A Thousand Roads Home

by Carmel Harrington

  Months passed and became a year. They celebrated their anniversaries with joy that their life was good. But it was also tinged with some disappointment. Fertility tests gave good news – no underlying issue for either of them. The bad news came with every pee on the stick resulting in a big fat no. Tom watched Cathy begin to lose hope. Each new birthday, she fretted about stark statistics regarding chromosomal abnormalities.

  One night, late, in the darkness of their bedroom, when they should have been asleep, but were both overwrought from another failed pregnancy test, Cathy confessed, ‘I don’t think we will ever have children.’

  ‘Yes we will,’ Tom replied firmly.

  ‘There is a chance, a big chance, that children are not in our future. Have you considered that?’

  ‘Not really,’ Tom admitted. He could not explain it. He just had a strong conviction that she was wrong.

  ‘All these hormones I’m taking, all they do is make me fat.’ Cathy looked down at her gut.

  ‘You’re not fat,’ Tom said.

  ‘I am nearly thirty pounds heavier than the day I met you, Tom. Fact.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed,’ Tom lied without missing a beat. ‘I’ve put some weight on myself.’ He lied once more as Cathy looked at his lean physique.

  ‘I’m scared,’ Cathy whispered.

  Tom had never heard his wife say this in all their time together. She was the fierce one, strong, unflappable. He whispered back, ‘Of what?’

  ‘That you’ll leave me. That we’ll not survive this.’

  Anger came fast. He’d never felt like that about a single thing she had said or done. Until now. ‘Is that how little you think of me?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Cathy, I love you. And our life is enough for me as it is.’ Undeterred he continued, ‘If we don’t get pregnant, it’s shit. It’s heartbreaking. It’s not what we wanted. But it doesn’t mean it’s the end of us, of our life together.’

  ‘I’m just so tired from it all,’ Cathy said. Her face, which normally was only moments away from a smile that made his heart sing, was clouded with self-doubt and recrimination. ‘It’s like a full-time job with no pay cheque at the end of the month.’

  ‘Darling, it’s not your job to get pregnant for us. Nor is it my job to get you pregnant. We have spoken to the experts, we’ve gotten their advice, we’re following it. We hardly drink any more, we are an organic household and I let it all hang out in my boxers every day. We have to wait.’

  ‘We wait,’ she whispered.

  In the end, they were both right.

  21

  RUTH

  Then

  Ruth was now 284 days pregnant. She was tired, she was fed up and she was not sure she could last another week, which Dr O’Grady predicted was likely.

  ‘My mother thinks I should not be a parent,’ Ruth said while Dr O’Grady took her blood pressure.

  That would explain the elevated blood pressure. Dr O’Grady looked at the young girl in front of him in concern. She had been coming to him now for almost five months. And in that time he’d grown fond of her. Worried about her.

  ‘Never mind what your mother thinks. What’s important is what you think.’ Dr O’Grady asked, ‘Can you be a good parent?’

  Ruth looked down at her bump and felt a reassuring kick to her ribcage. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s all you need to remember.’

  ‘I like your stethoscope,’ Ruth said. Dr O’Grady always wore it around his neck. Something about the soft black leather strap was reassuring to her.

  ‘It was a gift from my parents the day I graduated. It’s precious to me.’ He turned the stainless-silver chest-piece over and showed her the engraved words that ran around the circle: ‘A fine doctor but an even finer son.’

  Ruth could not imagine her parents ever calling her ‘fine’. She suspected it was a nice feeling to be loved like that. And she knew that she would do everything to ensure that her child felt that same love, too. Maybe one day he or she would grow up to be a doctor, like Dr O’Grady.

  ‘Has anyone ever suggested to you that there might be a reason why you find certain things more difficult than others?’ Dr O’Grady asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Other than to say I have quirks or I’m highly strung, no.’

  ‘I’d say that you are the least highly strung person I know,’ Dr O’Grady answered. He put his pen down and leaned in towards Ruth. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I spoke to my wife about you.’

