Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
MARY
Over Twenty Years Ago
The driver has me back home by three in the afternoon, on a beautiful Sunday. I’m jet-lagged, exhausted from traveling, but my mood immediately boosts when I open the door and see my boy running toward me with open arms.
I drop my bag right there in the entrance and embrace my little Eamon with a spin. Twirling around he gives me an award-winning laugh, while his little fingers stretch out to enjoy the ride.
My husband strolls in, carrying my gorgeous baby girl, who just turned one this past summer.
“How was your flight, Mo Shearc?”
I gather the gummy-smiled girl in my arms while the boys muscle my luggage into the house.
I’ve only been gone for a week and my precious girl has her first reddened curl coming in, just like her mama.
“Long,” I replied. “Didn’t get much rest.”
Patrick tells Eamon to take his sister and go play in the den.
Taking me by the hand, he leads me into the house and pours me a glass of champagne with a splash of OJ as I take a seat at the long counter in the kitchen.
My husband can be thoughtful and gentle… but only with me.
It was a smart match our parents made. My sister should have been the one to wed first. She was older, but argued she wanted a career more than a husband. Moyra was never going to go along with any arranged marriage.
Then, right after she graduated, she secretly eloped. To a police officer of all people. I must have asked her a hundred times after I had heard the news. Why? Why him?!
Immediately, my parents cut her off. “No daughter of theirs should be involved with a copper,” they declared. Whether it was her husband or simply because our family values didn’t align with that of an ‘officer of the law,’ my older sister became estranged.
It crushed me. Especially once I started a family. Someday, I hope my children will get to know their aunt. She’s not only an amazing friend, but a mother herself… I wish she had confided in me the way I had her, all those years ago.
My husband never isolated me, in fact, he mostly sought my advice when it came to delicate business matters. He also consciously tries to put me and the kids first. There is no question if he loves me, but I worry he would see me differently if he knew the real reason I flew back to Ireland.
I left under the notion I was “visiting family” and to help care for my ill nanny, which was true. Equally important, I visited a place I previously buried in the darkest corners of my mind. My folks were privy to the real reason I went; they of course were the ones who arranged everything.
This secret I carried, held the power to ruin family names and destroy partnerships. Even prevent stipulated marriages.
I was promised to Patrick Murray and my parents sought to keep that arrangement intact, until I came of age. My family wasn’t wealthy by any means, but my father was a smart businessman and worked his way up the ladder, rubbing elbows with all the right people.
Before my sixteenth birthday, my Pa’ informed me that I was promised to his boss’s son. This wasn’t too foreign of a concept back then, especially if the deal meant your family would be taken care of for as long as business was good.
Patrick came to my birthday that year. He was handsome with a charismatic smile and a confidence that made all the girls at my party swoon. I was happy and could see a promising future as his wife.
Sundays, we saw each other at church, the occasional family function, and whenever business partners, like Pa, were invited.
Everyone over-embellished at these parties, so they rarely noticed when Patrick and I snuck away to share a kiss, beneath the large, twisted oak outback.
My sister caught us once. She was actually the one to lecture me on the birds and the bees, so to speak.
I felt like the luckiest girl in the whole city.
A little before my eighteenth birthday, I went to meet a friend from school, in the club district, at a place called Club 114.
My parents thought I had a study group and planned to spend the night at Sheila’s.
Sheila was a straight ‘A’ student who would never be caught dead in a sketchy club such as this. So, she was my alibi.
I never intended to be naive, prey in a city of wolves.
As I navigated my way through the first club I’d ever been to, I felt a sharp pinch in my side. My arms and legs felt instantly fuzzy, while everything around me started going in and out of focus. I was sleepy but also content.
Without realizing it, I was moving. A large body escorted me back onto the dark streets, all without ever finding my friend. It was like watching a movie. There… but not really present. No pain, just pure, disconnected euphoria.
