel so wonderful to her these days, but she didn’t say that to Sister Anne. And she hadn’t talked to Jean-Charles in three days. Her cell phone didn’t work in the mountains, and in some ways it was a relief. She didn’t know what to say to him anymore. And she was tired of lying to him about the baby. They had four weeks left before their date at the Eiffel Tower, and she was beginning to doubt that he would make it, although his wife’s chemo treatments were almost finished. But Timmie had begun to wonder if he’d ever get out. He was still so entrenched in his old life. Hope was beginning to wane, or maybe she was just bracing herself for disappointment, if he didn’t show up. He might not. She knew that if she’d asked, Jade would have assured her that he wouldn’t. And she was beginning to believe her.
She hadn’t seen him in four months, which meant that she was four months pregnant. It didn’t show, because no one suspected it was there. But if anyone had known, they would have noticed her gently protruding stomach. And she felt as though her bottom had doubled in size, although it really hadn’t. She had just that week felt what she thought was the first flutter of movement, although she told herself it was her imagination. It had been as gentle as butterfly wings whispering past her heart, and she cried the first time she felt it. She wished she could have shared it with Jean-Charles when he called five minutes later and asked why she was crying. She had told him she’d been reading a sad book, and had long since sent him a copy of An Affair to Remember, which he said his wife and daughters had loved. She wasn’t quite as thrilled to hear that piece of news as he had hoped. Sometimes even he didn’t get the point, as much as he loved her, and as sweet as he still was.
Sister Anne was watching Timmie cautiously, as she licked her fingers, after eating the last of the marshmallows. She had a healthy appetite these days, and indulged herself more than she had in the past.
“Would I be totally out of line if I asked you a question?” Sister Anne asked her in a soft voice, as Timmie smiled.
“Never. You can ask me anything you want.” She assumed that the nun who ran St. Cecilia’s was about to ask her for more money for their budget, maybe so they could take more vacations like the one they’d all just enjoyed so much. “Fire away.”
“I watched you after you were swimming today. And I’m no expert about these things, by any means.” She smiled. “But it seems to me that I saw … a small bump … I could be wrong … but I was wondering if …” She had suddenly remembered Timmie’s fainting spell the previous month. And had come up with her own suspicions, which were accurate, of course. “Is it possible that God has given you a gift?” she asked, and Timmie smiled. It was a nice way to look at it and she was touched. She hadn’t wanted to tell anyone yet, but she knew Sister Anne would keep it to herself, if she chose to take her into her confidence. She trusted her completely. And eventually, everyone would see it anyway, but hopefully not for a while.
Timmie looked into the fire, and then into the old nun’s eyes. All she saw was love there and support for her. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded, and Sister Anne put her arms around her and told her how happy she was. Particularly since she knew Timmie had lost a son, and been so disappointed over Blake.
“You’re not shocked?” Timmie asked in surprise.
“No, I’m not. I think you’re very lucky. That’s the only thing I’ve missed in the religious life, not having a child of my own. If I had it to do over again, maybe I’d do that, but I’ve had so many children over the years”—she smiled at Timmie—“that it doesn’t really matter. But if I were you, I would be so grateful for this baby, and celebrate every moment of its life.” The way she said it made Timmie cry. She told her then about Jean-Charles, about meeting him and falling in love with him, their plans and dreams, and his wife’s cancer, and that they were supposed to meet in a few weeks at the Eiffel Tower. She assured her, as Jean-Charles had her, that his marriage had been long dead when she came on the scene. She would never have stolen a man out of a viable marriage. His decision to divorce had been his own, before their relationship began. And now the decision to delay leaving his wife was his as well.
“You know, Timmie, I don’t know this man. But from everything you’re telling me, I have confidence in him. He’s just done the right thing for his wife and children. He sounds like a good man. I don’t think he’ll let you down.”
“I wish I were as sure,” Timmie said sadly. She had begun to have so many doubts in recent weeks. Four months without him had been an eternity, and she just couldn’t see him walking away from his family now. “I never believed in love at first sight until I met him,” she said with a sigh.
“I think it happens,” the nun said wisely. “It never did to me.” She laughed. “But I’ve heard plenty of stories where it did, and even if it was a little bumpy at first, it all worked out. I think this will too.”
“Will you pray for us?” Timmie asked her. It was the first time Timmie had asked anyone to pray for her in years, since she was a child. But she had faith in Sister Anne’s prayers. Timmie felt sure that she had the ear of God.
“Of course I will. And for the baby.” She looked serious for a moment then. “I take it you haven’t told him about the baby?” Timmie shook her head.
