A Song Across the Sea (46 page)

“What in the world is she talking about?” murmured Reece.

Tara didn’t answer. A warning bell pealed distantly in the back of her head.

It was only that I wasn’t thinking straight that terrible night. I lost my Danny, you see. It wasn’t fair. When the other little boy was pulled into my lifeboat, I thought he was mine by rights, sent to take Danny’s place.

Tara’s voice grew unsteady. The fingers that held the letter trembled.

All this time I let him think you drowned when the Titanic sank. I’ve tried to be a good mother to him, but I know I’ve failed. I can’t bring myself to tell him about the terrible thing I did. You see, Miss McLaughlin, your brother is still alive. He’s a good boy. You’ll be proud of him.

There’s not much time. Please come soon.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Siobhan Flanagan

The room swayed and lurched crazily around Tara. She was cold and hot, both at once, and dizzy…so dizzy. She turned to Reece, trying to say something to him. She saw him reach for her. Then all was still.

•  •  •

A rat darted across their path and lost itself in some shadows further down the hallway. Tara instinctively stepped back, but after a moment she found herself moving forward again.

“Are you sure you feel well enough for this?” Reece asked. “We could always come back some other time.”

“It was just a dizzy spell,” she insisted, although the fainting episode was worrying her more than she cared to admit. Except for those early days when she’d first arrived in New York, she’d always been a strong, healthy girl. The sensation of weakness, however fleeting, was troubling.

They found the right door. Tara lifted a hand to knock on it, but Reece stepped in front of her.

“Tara, I just want you to prepare yourself. That letter sounded… Maybe someone is trying to trick you, get money from you. You’re a prominent person. It could be that the unfortunate woman really is dying and is desperate for someone to take in her son.”

“I’ll know if it’s Paddy,” whispered Tara, leaning against him so that his arms went around her. “I’ll know right away, Reece.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt if it turns out to be…not your brother.”

“I’ll look for the scar. On the back of his hand. He burned it with scalding water when he was all of three years old. I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

Tara lifted her hand, hesitated, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came the faint reply.

A rattling cough led them to a sagging cot in a dark corner of the room where Mrs. Flanagan lay under ragged blankets. She tried to focus her pale blue eyes on her visitors.

“You’ve come then. Good. The boy will be back soon. He’s out shinin’ shoes, tryin’ to make a few pennies.” The last few words were barely gotten out before a paroxysm of coughing seized her. It was a horrible, moist, grating sound that bubbled up from her lungs and shook her thin body in sharp spasms.

Lost for words, Tara surveyed the room. The windowsill and tabletop were covered with a black, powdery layer of ash from the coal-burning stove, though it was so cold in the room it felt as if the stove hadn’t been used for weeks. The aroma of cooked cabbage seeping in from the hallway made her nauseated.

She tried not to look at the gaping holes in the threadbare gray blanket covering Mrs. Flanagan, tried to hold onto the anger that had swept over her like a tidal wave when she’d read the letter. In spite of her resolve, Tara felt her heart softening a little. She’d come here prepared to hate Mrs. Flanagan. No amount of grief could excuse what she’d done. All those lost years… All the tears shed over a brother she’d believed to be at the bottom of the North Atlantic.

Poor Paddy. What sort of a life must he have led here, in this dismal hovel?

Looking around this sad, shabby tenement room, Tara was acutely conscious of her own good fortune since coming to America. She herself could easily have ended up in circumstances like these. Many immigrants did. Instead, she stood here like some grand lady, dressed in a smart tweed suit, her hands protected from the filth by kid gloves, her feet sporting new high-button shoes. When this was all over—however it ended—she’d climb back into a shiny motorcar and be whisked away to her wealthy mother-in-law’s mansion.

How could she hate this poor woman?

Mrs. Flanagan, a handkerchief clasped to her gray lips, was squinting at Reece. “And is this your husband, Miss McLaughlin?”

“It is.” Tara remembered her manners. “Mrs. Flanagan, me husband Reece. And I’m Tara Waldron now.”

Reece didn’t try to shake the woman’s hand. She couldn’t have raised it anyway. He nodded curtly, his eyes going quickly back to Tara, alert and wary.

“I remember that night so well,” Mrs. Flanagan wheezed. “Everyone screamin’ and runnin’. Of course, there was nowhere to run to.” Her eyes watered with tears as if the memory were a fresh one.