Snippets of the person stayed with me. Those steely gray eyes that looked like they belonged to a beast. His gaze was hollow, empty, and after he had his fill of me, he disappeared. I was a husk of a woman. Broken… I’ve never been quite the same since that day.
I guess that’s part of growing up.
When I finally clawed my way out of the hellish nightmare, I awoke to an enraged man shouting at me.
He was convinced I was some homeless drifter who’d made camp in the back seat of his car.
My skin itched from head to toe, and the stench of vomit clung to my hair.
Still, despite my wretched state, I managed to snatch up my pockabook and sprint all the way home.
I told my sister first. When I finally confessed to Ma’ and Pa’ they were beside themselves. Moyra held my hand the whole time, never leaving my side. After the verbal lashing of a lifetime and a few encyclopedias thrown my way, they went into rescue mode.
I don’t deserve them.
My parents made excuses in the beginning, explanations for my absence due to “sickness,” but as the problem grew…
it became harder to conceal, especially from my future betrothed.
Ma’ formulated a plan to send me to my Nanny and Pop-Pop’s in Ireland.
They told my future in-laws and close friends that I wanted to take some time to help the church, back in our home country.
It was a half-truth, because I did go to Nanny and Pop-Pop's, however, the church helped me, not the other way around.
On the coldest day in January, on the sacred 3rd day of the month, I delivered a healthy baby boy in the local, catholic hospital. Such a joyous time for most new mothers… on the contrary, this day had rapidly become one of the most difficult moments of my life.
They set the red skinned babe in my arms for just a moment. I counted ten fingers and ten toes, before a nurse whisked him away to be cared for, until the nuns from the orphanage came to retrieve the baby.
I cried and screamed into my pillow every night for the next two weeks, until my voice became hoarse. Then it was time to fly back home to the states, back to my new future with my husband-to-be.
A piece of me remained in Ireland when I left, a secret that should never cross the Atlantic.
My doting husband rubs a tense area in my shoulders, bringing me out of the memory. Rubbing outward with his strong hands, hands that I know for a fact have killed multiple men, although he never discusses such matters under our families’ roof.
His squeezes and strokes quickly morph into playful nibbles on my earlobes and neck. He’s missed me and I, him. Hot against my ear, he details how he plans to welcome me home properly, once the kids are in bed, tonight.
Patrick had some paperwork to catch up on and I was desperate for a nap above all else.
I kissed my babies on the top of their heads, before informing our au pair I planned to lie down for a little while.
Removing my heels, I crawl into the tightly made bed to settle my exhausted mind, at the very least. When I closed my eyes, I was flooded with images of the young boy, multiple years older than Eamon.
The boy probably didn’t even take notice of me, as I watched him play ball in the field with other children.
Just outside the orphanage, I stood with the nuns as they shared what little they could with me.
They named him Daxton, Dax for short. “He’ll be nine next January,” they shared.
Of course, I already knew that. The day etched into my memory.
I never lost count. Even though the visit was short, I could see he was quite the leader, out of all the children.
Heading the charge toward the leather ball in the grassy field, eventually catching it midair and scoring on the opposing team.
At one point, the ball rolled just in front of the nuns and I.
Of course, Dax was the one to retrieve it.
He was right before me. All I had to do was reach out and… what could I possibly say?
His eyes were gray; not cold or empty, but full of curiosity.
It wasn’t his fault. He had no say in the man who meddled in our lives.
The dirty-faced child regarded me, although only a brief moment, I could tell his soul did not match his father’s.
Only managing to deliver a tight smile before he fetched what he came for and ran back to the others.
In my dreams, I imagine Dax happily running around and playing. A day hasn’t gone by without thinking about the baby I gave up. I prayed that it was the right choice for me… and for him.
Later that evening, we went to the Lombardis for Sunday gravy.
They were a lovely young family like us, with kids of similar age and gender.
Mrs. Lombardi and I had weekly playdates with the kids and our whole family had regular get-togethers.
Our husbands even attended baseball games together, when they weren’t working.