Pack Up the Moon (32 page)

“Who knows?” Anne answered with her hands in the

air.

Clodagh nudged her. “So is the doctor cute?”

Anne laughed. “Old and fat. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know.”

“You know we’ll be there for you, right?” I asked. “I know,” she smiled.

“You, Richard, the doctor and the turkey baster.” She smiled and we laughed together. What else could we do?

In the Name of the Father

It was a Saturday and feeling unusually sprightly I decided

upon going into town to look for baby clothes. I had no intention of buying, as my mother and Doreen had been adamant when advising that buying for a baby not yet

born would bring untold bad luck. Although not usually superstitious, I wasn’t about to take any chances and they had both agreed that there was no harm in looking. I looked through rails of little dresses, pink and yellow tops, little blue shorts and jumpers with every kind of zoo

animal imprint. I looked at runners, shoes, sandals, all tiny and cute, little gloves, little hats, little vests and socks that were so small I had trouble fitting my thumb into them. I’ll admit that although I didn’t know whether I was

having a boy or a girl, I did spend most of my time in the girls’ section. This was mainly due to the fact that everything was so pretty and my recent discovery that I

had a weakness for all things pretty

I eventually pried myself away from pink and

proceeded towards the blue section when I saw a familiar

face going through a rail of boys’ trousers. I couldn’t quite place the face, wondering if it was the face of a parent I should be avoiding. She didn’t notice me as she was too engrossed measuring the size of trousers against her child

who was struggling to get out of his buggy. I continued viewing little shirts hoping that the woman would give

me as wide a berth as I was giving her.

She was at the counter paying for her shopping when

the little boy turned his head and faced me. I inhaled audibly and the woman next to me, noticing my condition and possibly my pallid colour, politely asked if I was OK. I quickly said I was, but I was lying.

The child was Noel — he had his eyes, his face, his curly hair — and the woman was the woman I had met in the bar two years previously. It was Laura, Noel’s lover. I was rooted to the spot rather like a beached whale waiting

to be shifted. She looked up as she was leaving and saw me. Our eyes met and when indifference turned to terror I knew that she had recognised me. She almost ran to the door and before I knew it I was following her and calling

her name. She stopped halfway down the shopping-centre mall. She didn’t turn; instead she just stood there waiting for me to catch up. When I did I could see that she wore the same red face that I myself often did. She was rocking the buggy and looking straight ahead as

though she was in front of an invisible firing squad. We both knew the game was up, but unfortunately neither one of us knew where to go from there.

Noel’s child was restless, wondering why he was being

pushed back and forth rather than travelling to a new and

more interesting destination. We stood together side by side for only a few seconds, but they lasted three lifetimes.

Eventually I uttered her name. “Laura.”

“Emma.”

“I think we should go for coffee,” I said.

“Look, Emma, we really don’t have anything to say,” she mumbled.

“I think we do,” I pushed, knowing by the tone of her previous statement that deep down she agreed.

*

Later in the coffee shop her son, my nephew, relaxed in his pram but we adults were like little bombs about to

explode with information overload. We ordered coffees and sat.

“What’s his name?” I asked, looking at my nephew. “Noel,” she said, sighing and possibly berating herself

for being such a sap as to call her son after the man who’d

abandoned her.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, meaning it. Noel was a handsome man and his son was adorable.

“Thank you,” she responded, although I doubt the compliment meant much in light of the situation she had

found herself in.

“Does Noel know?” I asked.

“No,” she said simply.

“Why not?” I had to ask.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asked, not afraid of getting to the point.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” My mind was in a daze.

“Why haven’t you told him?” I ventured again, hoping for an answer.

Tears filled her eyes and threatened to trickle down her

pink-stained face. My heart bled for her. Maybe it was because I was pregnant and hormonal, or that she was a mother and soon I would be one too. Either way, when I saw her cry any brewing animosity dissipated. I squeezed her hand and it acted like a tear-release. The tears poured and I waited until they too dissipated. Noel Junior was too busy eating a carrot stick to notice his mother’s

anguish. She explained that she had only found out about the pregnancy after Noel had decided to end the

relationship. She had often thought about telling him, but decided that he had picked the Church over her, knowing that he loved her and knowing that be felt he had no

choice but to follow a path that would never include her

or their child. She had felt it cruel to further complicate his life, having borne witness to the many nights of suffering and torment that he had endured during their

affair. She was happy to have been given a child as, at the age of thirty-eight, time had been running out. She had always wanted to be a mother and had long ago reasoned

that if God had to take away her lover maybe he had

compensated her with their child. I wasn’t so sure and although it was evident that she loved Noel and felt she

was doing the best for all concerned, I couldn’t hide from the fact that my brother had a child and, if I knew, how could I keep it from him? And although her argument was a convincing one, despite any pain it would bring, didn’t he have a right to know?

We walked towards the car park together. She asked

me about myself and seemed delighted that I was with

Sean and having his baby. Apparently Noel had talked about our unrequited love. At the car she begged me to talk to her before I talked to Noel. She gave me her number and although my discovery of her secret was

down to a chance encounter, she seemed to feel responsible for my impossible position. It was easy to see why Noel had fallen for her. She was calm, kind, sweet and friendly even when terrified and with her world

turned upside down, and although we had only met briefly once before we hugged when parting.

Poor cow.

*

Sean was in the spare room, which had long ago become his study. I charged up the stairs as quickly as my fluid-filled legs would allow. I plonked down on the chair in front of his desk. He looked up grinning and wondering how much money I had mentally spent.

“Noel is a father.”

