Her Name Is Rose (23 page)

Burdy had warned him that it was in his genes, this alcoholic inheritance, and there was only one way to beat it. “I'll only say this one time because I know you will find your way. You don't have to hit bottom with this thing. It's an elevator going down, you can get off any floor you want.”

In his pocket, he fingered the Irish coin with the harp and the hare, the threepenny piece, Burdy's lucky golf ball marker.

*   *   *

Seven o'clock in the morning, steady rain falling, a Turkish taxi driver dropped him at the Merrion hotel in Dublin's city center. Emerging from the car, Rowan tilted back his head and let the rain fall on his face. He looked around at the pale gray granite columns and gated entrance of a large, lead-domed building across the wide street. Government buildings, the taxi driver told him. Even though the driver was a foreigner he pointed out all the cultural sights. Croke Park. The Custom House. The Liffey. The Bank of Ireland. Trinity College.

“Good morning, good morning. May I take your luggage, sir?” An elderly porter in top hat and tails said. He'd been standing, waiting at the hotel's discreet front door.

Rowan wasn't normally a guest at hotels with porters in top hats but he'd chosen this one because it was around the corner from the offices of the Adoption Board. His credit card would take another hit. “No, I can carry it. Thanks.” He looked up and down the street but didn't move.

“Will I get you an umbrella, sir?”

“Is Merrion Square that way?” Rowan nodded to the right.

“Yes. Right there, sir. And the National Gallery is just across the street. But it's not open yet. Are you sure you're not wanting me to take your bag, sir?”

“No. Thanks. I'll check in now.” Rowan followed the porter into the front room of the hotel, where a tall, blond receptionist named Sabine checked him in and a few minutes later a young man with a middle-European accent showed him into a garden-view suite. (Thus far the only Irish person he'd actually encountered in Ireland was the old porter, whose brogue was strong, maybe by way of compensation.)

“We have upgraded you sir,” said the young man. “May I show you the room's amenities?”

By the time he was shown into the marble-floored bathroom, Rowan said, “Thanks. I think I can manage from here,” and handed him a five-euro note.

In a tangled mixture of grief, shock, and a jet-lagged trance then, he looked down at the enclosed garden, the reflecting pool, clipped boxwood hedging, the blooming campanula and white calla lilies and a very old magnolia tree. He wished in a way he'd said yes to his mother's offer to accompany him. But it was too soon after Burdy. He was grateful Pierce was able to stay and attend to her as well as to Burdy's estate.

Rowan leaned against the window frame and looked down at the order of the garden, and in his mind he laid out the distorted architecture of what he now knew: Hilary
had
had a baby, a girl, and placed her for adoption. In Ireland. He was now in the category known as a “natural” parent. He had learned on the Adoption Board's Web site that he could officially sign up as such, the natural father, with the “National Adoption Contact Preference Register.” In one fell swoop he was a father, if only in the literal sense of the word. He had called the Adoption Board and explained that he was arriving in Dublin from New York the next day and needed an appointment. Urgently.

*   *   *

After a brief nap, mainly to clear his head of jet lag, Rowan accepted an umbrella offered by the gentleman porter and walked out, turning left outside the hotel, into a cloudburst. A few yards farther, he turned right onto Baggot Street. Place names suddenly jumped out at him as he passed along: O'Donaghue's, Doheny and Nesbitt, Toners. Names on a postcard Hilary had sent him after arriving in Dublin to attend Trinity College. She'd been
doing the pub crawl with the other American exchange students,
she'd written and invited him to come visit. It panged his heart to think about it now.

Rowan hadn't told Hilary before she left for Ireland that their relationship was over.

Nor had he told her straight off when she came home for Christmas, even though he had several occasions to. They'd gone out a couple of times. Muscoot's, the White Horse, once to Nino's. He hadn't told her it was over until just before she returned to Ireland after the holiday. He'd met someone else. He was sorry. It was just the way it was. He wasn't ready to get married. They were parked outside her house, the car running. Snow covered the lawns and white lights decorated the bare tree outside the Barretts' house, he remembered. She got out of the car without a word. Midway up the path, she turned and came back. She opened the door and dropped the engagement ring on the seat and walked the path to her parents' house.

Remembering now the look on her face, Rowan felt sick. There was something about the way she reacted. He'd been too indifferent to consider how deeply it might affect her.

Along the north side of St. Stephen's Green he passed the Shelbourne Hotel, crossed the street, and walked along the outside railings of the great square, which, the porter had told him, was once the oldest urban space in the world. Opposite the top of Grafton Street, Rowan continued along the edge of the green and within a few yards pulled up short. There, posed as if in midspeech, stood the tall, thin statue of Robert Emmet, arms free at his sides, one palm open and turned toward the sky. Rowan was struck by the likeness to his grandfather. It was in the nose.

Rowan walked around the green and back past the hotel. The old porter waved a white-gloved hand as Rowan passed. When he reached the address on Merrion Square just before two in the afternoon the rain had eased. He stared at the blue door, its glass fanlight reflecting a bit of sky and marshmallow cloud and a little green from the trees in the gated park across the street. People passed as he waded in a pool of uncertainty, anxiety, and immense regret. He drew in a long, deep breath, like a swimmer on the starting block. He sucked and held his breath and, in one long whoosh, let it out:
Whoosh.

Inside, a tall, thin woman in a black cardigan sat at a desk. She was on the phone and motioned with her hand for him to wait. His breath quickened.

She soon hung up and stood. “Mr. Blake, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Rowan put out his hand.

“Sonia McGowan,” she said, taking it lightly. “Come, this way. Please.” She started walking and Rowan followed. “You're just arrived from New York? You must be tired.” Without waiting for him to answer, or looking back, she continued. “How was your flight?”

