Deborah and Sean (now known to be née Kelly) just left my apartment. I am utterly gobsmacked. Such a great British expression to express being left shocked, speechless, and with your mouth (and that would be your gob) hanging open. Yes, I digress for reasons which will quickly become apparent.
I have been sitting on the news about Sean, his father, and his change of surname that I learned at the Irish tea. Who would I tell anyway? The homeless guy I pass on my walks? Hey buddy...here's a few bucks for a meal and by the way, my daughter's boyfriend is the son of my first love.
Thanks lady.
I was tempted to call Julie. What are cousins for anyway? I resisted, though, giving myself time to process it all. I don't see Dr. Larry for another few days so need to work out in my head what it means that my Deborah has brought Gabriel Kelly's son into our lives. Worse news, if that's possible, is my newly-discovered knowledge that my cherished (in memory at least) Gabe abandoned his children.
I'm both appalled and worried about a man I haven't even seen in over thirty years. How does that work? Do we ever get over a first love?
There must be a good reason he took off leaving his children to fend for themselves. Grief can do strange things to people. Maybe the shock of his wife's death gave him amnesia and he forgot he had children. "Hmmm" as Dr. Larry might say. But I have to believe he had a good reason.
After tonight's surprise announcement, though (as if I needed any more surprises), I really need to speak to my cousin. I have to tell her about Deborah and Sean coming over tonight to share their big news:
They have become engaged to be married.
Apparently, as it was explained to me, Sean will be posted elsewhere shortly (and as nothing changes in that life, he'll know at the last possible minute). Wherever he goes, though, he wants Deborah to be with him.
"Can't you just live together?" I couldn't believe I actually asked that.
Understandably, Deborah looked at me like I had lost my mind. Well, I unquestionably had.
Marriage of my first born is exciting all on its own and I have made no secret with my daughter that I can't wait to see her settled. So it's no wonder she looked so askance at my less than delirious-with-joy reaction.
"Mom!" she had said, her hurt feelings barely disguised.
"Sweetheart, I am so pleased for both of you!" I jumped up quickly to hug her and then could see that her face had immediately lit up, setting my own alight with her joy and relief that I had not hurt her. "I was just joking about the living together part. You probably are already."
"How did you know?" the two of them asked at the same time.
"You mean you guys are living together?" I really was just joking about them being intimate roommates. Does anyone tell a mother anything?
Then that it hit me: I have to tell TBM we have a wedding to plan.
"Have you told your father yet?" I asked Deborah.
"You're the first person I've told, Mom!"
“Mrs. Schuster...I mean Joelly...I mean..." Sean stuttered.
"Mom?" I finished for him, laughing so he wouldn't feel uncomfortable. I was capably fulfilling the discomfort quotient for everyone in the room.
Jesus, how is Sean intending to handle this news with his father if they don't speak?
And how many distressing situations can one woman hold in her mind before it explodes to smithereens?
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Installment Thirty-Four
When Brian was still very young and his father would take off on yet another one of his endless business trips, he would rub his little stomach and inform me he was too sick to attend school. It got to be such a pattern--Martin would leave in a taxi for the airport, Brian would immediately 'come down with something'--that finally it was Brian who gave a name to what he needed.
"Is it time for a 'mental help day' honey?" I would ask my son.
He had once overhead the expression mental health day. Being a little guy, he created his own version of the phrase which truth be told, was closer to the heart of the matter.
Right now, a 'mental help' week, month, year, or just forever is what I desperately need.
Yesterday, as well as most of today, I spent staring at a wall. Even potato chips provided no comfort. Life is truly overwhelming when sodium can't calm me down. The wine didn't help either, especially when Julie could hear me washing it down over the phone.
"Are you drinking already Joelly? It's barely 11 o'clock. I'm worried about you cousin," she said when we spoke this morning.
"Water, Julie, it is water, I swear," I lied, like a true addict. I may not be addicted to booze--yet--but certainly to ennui.
I'm utterly exhausted from holding so many conflicting emotions in my heart. Happy for my daughter; distressed about her future father-in-law-to-be; happy about the young man she has chosen; apoplectic about planning a wedding with Deborah's old man.
And of course, the constant rejection for anything that might remotely revive, or even begin, a career in international development hasn't helped my own mental health.
Did I actually believe at one time in my life that I would set the world on fire? Save it? Help people? Must women of a certain age think they are not or have not lived up to their potential when really, it's all a crock of bullshit anyway?