  Ruth was surprised to hear this. ‘I’m not sure anything about me is worthy of discussion, outside of this office.’

  ‘I disagree. I think you have no concept of how lovely you are. My wife, Cathy, runs The Rainbow Centre in Wexford. Do you know it?’

  Ruth shook her head.

  ‘It’s a place for adults with additional needs to go during the day. There are a number of adults who go who are on the spectrum. The autistic spectrum.’ Dr O’Grady’s voice was low, gentle.

  Ruth realised that she had not blinked since he started to speak. Her eyes felt dry and itchy. She allowed herself to blink three times in rapid succession, keeping her eyes on the doctor’s boots. It was raining outside.

  ‘I wonder if there is a possibility, a strong possibility, that you might be like them?’

  Ruth looked at him in shock. Why was he saying this to her? She placed a hand over her tummy, protecting her child from his words.

  Dr O’Grady continued, ‘Please don’t be alarmed, Ruth. I believe that you are just perfect as you are. The world would be a better place with more Ruth Wildes in it. But I always think that knowledge is power. If you had a diagnosis, it could help you understand and work through some of the things that you find difficult …’ Dr O’Grady paused to let the words settle in.

  ‘I am not giving up my baby,’ Ruth stated, pushing herself up to her feet.

  Dr O’Grady reached his hand over towards Ruth’s and clasped hers between his own, surprised when she did not take it away. ‘No one is going to take this baby from you. I just want to help you prepare for the little one’s arrival and afterwards make sure you have all the support you need.’

  ‘I will not give up my baby. Not to you, not to my mother, not to your wife or her centre,’ Ruth insisted.

  Dr O’Grady held his two hands up, in surrender. ‘I believe you! I wouldn’t dream of taking your baby from you. I would just like you to meet Cathy. Together, you can take it from there.’

  ‘What is your wife like?’

  ‘She’s the best person I know. Kind. Smart. Funny. And she doesn’t bullshit anyone. I suspect you two will get on like a house on fire.’

  So twenty-four hours later Ruth found herself sitting in the centre, face to face with Cathy.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ Cathy said. There were two chairs side by side, in front of the desk. To Ruth’s surprise Cathy chose to sit beside her, rather than at the desk.

  Behind which was a wall of books. Ruth liked that. She could not see any Dean Koontz on the shelf. That was a disappointment. Soft music played on a CD player. Also a disappointment, as it was not Westlife. She did, however, approve of Cathy’s pink, sparkling Skechers runners.

  ‘Dr O’Grady talks very highly of you,’ Cathy said.

  Ruth nodded. ‘I am very pleased to know him, too.’

  ‘I’d like to help you. If you would let me,’ Cathy continued.

  ‘I am not giving up my baby,’ Ruth stated once more for the record. Better to have no misunderstandings, she always believed.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t give up my baby either,’ Cathy replied.

  ‘I would think that it is highly unlikely that you are pregnant, given your estimated age. However, the oldest non-IVF mother recorded is an American woman who was fifty-seven at the time. So with that in mind, I apologise if indeed you are also pregnant.’

  Cathy replied, with only a ghost of a smile, ‘Oh, you are kind that you would think it even a remote possibility. I’
m afraid I’ve a few years on that wonderful American lady. No more babies for me.’

  Ruth looked around the room, then settled her attention on the bookshelf behind the desk once again.

  ‘Do you like books?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘I love Dean Koontz,’ Ruth replied without hesitation. ‘And Stephen King. J. K. Rowling.’

  ‘I don’t know Dean Koontz, but I like the Harry Potter books, too,’ Cathy said. ‘Tell me, Ruth, do you ever memorise passages or quotes from favourite books?’

  Ruth looked at her with suspicion. She should have known her parents were involved in this meeting. They must have told Cathy about her habit of quoting Odd Thomas. They hated that.

  Cathy said, ‘I’ve spoken to nobody about you with the exception of Dr O’Grady. I promise. But I would like you to answer me. Please.’