She led him through an open door into a small room with a corner window that looked out onto a gray wall, and indicated an old armchair. Rowan sat and the woman took the seat opposite. There was a small table between them with a box of tissues, a pen, and a clipboard holding paper. The linoleum floor was so polished his shoes squeaked when he shifted position to recross his legs.

“How can I help you?” she said.

Rowan thought she sighed before reaching for the clipboard. He didn't think he could begin.

“Go on, please.”

“Well…” He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked around the room a moment. “I think I've just become a father.”

She didn't say anything right away but a minor smile softened her face. It was brief. “Tell me whatever you know. You've requested a meeting with the Adoption Board, presumably because there's some connection to us—”

Rowan interrupted and spoke quickly, “I found out two days ago that a young woman I was dating over twenty years ago had a baby, and she gave her baby…” He paused, searching for the right words. He didn't want to say them.

“She placed her baby for adoption?”

“Yes.” Rowan nodded. “That's right. I believe.” He sat back in his seat and let out a long, soundless whistle. He put his hands on his knees and clasped them and shifted his weight forward.

“I see,” Sonia McGowan said, “and just to be clear, Mr. Blake, you're questioning whether the baby was adopted here? In Ireland?” She was writing on the form held by the clipboard.

“I'm not suggesting it, Ms. McGowan. I know it to be true. I have a letter from her, the baby's mother, telling me that she did.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope and eased the letter carefully from it. He looked once more before handing it over. It was folded in four and well creased.

She read it.

Dear Ro,

A year ago I had a baby. A girl. She was born in Dublin. I gave her up for adoption a couple of weeks after I gave birth. She was placed with a very loving couple in the west of the country a few weeks later. I've had confirmation from a social worker at the agency that an adoption order has been granted to her new parents. So now it's legal. That's why I'm writing.

Our daughter is now someone else's. I met them, Rowan. They will give our baby everything we couldn't. A home, and parents. Plural.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I needed to wait until it was too late for you to do something.

I was excited to tell you I was pregnant when I came home that time at Christmas. Excited to be starting a family. I'd meant for it to be a surprise. I was three months then. You didn't notice.

I went back to Dublin after you broke our engagement. I didn't tell my parents I was pregnant. I'm sorry about that, but it would have made them too sad and they would have tried to stop me.

I just wanted my baby to grow up with a mother and a father. With parents who lived together and loved each other.

I hope you will forgive me …

Love,

Hil

P.S. Her name is Rose.

The social worker's head was tilted as she read and Rowan noted the dark circles under her eyes. She was older than he'd first thought and there was something deeply melancholic about her. She looked up suddenly and said, “When was this?” There was an odd urgency in her voice.

“About twenty years ago,” Rowan said. “Why?”

“It's just—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She looked down at the box of tissues. “I'm … I'm not sure
what
I was thinking. Sorry. I was reminded of something.” She paused another moment. “It's signed ‘Hil,'” she said, returning the letter to Rowan.

“Short for Hilary. Her name was Hilary Barrett. She's dead now. She died—”

The clipboard slipped down Ms. McGowan's lap. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp
clack,
a sound as if something had snapped or been freed, or, as in an old lock, a key had been turned. Her face paled. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she retrieved the clipboard. “Sorry.”

“Ms. McGowan, what's wrong?”

“She's dead?”

“Yes. She died before she could mail me the letter. Her parents kept it and for their own reasons didn't tell me. That's why I only just found out. Purely by accident. If I'd known—”

“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry to hear that. Poor girl.”

“She was … lovely.”

“No. I mean—”

“What?”

“I mean, of course. Poor girl. I hope she found comfort in knowing she placed her baby with a loving, adoptive couple. A very courageous thing to do.” Her voice had changed. It was like Sonia McGowan had momentarily gone on autopilot. “It seems you have all the information already, Mr. Blake. I'm sorry to tell you that adoptions made legally in this country are closed. You know what that means?”

“It means all identifying information is private. Yes. I checked your Web site. I understand I can join some contact register.”

“Yes. That's true. You can register as the natural father.”

“I'm not a natural father!”

“You're not the natural father?”

“No … I mean, yes I am … well, according to Hilary. And I have no reason to question that. But it's a distortion, there's nothing
natural
about it.”

Sonia performed a minor smile again. She'd recovered her color, and now unclipped some papers from her clipboard and handed them to Rowan. “The terminology
is
unfortunate. We often hear that from adoptive parents who prefer the term ‘birth parent' to ‘natural parent.' But, well, we're all in the same—to use your word—distortion,” she said. “Here's a form. Take it with you and look it over. You can decide what level of contact, if any, you're open to in the event the adopted person in question is also registered, and, more importantly, also open to contact. Although I have to tell you it is entirely her choice to be contacted. Or not. And if she has requested no contact, we must all abide by that.” She looked down. “I hope you understand. Sometimes it turns out adoptive children, when they become adults, are open to being approached by members of the original birth family. I've known of several cases where it has turned out well. But also, I'm sorry to say, I've known cases, in my personal experience, where it hasn't.”

Rowan accepted the form and folded it without looking. He kept his eyes on Sonia. His eyes teared. She lifted her eyes and noticed. He'd previously noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

“Is there anything more I can help you with, Mr. Blake?” she asked. “I'm so sorry you've come all this way. And I can only imagine the state of shock you must be in. I wish, really, there was something more I could do for you. Is there anything else?”

Rowan noted the shift. Sonia had returned from autopilot and was back in manual mode. He studied her a moment because he imagined Sonia McGowan was trying to tell him something. “I'm sorry, Ms. McGowan, but do I get the feeling that you know something you're not saying?”

“There is nothing I know of that I can share with you,” she said, looking away. She closed the file. She straightened the line of her cardigan. She took a tissue from the box and tucked it into her sleeve.