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“I’m glad you’re home, Mum. I have so much to tell you,” Rose says. She stands back and sleeves her tears.
Her mother has a look that Rose can’t quite interpret. It’s happy and sad at the same time.
Iris waits a moment, then she says, “Me, too, honey. Me, too.”
Seventeen
Rowan drove westward from Dublin under an iron-gray sky. It was a Friday in the middle of June. The countryside was oddly lit, as if all the forty shades of green Joh
County Laois brought a sudden release of rain. The weighty sky darkened swiftly and the wipers slashed back and forth in a blind flash. And then, just as suddenly, in the afterrain, sparkling sunlight glimmered on the road. That’s how it must be in this country, Rowan thought, light and dark in dramatic play between sunshine and shadow. He drove on, past the city of Limerick and over the Sha
Passing a craggy field he heard Burdy’s voice in his head, “When you hit a wild shot you know it right away. You swing through and co
Before Rowan had left Dublin he’d met briefly again with Sonia McGowan and signed the official Register for Adoption Contact. He’d filled in the form, giving his address. He’d ticked the box: Natural Father, and farther down: Willing to Meet.
“I hope at least you know you’ve done all you can—to open the door from your side—by stating your preference for contact. Your birth daughter will have the information … if she ever comes looking for it.”
Rowan took her offered hand and shook it, warmly, and thanked her. “I just want to do the right thing.”
She seemed more at ease with herself. Lighter somehow, her dark eyes restful, he thought. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Blake, this has all come as quite a shock to you.”
“If she ever comes looking for me, please tell her she has nothing to fear. I will be glad of whatever level of contact she requests.”
“And if she never requests it? How will you feel?”
“It’s still hard to lose something, or someone, you never had.”
* * *
Rowan arrived in the town of E
Tracking down Iris and Luke Bowen on the Internet had been easy, although the ma
He had Googled “Iris Bowen” and within seconds her garden blog came up. The few photos showed a cottage-style garden and some quirky entries that had made him smile. (He’d posted a message telling her so.) The fact that she was a gardener somehow comforted him.
* * *
That night at the hotel in E
“I’ve got to tell you, buddy,” Pierce said, “I’m afraid you’ve got no rights.”
“I know, I know. The lady in Dublin told me that.”
“So what are you doing, then?”
“I don’t know. I’m … I’m … I’m just following the line of the ball.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, Pierce, I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m not going to butt in where I don’t belong.”
“That would be a wise choice. This isn’t some Hollywood movie, Ro. This is real.”
“I know that. I just … shit. I don’t know.” There was a long pause. Rowan stood at the window of his room. Through ancient birch trees in the garden, he saw a sculpture of a pair of giant hands holding nothing but free air in the soft, gray limestone of its open palms. He thought of the statue of Robert Emmet. Although not a religious man, Rowan thought he’d stop into the church on his way out and say a prayer. There was always a first time for everything.
“I just want to see she’s all right. Nothing more.” He paused. “Trust me. I’ll do the right thing.”
“For whom?”
“Pierce … I said I’ll do the right thing.”
Rowan hadn’t presumed to have any rights as a birth father, not this many years after the fact, but that didn’t stop him from wanting—something. It was as if a hungering had slowly been growing in him for years and only now had he recognized it. He longed for some part of him to be … what? Unspoiled? To know he’d done something good in his life? Something he could be proud of? That whatever goodness was in him, passed down from Burdy, survived? Natural fathers have rights only within the marital family in Ireland, so Pierce said. As far as Irish law was concerned, if the parents aren’t married the child has no father. Beloved father—it stuck into Rowan’s heart like a thorn. But he needed to know. Something. He wouldn’t just show up and say, “I’m your birth father. I’m your natural father.” No. That wasn’t how it was going to go. He would do the right thing.
From E
If he’d had an address for the Bowens he still wouldn’t have knocked on their door. He had checked the phone book. There was no listing. As he drove he noticed there were no street names, no road signs.
Point was, he’d lectured himself that he had no real intention of finding where Iris Bowen and Rose actually lived. He just wanted to see that somewhere place in the world, the whereabouts, of their home. Where Iris made her garden. Where Rose grew up. That was all.