But oh, to be young and hopeful again.
Deborah practically gives me the evil eye now when I bring up the subject of weddings. She has her own angst to deal with. Like any bride-to-be these days, she is already stressed about hurting people's feelings if this one isn't invited, that one isn't made a bridesmaid, indeed if there is no wedding at all because her father won't pay for one! (A thought I admit has crossed my mind too.)
She has not even told her father yet, but she texted her brother. Will Brian spill the beans? Deborah made him swear to an embargo on the news until together, she and I could figure out how to handle her father.
As an escape plan (for both mother and daughter), I have already none-too-diplomatically suggested to Sean and Deborah that elopements are in vogue again. But other than running off to Las Vegas and having an Elvis impersonator marry them, I'm not being helpful.
The longer I sit and just mope, the more unfair the situation will become for Deborah. This is supposed to be a happy time of her life.
So I finally roused myself, threw away the chips (and yes, the cheap box of white wine) and took a decision on what to do next.
I will call Edna.
When life gets to be too much, who better to help you than your ex-mother-in-law?
"Is it time for a 'mental help day' honey?" I would ask my son.
He had once overhead the expression mental health day. Being a little guy, he created his own version of the phrase which truth be told, was closer to the heart of the matter.
Right now, a 'mental help' week, month, year, or just forever is what I desperately need.
Yesterday, as well as most of today, I spent staring at a wall. Even potato chips provided no comfort. Life is truly overwhelming when sodium can't calm me down. The wine didn't help either, especially when Julie could hear me washing it down over the phone.
"Are you drinking already Joelly? It's barely 11 o'clock. I'm worried about you cousin," she said when we spoke this morning.
"Water, Julie, it is water, I swear," I lied, like a true addict. I may not be addicted to booze--yet--but certainly to ennui.
I'm utterly exhausted from holding so many conflicting emotions in my heart. Happy for my daughter; distressed about her future father-in-law-to-be; happy about the young man she has chosen; apoplectic about planning a wedding with Deborah's old man.
And of course, the constant rejection for anything that might remotely revive, or even begin, a career in international development hasn't helped my own mental health.
Did I actually believe at one time in my life that I would set the world on fire? Save it? Help people? Must women of a certain age think they are not or have not lived up to their potential when really, it's all a crock of bullshit anyway?
But oh, to be young and hopeful again.
Deborah practically gives me the evil eye now when I bring up the subject of weddings. She has her own angst to deal with. Like any bride-to-be these days, she is already stressed about hurting people's feelings if this one isn't invited, that one isn't made a bridesmaid, indeed if there is no wedding at all because her father won't pay for one! (A thought I admit has crossed my mind too.)
She has not even told her father yet, but she texted her brother. Will Brian spill the beans? Deborah made him swear to an embargo on the news until together, she and I could figure out how to handle her father.
As an escape plan (for both mother and daughter), I have already none-too-diplomatically suggested to Sean and Deborah that elopements are in vogue again. But other than running off to Las Vegas and having an Elvis impersonator marry them, I'm not being helpful.
The longer I sit and just mope, the more unfair the situation will become for Deborah. This is supposed to be a happy time of her life.
So I finally roused myself, threw away the chips (and yes, the cheap box of white wine) and took a decision on what to do next.
I will call Edna.
When life gets to be too much, who better to help you than your ex-mother-in-law?
Installment Thirty-Five
"As Deborah's only grandparent, I will assume all financial responsibility for a wedding," my ex-mother-in-law pronounced when I called. "It's that simple, darling, so stop fretting."
Edna was speaking to me on her smart phone, since she was out shopping and running errands.
Is this woman really in her 80s? She definitely puts this fifty-something, catatonic, almost mother-in-law-to-be to shame!
"Oh Edna, I wish it were just about money." Did I really say that?
But it was true. Money, a subject that has consumed me these many months of re-settling and trying to get on with the rest of my life, for once was not at the top of my mind. Juggling too many people in this unfolding drama was taking up every available synapse in my brain.
As comforting as Edna's voice had been for me, she did sign off with ominous words:
"You are going to have to speak to my son, Joelly, and the sooner the better." She was right, of course, but I absolutely loved the way even his own mother could barely spit out his name.
"And let me know every word he says. Call me when the deed is done."
Indeed.
I waited until a reasonable hour in Beijing to call Martin at his office. I figured he may not shout or scream as much if there was an audience nearby.