  ‘From time to time, I do consider that I might be mad. Like any self-respecting lunatic, however, I am always quick to dismiss any doubts about my sanity,’ Ruth said.

  Cathy laughed. ‘I like that.’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s written by the genius Dean Koontz,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘Funny and clever. I can see why my husband likes you so much. Which book is that quote from?’

  ‘From my favourite of Mr Koontz’s books, Odd Thomas.’

  ‘Do you know many parts of that book off by heart?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘I just quoted one, so that is a redundant question,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘You are quite correct. I’ll rephrase. How many times have you read it, would you think?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘One hundred and three times,’ Ruth answered without hesitation. Her first time was in 2003. Since then, it was rare that a day passed when she had not read at least a couple of chapters.

  ‘What a tribute to the author. I am sure he would love to know that his words mean so much to you,’ Cathy said.

  ‘Odd Thomas is misunderstood and at times mistreated by many. I understand him.’

  ‘Well, you’ve sold me on it. I think I’d better pick up a copy of this book. And soon.’

  ‘I have also enjoyed the sequels, Forever Odd and Brother Odd. But so far neither has eclipsed the first, which remains my favourite,’ Ruth added.

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘How long have you been married to Dr O’Grady?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Nearly twenty years.’

  ‘I like Dr O’Grady,’ Ruth stated.

  ‘Me, too,’ Mrs O’Grady said, smiling. ‘He told me about the first time you went to his surgery. Is it tricky for you when there are crowds?’

  Ruth nodded. ‘I do not like shopping centres in particular. They are too noisy. Unless it is really early. Then it is tolerable. It was different at the surgery. I did not care for the germs that were most likely to be airborne there.’

  ‘That makes sense. How do you like social situations, like, say, parties, with families or friends?’

  Moments in Ruth’s life from early childhood to now, flashed through her mind.

  Her fifth birthday party where she sat in the corner of their sitting room, alone, watching her classmates play together without her. Various clubs her parents forced her to join where her only survival technique was to tune out, by thinking about her favourite books and TV shows, rather than join in. And the numerous attempts – all disastrous – in clubs and bars with Mark, who was forced to bring his sister along in an effort to normalise her. But for every girl he charmed, she managed to offend someone with her awkwardness.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Cathy asked, her voice soft with concern.

  Ruth said, ‘People do not like me very much. I think I make them uncomfortable. I wish I knew why, so I could change it.’

  ‘Well, I like you very much just as you are. I don’t think I’d like you to change at all,’ Cathy said. With sincerity. She slid a clip board towards Ruth with a pen attached to it. ‘This questionnaire will take about twenty minutes to complete, but it will really help us to understand you better. I’ll make us a cup of tea while you complete it.’

  ‘I do not drink tea. But a glass of cold milk would be acceptable. Anything less than ice cold and I will not drink it,’ Ruth warned.

  ‘I think I can manage that,’ Cathy said.

  Ruth picked up the pen and began to answer the questions, one after the other, until her eyes swam and blurred. She ticked ‘YES’ in most boxes. She completed the questionnaire in under ten minutes and accepted her drink from Cathy when she handed it in.

  ‘Is that cold enough?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘Acceptable,’ Ruth replied. By the time she had emptied the glass, Cathy said, ‘Ruth, based on these answers and our chat earlier, I’m pretty certain that you are on the autistic spectrum.’

  Images of stereotypical autistic characters jumped into Ruth’s mind. She thinks I’m like Raymond Babbitt in Rain Man.

  This thought triggered a memory, a row she’d had with Mark when they were children. She idolised her brother and, despite his indifference to her, she remained steadfast in her appreciation of him and his ease at life. Her mother’s favourite catchphrase, ‘Why can’t you be more like Mark?’ made her wish that she could swap her social awkwardness for his charm. And one day an idea crept into her head. She could copy him. Then people would like her as much as they liked him. She watched him, mimicking his movements, repeating his words. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but for Mark it was the opposite. His rage when he shouted at her, ‘Leave me the fuck alone, you freaking rain man!’ left her shaken for days. But it also curbed her habit of copying him.