He stood up as though he’d just realised he’d sat on

something sharp.

“Excuse me?” he uttered, looking down at me plonked in the chair.

“I bumped into Laura and her one-year-old, Noel Junior, in town.”

He sat down. “Noel Junior,” he repeated and I nodded in agreement.

I told him all about it while he sat dully looking into

the middle distance and scratching his head intermittently. “This is big,” he kept saying until I told him to stop.

I asked him what I should do; keeping in mind that Laura was right, in that telling Noel he had a son would be tantamount to putting a gun to his head. He argued that not telling him would be denying him the chance to

know his only son. He was right, but then again so was she. My brain was fried. I wanted to talk to my mother, but then her brain would have been fried and it would

only serve to further complicate the situation. Sean and I debated the pros and cons of disclosing Laura’s secret for

hours. We were both well aware that we were dealing with shades of grey. I couldn’t sleep, unable to shut either my brain or bladder into the off position. I felt ill all night, intermittently dizzy even while lying down and so weak that it became difficult to raise my hand to my face.

Sunday dinner was a nightmare. Neither Sean nor I could bring ourselves to make small talk with my parents. My mother put it down to my own exhaustion.

“It’s perfectly natural. I couldn’t keep my eyes open on Noel.”

I nodded.

“And what’s your excuse, Sean?”

“Work:’

“Ah!” she replied before noting that she too was tired.

My father was too busy watching Dublin lose a hurling

match on TV to query our silence, probably because in light

of the desperate situation unfolding on the playing field.

That night when Clodagh rang I didn’t tell her, not

because I wasn’t dying to, but because it was already

unfair that Sean and I knew Noel’s business before he did,

never mind my friends. Sean and I talked around and around in circles. One minute he made a point in favour of Noel being told and in the next moment he made a

point in favour of him not being told. I followed suit. Neither of us had a clue what to do. Noel was truly happy for the first time in a very long time. The changes we had witnessed in him were hard to ignore. He had found his place among the priesthood and the people who had

needed him most. He had rediscovered his path and his destiny. He was at peace. Who were we to take that from him? Still, how I could I not tell him?

It was mid-week and Father Rafferty took Confession at

five. I had stayed behind to correct essays that should have been corrected at the weekend. It was just after five. I didn’t think about it because to do that would encourage me to

question myself and I had been doing quite enough of that

to last a lifetime. I waddled into the church, hoping against hope that I would find myself alone. I was in luck. I squeezed into the confession box and knelt down on the unforgiving

wooden kneeler. Like my mind, my knees felt like they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. At seven months my stomach had grown larger than I could have believed

possible. I arched my back, which was killing me, only to find my stomach jammed against the confession box, which was definitely not made with mothers-to-be in mind, but then that’s the Catholic Church all over. I made a silent promise not to debate what I perceived to be the evils of the

Church as I had far more pressing business to discuss.

It wasn’t long before the little shutter was slid back, revealing Father Rafferty, his eyes closed and his head nodding, hand raised in blessing.

“Father Rafferty,” I said.

He stayed silent, head bowed, waiting for me to spout the usual formula.

“Father Rafferty,” I repeated slightly more forcefully, but yet with respect. He stopped short, opening his eyes and steadying his head so as to focus.

“Emma?” he queried.

“Yes,” I replied, happy to have caught his attention without having to bang on the grille, which would have been my next move.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, realising that I wasn’t there to seek forgiveness.

“I need your advice,” I leaned in and whispered although the church was empty.

“What is it, Emma?” he asked, coming closer to the grille.

“It’s Noel. He has a child.”

Father Rafferty paled. “Laura,” he said after a time. “Yes,” I answered, not surprised that Noel had confided

in him. Although they were very different and generations

apart, the two men had a mutual respect and understanding. “He doesn’t know,” he said, immediately understanding

why I had come to him.

“He doesn’t,” I answered. “She found out after they parted. She didn’t tell him because she knew he was a priest at heart.”

“She’s a lovely woman,” he said with his eyes on the floor, so that I couldn’t read their expression, although his tone suggested sadness. “And now?” he asked, returning my gaze.

“And now I know. I bumped into her with Noel

Junior. He’s exactly like Noel — he even has a curly cow’s lick.”

Father Rafferty shook his head sadly, but I could see a hint of a smile.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said, begging for the answer.

His slight smile faded and he held his head in his hand, squeezing his temples. Battling my own headache, I lurched from one knee to the other hoping to God he’d

come up with something fast.

“You can’t keep it from him. To do so would not only be a sin against God, but also against nature.” He shook his head in his hands as though his words hurt him.

“Noel will leave the priesthood. He won’t risk the Church’s reputation,” I said, mirroring Father Rafferty’s thoughts.

“Yes, he will,” he said sadly. “It’s a pity — not for him but for us. He’s one of the good ones.”

I could see his hand tremble slightly, but I couldn’t tell from his tone whether it was due to emotion or simply

old age.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m sorry too,” he replied. He looked at me and attempted a smile, but behind his tired eyes I could see Noel staring back at me. Father Rafferty may have been old and unusually consumed by Doomsday, but he was once young and faced all of the fears, desires and longing that my brother did. He understood the impact, the implications for Noel better than anyone else. He also understood that Noel was being given a chance to be a

real father and I don’t know if he regretted or rejoiced in

his life choices, but in that moment he looked lost. I wanted to cry, then again I had wanted to cry earlier when I’d ordered cappuccino and it came without chocolate

sprinkles.

“Father,” I said out of nowhere.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to pray with me?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just said. I didn’t even know if I would remember a whole prayer.