“I want him to walk out of there because he wants to and loves me. I don’t want to pull him out with obligation and guilt. He just did the right thing for his wife. I don’t want him just doing ‘the right thing’ for me. I want him to come back because he loves me.”
“I’m sure he does,” Sister Anne said quietly, “but it might be nice for him to know about the baby. It’s his baby too, after all.”
“I’ll tell him when I see him at the Eiffel Tower. I didn’t want to put pressure on him while he was going through all this. And if he doesn’t show up, then he doesn’t need to know. The last thing I want is to be a burden to him. I love him. I’m not going to force him to be with me, because I’m having his child. And I can always tell him about it later, after it’s born. But I want things clear between us first. By September, I won’t have to tell him anyway. I don’t think I’m going to be able to hide it for much longer. He’ll see it for himself … if he shows up.”
“He will,” Sister Anne said with a smile. Like David, she seemed to have no doubt. Timmie wasn’t sure what she believed anymore. She ricocheted constantly between fear and love. She had managed to get through the past four months on trust. But it was finally starting to run out. Maybe Sister Anne’s prayers would help. And it would all be fine if he showed up at the Eiffel Tower on September 1. “You’ll have to call me from Paris,” Sister Anne said happily, seemingly with no doubt at all that it would turn out right. “Or you can both come to visit when you get back. It’s going to be so exciting to have a baby when you come to visit,” she said, and Timmie smiled. It seemed so unreal to her, and talking to Sister Anne about it had given it some reality finally. And then she remembered what the nun had said about the example she had set for the kids.
“You know, I haven’t done anything that impressive with my life. I run a successful business, and that’s about it. I’m not married. I don’t have kids. I have no family. All I’ve done worthy of respect is run Timmie O.”
“The example you set,” Sister Anne said quietly, “is by the kind of person you are. And that in spite of adversities in your life, you’ve never given up. That gives people hope. Sometimes we need hope more than love. In truth, we need both. You give these children something to hope for, by showing them they can do it, and to get them there, you give them love. There’s no better gift than that.”
As Timmie looked at the nun, what she saw was that that was exactly what Sister Anne had given her, and what she needed most. Sister Anne had given Timmie love and hope that Jean-Charles would come back. It was all she needed now, as she reached out and embraced the nun with a warm hug.
“Thank you,” she said softly, as she looked at her again.
“It’s all right, Timmie.” The old nun patted her hand. “Trust God on this one. Jean-Charles will be back.” Timmie nodded, and hoped that she was right.
Chapter 19
Timmie was saying goodbye to the children at the campsite the next day as a car drove up, and two priests got out. A young one had been driving, and an elderly priest in Roman collar with jeans followed him to where Timmie was standing with the children and the nuns. Sister Anne introduced them, as Timmie looked at the older priest strangely. There was something so familiar about him, but she wasn’t sure what it was. He had a broad Irish face, a shock of white hair, and piercing blue eyes that danced when he smiled. He shook Timmie’s hand as Sister Anne introduced them, and then he stared at her and frowned.
“Timmie O’Neill? … I don’t suppose you were ever in a place called St. Clare’s?” Timmie stared at him with wide eyes, and remembered instantly who he was. He had been the priest who heard confessions in the orphanage where she grew up. He always brought candy to the kids, and pretty hair clips for the little girls. She remembered he had once given her a big blue bow for her hair. She had never forgotten the kind gesture, and wore it until it was ragged. It was the only one she had ever had.
“Father Patrick?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said with a broad grin. “One and the same. You had the boniest knees I’ve ever seen, and more freckles than I’ve ever counted on any one kid in my life. What have you been up to for all these years?” She laughed at the question, and so did Sister Anne. He was probably the only man or woman in the country, or half the world, who wasn’t familiar with her name.
“I run a clothing company in L.A.,” she said humbly, and he stared at her again.
“Oh my God, you’re not that Timmie O, are you? I never made the connection in all these years. I always buy your jeans and dress shirts. You make very nice things,” he complimented her in his heavy Irish accent. He’d been in the States for fifty years and still spoke with a thick brogue.
“Well, don’t buy them anymore,” Timmie scolded him. “I’ll send you some things when you go back. I was just leaving. I’m so glad we met.” He was one of the few decent memories she had of her childhood, and it touched her to see him. And within minutes, he, the young priest with him, the nuns, and all the children were trying to convince her to stay. She finally agreed to stay till after dinner. She needed to get back to San Francisco that night, and fly to L.A. She had work to do the next day, and meetings she couldn’t get out of. But she loved the idea of spending the day with Father Pat, for old times’ sake.
They sat and reminisced with the children over lunch, and she was touched to discover that he knew all about St. Cecilia’s and had been there often. He and Sister Anne were old friends.