  ‘Ruth?’ Cathy asked. She leaned in, her hand hovering near Ruth’s.

  Ruth told Cathy about the incident. ‘I could not forget the insult. I began to question myself, was I like him? So I asked my parents. They were angry. At both Mark and me.’

  ‘That movie has a lot to answer for,’ Cathy said. ‘Stereotypical traits like maths genius are not in my experience the norm for those on the spectrum.’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘My maths skills are excellent.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘Good for you! I suppose the way I see it, though, there will only ever be one Raymond Babbitt. Just like there is only one Ruth Wilde.’

  Ruth liked that. And there will only be one of you, little one. She stroked her bump.

  ‘It’s such an exciting time for you,’ Cathy said. ‘But it must feel overwhelming at times. Dealing with all the changes in your body. And preparing for what comes next. If you’d like, I can help you understand what this diagnosis means. It doesn’t need to be the end of the world. In fact, I hope it might be the beginning of a new one.’

  ‘Given my heritage and the ordeal of my childhood, I sometimes wonder why I myself am not insane. Maybe I am,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Odd Thomas or Ruth Wilde?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘Odd,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘I really am going to buy a copy on the way home tonight. You should be on commission!’

  Ruth leaned in closer to Cathy and whispered, ‘Can you make me normal?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘Normal? I tried being normal once. Worst ten minutes of my life!’

  Ruth loved that. ‘I shall steal that joke. It is most satisfactory.’

  ‘It’s all yours, Ruth. The point is, you don’t need to change, you just need some help discovering who you really are. I suspect that person is pretty spectacular.’

  ‘I am afraid that my mother will tell people that I am a bad mother and then I’ll lose my baby,’ Ruth whispered, her eyes not leaving her bump.

  ‘Then you must be a good mother. Then it doesn’t matter what your mother or anyone else says,’ Cathy said.

  ‘That’s what Dr O’Grady said, too.’

  ‘Well, you have to believe it. I have faith in you, Ruth.’

  Her logic was sound. Ruth smiled at her, feeling like she had walked into this room alone, but would leave with a friend. ‘I want to lea
ve Wexford. Start again somewhere new.’ She told Cathy about her father’s money and her plan to move to Dublin.

  ‘Good for you. I think that is a great idea. And I’ll help you. But before you move, before your little baby arrives, would you spend some time with me here in the Centre. I’d love to get to know you a bit better.’

  ‘That would be most acceptable.’ Happiness sparked its way around Ruth. I’ll be a good mother, I promise, little one.

  Sometimes life throws a curveball your way. Because while Ruth walked back to Mark’s flat, her head full of plans for her future, her mother was waiting. And Marian was not leaving until Ruth agreed to give her baby up. No matter what she had to do to persuade her.

  22

  TOM

  Now

  Tom avoided his usual Thursday haunts. He told himself that his knee was playing up, and that was why he did not call into Pearse Street Library. When of course the truth of the matter was he was really staying close to the park entrance in case Ruth came by. He could not pretend that he was not shaken by her appearance the previous night. This connection he felt towards her son had been unfathomable. From that first moment when he saw him with a spray can in hand. Ruth … His eyes flicked back to the entrance gate to the park. Maybe she wouldn’t come.

  But somehow he knew that if she was going to come on any day, it would be this.

  The eighteenth of October.

  The day he met Cathy. The day he married Cathy. The day of so many firsts …

  And then she was in front of him, holding two paper cups.

  ‘How do you know my son?’ Ruth asked.

  Straight to the point, just like he remembered. ‘You should be very proud. He’s a fine young man,’ Tom replied.

  ‘I did not ask you for your opinion of him. How do you know him?’

  Tom replied, ‘I met him last Saturday. He was outside your old flat in Swords. I happened to be camping out in a doorway close by.’

  Ruth was thrown by this. How had she not known this? When DJ had got back that evening he’d looked guilty, but she put that down to the fact that he was late home and she was cross with him.