“Yes,” Tara murmured. “I’ll never forget it, however much I try.”

Mrs. Flanagan went on as if she had not heard. “And my son and husband not in a proper grave a’tall, but at the bottom of the sea. Food for the fishes. I’ve asked God many times why he bothered to save me.”

“How dare you!” Tara’s compassion deserted her. “How dare you seek my pity, after what you’ve done! You kept me own brother from me for six long years. Kidnapped him—and raised him in this hovel. The pigs on my farm back home lived better than this, you wretched woman!”

Mrs. Flanagan blinked and coughed. Her ashen face seemed to collapse in on itself.

“Too true, too true,” she moaned. “It’s been a dreadful life for him. He deserved better. I’ve not been a proper mother at all, and you’ve every right to hate me.”

Tara, her anger spent as quickly as it came, heaved a heavy sigh. “You’ve done a terrible thing, but I’ll leave the judging to God. It’s him you’ll have to answer to.”

A book on a shelf caught her eyes. She took it down and gazed at its cover, her vision blurring with tears. It was “The Fairy Bell.” The pages were water-stained and most of the printing was indecipherable, but as she flipped through it, the familiar words came back to her even if she could not read them.

“Look,” she said, holding up the book for Reece to see. “I used to read it to him every night at bedtime.”

The door swung suddenly open. A tall, gangly boy shuffled into the room, staring uncertainly at the visitors. When he removed his grimy cloth cap, Tara gasped in recognition. His thin, dirt-lined face bore a furtive, suspicious expression, but there was no mistaking the dark blue eyes and mop of chestnut hair so like her own.

“Not much business today,” he remarked to Mrs. Flanagan, showing her a handful of coins. He lowered his shoeshine kit to the floor and looked at Tara and Reece, waiting for an explanation.

“Son, I’ve somethin’ to tell ya,” Mrs. Flanagan gasped. “A long time ago, I… I did somethin’ awful. I can’t even understand it to this day. I told you your sister was dead on the Titanic.” Her voice thinned to a reedy whisper. “I wanted to keep you for myself, you see. I wanted you to replace Danny. You remember Danny, don’t you? Your pal on the ship.”

Paddy waited, puzzled, uncomprehending.

“I love you like my own son, lad. But the fact is, you were never mine to keep.”

Tara felt as if she should do something, but what? Run to him? Blurt out that she was his long lost sister? Instead, she did nothing. She could only stand there clinging to Reece’s arm for strength, staring at this stranger who happened to be her brother.

She’d come here expecting to find a winsome six year old boy. This boy was nearly thirteen, already embarked upon that awkward passage from child to man. His face was sullen, his posture poor. He slouched as if he was uncomfortable with his height—or maybe he was ashamed of the way his arms protruded from shirt sleeves that were much too short.

As he tried to make sense of what Mrs. Flanagan was saying, an expression heartbreakingly like her father’s flitted over his tough, confused face.

And on the back of the hand that reached forward to pull the blanket up over Mrs. Flanagan was a shiny, berry-colored patch of scarred skin.

Jarred from her daze, Tara caught a look from Reece and knew that he’d seen it, too.

Mrs. Flanagan went on. Tara found it a relief to let her do the explaining.

“Your sister wasn’t dead at all, Patrick. I lied to you. This is her. This fine lady here is your sister, Tara. She’s come to take you home to live with her.”

“No!” shouted Patrick. He made for the door, but Reece caught him by the arm and held him.

“You’re lying to me! I won’t go! You’re from Child Welfare and you’re just trying to take me away because she’s sick!” Paddy squirmed hard, trying to free himself, but Reece kept a firm grip on him. “I’m not going to an orphanage. I won’t, I tell ya!”

During his outburst, Tara noticed that the boy avoided looking directly at her.

“This is your sister,” Reece insisted.

“My sister is dead, you liar!” Paddy kicked Reece viciously in the shins. “Let go of me!”

Reece pinned Paddy’s arms back in something Tara could only imagine was a wrestling grip, while managing to stay out of the way of the boy’s wildly thrashing legs.

“What I’ve told you is the truth, son,” whispered Mrs. Flanagan. “Don’t make it any worse. It’s true, may God have mercy on my soul. This is your sister Tara.”