“You’re doing some very fine work,” he complimented Timmie. “It warms my heart when people who’ve suffered turn it into a blessing for others. These children need you, Timmie. Too many of them fall through the cracks in the system, just like you did, and never get adopted or placed in foster care. I remember how hard it was for you at St. Clare’s. I could never understand why people didn’t keep you. I think you were probably just too old by the time your parents left you. As I recall, they didn’t sign the relinquishment papers for quite a while.” She could tell he was getting old by the details he had forgotten. He had forgotten that her parents had died, but he remembered all the rest, and she was touched.
“Actually, my parents died, which is how I wound up at St. Clare’s. I guess I wasn’t all that charming. Maybe they didn’t like knobby knees and freckles and red hair. Whatever it was, I always wound up back where I started. Right back at St. Clare’s. I remember confessing to you once that I hated my foster parents for sending me back, and you told me not to worry about it, and gave me a Snickers bar, and didn’t even tell me to say a Hail Mary for admitting how much I hated them.”
“I didn’t blame you one bit.” He smiled, but his eyes looked troubled. The conversation moved on and centered on St. Cecilia’s, and it was later that afternoon when he approached her, after she went for one last swim with the kids.
“Timmie,” he said cautiously. He had discussed it with Sister Anne before saying anything to her, but they both thought she had a right to know, even if it was unorthodox for him to say something to her. But they both felt she was certainly old enough to hear it, and it might make some kind of difference to her, even now. “I’m not really supposed to say this to you, although the laws have changed in these matters. If you had decided to pursue it, they would be obligated to tell you. No one can hunt you down with information, but I thought you might like to know. Your parents didn’t die, Timmie. They gave you up and went back to Ireland. I never met them, but I knew the story. They were both young and had run away together. They got married and they had you, and then things started to go wrong. I think they were both in their early twenties at the time. They had no money, no jobs, they couldn’t handle a baby. They put you up for adoption, and went back to Ireland to their parents. I don’t know if they stayed together. And I remember that they took a while to sign the papers, so they must have hesitated. I think they bit off more than they could chew, so they gave you up and went back. They had a car accident, I believe, you were with them, and you weren’t hurt. They had both been drinking and got in a head-on collision, and miraculously, no one was killed. For some reason, they made the decision then and there. The ambulance took them to the hospital, and they had you taken to St. Clare’s. I think your mother broke her arm, and your father banged his head a bit. They came to St. Clare’s the next day, but they didn’t see you. Your mother said they weren’t responsible enough to have a child and maybe she was right. You could have been killed while they were joy-riding the night before. Thank God you weren’t.” What he said brought back her memory of riding the ambulance to St. Clare’s. She had no recollection of being in the car with them, or how they had been taken away, or what condition they’d been in. She never saw them again and had always believed the story that they died that night. “Your mother wanted us to tell you that they died. She thought it would be easier for you to understand.”
He looked troubled as he said it, and even now, all these years later, hearing the story, Timmie was profoundly shocked. It was the ultimate rejection, worse than their dying. They had just dumped her in an orphanage, given her up for adoption, and gone home. And even if the story was more complicated than that, that was what it had translated to for her. They had solved their problems by letting others care for her. And they had never come back. It had been her greatest terror all her life, and now she knew why. Her worst nightmares had been exactly what had happened to her, and even what she was so afraid of with Jean-Charles now. She had been abandoned by the parents she loved and who said they loved her. “Are you all right?” Father Patrick asked her when he saw the look on her face.
“I think so. Do you know where they are now?” He shook his head.
“Probably in Ireland. I’m sure there’s no current information on th
em. They had no right to contact you, once they gave you up. But the diocese will have to give you the files, if you ask. You might find some clue to help you find them now, if that’s what you want.” He knew that others had, and claimed it had made a difference to them. He couldn’t imagine that it made a difference to Timmie. She was so successful, and seemed relaxed and happy, but you never knew what ghosts tortured people, and he had felt compelled to tell her the truth when she mentioned her parents’ death. He had somehow assumed that she knew the truth by now, but clearly she didn’t, which was why he told her. He thought she had a right to know the truth, and not a lie. She had believed the lie of their dying all her life.
“Is O’Neill my real name?” she asked, still looking startled.
“I assume it is,” he said kindly. And for the rest of the afternoon, she wandered around, feeling distracted, although no one could see how upset she was.
As promised, she left just after dinner, with all the nuns and children waving. The two priests had left just before she did, and she’d gotten Father Patrick’s address, so she could send him something from Timmie O. She thanked him for the information he had shared with her. It was all she could think of on the drive back to San Francisco, and the flight back to L.A. She lay awake all night.
First Sight Page 32