"Who is this guy?" were the first words out of his mouth when I told him the news. "And how long have you known about their relationship and not told me?" Of course, go on the offensive immediately, asshole. Some things never change.
I struggled to remain calm. "In answer to your second question, I haven't known very long. As for the first, Sean O'Sullivan is an Irish diplomat.”
I waited for the inevitable.
"This runs in the family, eh Joelly?”
Why is it that when we are in the throes of a new love affair--and certainly one that leads to a marriage--we feel this urge to spill our guts out about former relationships, only to have them thrown back at us thirty years later? No way could I tell TBM he has no idea of the real story he has yet to hear.
Or perhaps not, I thought suddenly, feeling the first inkling of optimism that a total nightmare may not await me.
Since Gabe left his kids in his grief, and since Sean changed his name, why hadn't I considered that he may stay underground, even for his son's wedding? It would fit the scenario of abandonment. I felt myself breathing almost normally for the first time since I received the 'good news'.
"Are you listening to me Joelly? Hello?"
"Sorry, Martin, what were you saying?"
"I was asking you how my mother fits into all of this. You mentioned you spoke to her--before me, I might add. You two were always thick as thieves."
"Thieves? That's a good one, Martin, coming from you."
Dead silence ensued, so I jumped in:
"Tell you what," my mind raced ahead. "I’m going to hang up now and ask Deborah to phone you directly. Be nice, okay? And after you speak to your daughter, well...we will figure something out.”
"Don’t hang up Joelly!"
Click.
Edna was speaking to me on her smart phone, since she was out shopping and running errands.
Is this woman really in her 80s? She definitely puts this fifty-something, catatonic, almost mother-in-law-to-be to shame!
"Oh Edna, I wish it were just about money." Did I really say that?
But it was true. Money, a subject that has consumed me these many months of re-settling and trying to get on with the rest of my life, for once was not at the top of my mind. Juggling too many people in this unfolding drama was taking up every available synapse in my brain.
As comforting as Edna's voice had been for me, she did sign off with ominous words:
"You are going to have to speak to my son, Joelly, and the sooner the better." She was right, of course, but I absolutely loved the way even his own mother could barely spit out his name.
"And let me know every word he says. Call me when the deed is done."
Indeed.
I waited until a reasonable hour in Beijing to call Martin at his office. I figured he may not shout or scream as much if there was an audience nearby.
"Who is this guy?" were the first words out of his mouth when I told him the news. "And how long have you known about their relationship and not told me?" Of course, go on the offensive immediately, asshole. Some things never change.
I struggled to remain calm. "In answer to your second question, I haven't known very long. As for the first, Sean O'Sullivan is an Irish diplomat.”
I waited for the inevitable.
"This runs in the family, eh Joelly?”
Why is it that when we are in the throes of a new love affair--and certainly one that leads to a marriage--we feel this urge to spill our guts out about former relationships, only to have them thrown back at us thirty years later? No way could I tell TBM he has no idea of the real story he has yet to hear.
Or perhaps not, I thought suddenly, feeling the first inkling of optimism that a total nightmare may not await me.
Since Gabe left his kids in his grief, and since Sean changed his name, why hadn't I considered that he may stay underground, even for his son's wedding? It would fit the scenario of abandonment. I felt myself breathing almost normally for the first time since I received the 'good news'.
"Are you listening to me Joelly? Hello?"
"Sorry, Martin, what were you saying?"
"I was asking you how my mother fits into all of this. You mentioned you spoke to her--before me, I might add. You two were always thick as thieves."
"Thieves? That's a good one, Martin, coming from you."
Dead silence ensued, so I jumped in:
"Tell you what," my mind raced ahead. "I’m going to hang up now and ask Deborah to phone you directly. Be nice, okay? And after you speak to your daughter, well...we will figure something out.”
"Don’t hang up Joelly!"
Click.
Installment Thirty-Six
In a grumpy, sleep-deprived, I-look-like-death state of mind, I arrived at Dr. Larry's office this morning. He took one look at me and for the first time since I began seeing him, I detected actual concern for me under that shrink-stone-face.
"Everything all right Joelly?" he asked me quietly.
No asshole. Do I look like everything's all right?
"I suppose there's a lot going on..." was about all I could muster.
"You look like you haven't been sleeping."
Ya think I like being this cranky and miserable? I hate being me right now.