Paddy stopped struggling and glared balefully at Tara. “If she’s my sister, why didn’t she come and get me?” he demanded.

Tara was shaken by the anger in his voice. The joyous reunion of her fantasies evaporated completely.

“Padraig, I—”

“That’s not my name. My name’s Patrick. I’m an American!”

Reece pushed him firmly into a chair and stood over him.

“You’ll listen to
me
now. Your sister didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t know anything about this until today and as soon as she heard of it, she came for you. All this time she thought you were dead, thanks to this woman.” There was icy contempt on his voice when he referred to Mrs. Flanagan.

Paddy refused to look at him. “She didn’t come for me.”

“She didn’t know! At least you had someone. You had Mrs. Flanagan. Tara had no one.”

“I don’t want to go with her,” Patrick said resentfully. “I hate her. I’ll always hate her.”

The muscles in Reece’s jaw twitched, but he kept his voice low and calm. “I know this is a big surprise for you, Patrick. But it’s time to make things right. You belong with your sister.” He looked around the drab room. “And she can give you a much better life than this.”

“Who’re you, anyway? Why should I listen to you?”

“I’m your sister’s husband. My name is Reece.”

Padraig still wouldn’t look at her. Tara held up “The Fairy Bell.”

“Do you remember when we used to read this together, Paddy? You’ve kept it all this time, so it must mean somethin’ to you.”

At last he let his eyes—so like her own—meet hers He stared at her suspiciously, studying her face. Couldn’t he see the resemblance between them?

“I tried me best to keep us together that night. Don’t you remember? When I couldn’t find you in the water, I wanted to die meself. Somebody pulled me into a lifeboat, or I would have. There’s always been an empty place in me life where you should have been. I always felt something was missing… This was the reason the grieving wouldn’t ever end—because you were alive. Now we finally have the chance to…to…”

She couldn’t continue. She didn’t have to. Paddy—Patrick—rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her as he’d done when he was a little boy.

“Tara!” he cried. “It’s you. It is you.”

“Go,” whispered Mrs. Flanagan. “His things are in that sack by the door. Take him and go.”

Patrick, stricken, looked from Tara to Reece in desperation. “I can’t leave her. She’s sick. She needs me to take care of her.”

“I’ll send a doctor,” Tara promised. “And I’ll come back tomorrow myself, with blankets and food.” And some coal for the stove, she added to herself.

“No,” Mrs. Flanagan wheezed. “You’ll not come back here again.”

Patrick looked at Tara imploringly.

“Then we’ll bring you home with us, where you can be tended to properly,” Tara said.

Reece shook his head resolutely. “Tara, we can’t. It’s too dangerous. This may be the influenza, and Mary would be exposed. My mother as well.”

“He’s right, he is,” came the ragged whisper. “I thank you for your kindly intentions. God knows I’m not deservin’ of them. But I’m stayin’ right here, in me own home.” She closed her eyes. “Could you send a priest? It won’t be long now.”

They collected the burlap sack containing Patrick’s things and started for the door.

Tara hesitated and turned back. “I forgive you,” she said

Mrs. Flanagan didn’t open her eyes, but Tara saw a single tear slip slowly down her pale cheek.

•  •  •

Adrienne welcomed Patrick into the mansion, selecting a handsome bedroom for him. Since he’d had little schooling, a tutor was hired for him. He got new clothes, a haircut, a baseball glove he didn’t know how to use.

Patrick had only a vague memory of his cousin Sheila. To learn that Sheila was dead and that her child was being raised by his sister and her new husband was a great deal of information to take in all at once.

Tara wrote to her mother’s family to tell them the joyful news of Padraig’s existence, and vowed to take him, Mary and Reece with her on a trip to Ireland once things settled down. Where once she’d thought she’d never see her homeland again, now it was amazing to think she and Reece had the means to travel anywhere they wanted to go.

Patrick seemed lost in the grand mansion, and Tara could well imagine how strange a setting it must be to him. How must he feel, to be transported from his miserable tenement apartment to this splendor? He looked especially uncomfortable at mealtimes, when he was forced to spend time with his newfound family. He sat stiffly at the massive mahogany table, staring at the confusing array of silverware, cups and glasses in front of him. He said little, sneaking bites of food into his mouth as if he were stealing them.