"I have had a few bad nights."
Ha! Just a few? The last number of months have been nothing but bad nights. Why can't tossing and turning burn calories at least? If scientists can turn cow dung or whatever into fuel, why can't insomnia morph into something useful for weight loss instead of just shrouding the world in bleakness?
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I'm too tired. Couldn't I just take a nap?"
"Joelly, I'm here to help you. Something has obviously happened since we met last. It's your decision if you want to share what's on your mind with me."
Sigh.
"There's too much sharing going on as it is!"
I shouted that, in what I knew was misdirected anger and frustration. "Are you on Facebook?" I suddenly asked him.
"What's that got to do with how you feel? Did something happen on Facebook to upset you?"
"No. There's just too much sharing, that's all,” I said very belligerently.
I stopped looking at Facebook long before Alan Fucking Goldstein and Juliet met the other day. I'm not inviting any more stalkers or creepers into my life. I have enough going on. God knows who else would find me. One thing is for certain, I probably wouldn't find Gabe on Facebook. He could sure use a poke, though, but with a real, not virtual, steel rod preferably.
I could hear the office clock ticking. If I was paying for this, my truculent and childish behavior would be costing me a bomb.
"My daughter is engaged," I finally offered with a half smile.
"Isn’t that good news?"
"It’s wonderful for Deborah. I know I don't sound it, but I'm very pleased for her. It's just...complicated."
"Have you spoken to your ex-husband about it?"
"Oh yes."
I spotted the box of tissues every shrink keeps handy. Like a Pavlovian dog, on cue, I started to cry. No, that makes it sound like a tear escaped an eye and slowly rolled down my cheek when what really happened was I just opened my mouth and started sobbing like a crazed person.
Dr. Larry passed me the box. I carried on like a madwoman for a few more minutes before the thunderstorm--because that's what it felt like--moved on.
I blew my nose.
Then I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. Hysteria, it would seem, was at the back end of my stormy weather.
Throughout it all, Dr. Larry just watched me, his face in empathetic repose.
"Penny for your thoughts, doctor," I managed to say.
"What I think doesn't matter, Joelly. Why don't we start all over again?"
I wanted to say isn't our time up? but he was being kind.
"Everything all right now? Feel better?"
"No. Everything is completely and utterly fucked up."
Pass the tissue.
"Everything all right Joelly?" he asked me quietly.
No asshole. Do I look like everything's all right?
"I suppose there's a lot going on..." was about all I could muster.
"You look like you haven't been sleeping."
Ya think I like being this cranky and miserable? I hate being me right now.
"I have had a few bad nights."
Ha! Just a few? The last number of months have been nothing but bad nights. Why can't tossing and turning burn calories at least? If scientists can turn cow dung or whatever into fuel, why can't insomnia morph into something useful for weight loss instead of just shrouding the world in bleakness?
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I'm too tired. Couldn't I just take a nap?"
"Joelly, I'm here to help you. Something has obviously happened since we met last. It's your decision if you want to share what's on your mind with me."
Sigh.
"There's too much sharing going on as it is!"
I shouted that, in what I knew was misdirected anger and frustration. "Are you on Facebook?" I suddenly asked him.
"What's that got to do with how you feel? Did something happen on Facebook to upset you?"
"No. There's just too much sharing, that's all,” I said very belligerently.
I stopped looking at Facebook long before Alan Fucking Goldstein and Juliet met the other day. I'm not inviting any more stalkers or creepers into my life. I have enough going on. God knows who else would find me. One thing is for certain, I probably wouldn't find Gabe on Facebook. He could sure use a poke, though, but with a real, not virtual, steel rod preferably.
I could hear the office clock ticking. If I was paying for this, my truculent and childish behavior would be costing me a bomb.
"My daughter is engaged," I finally offered with a half smile.
"Isn’t that good news?"
"It’s wonderful for Deborah. I know I don't sound it, but I'm very pleased for her. It's just...complicated."
"Have you spoken to your ex-husband about it?"
"Oh yes."
I spotted the box of tissues every shrink keeps handy. Like a Pavlovian dog, on cue, I started to cry. No, that makes it sound like a tear escaped an eye and slowly rolled down my cheek when what really happened was I just opened my mouth and started sobbing like a crazed person.
Dr. Larry passed me the box. I carried on like a madwoman for a few more minutes before the thunderstorm--because that's what it felt like--moved on.
I blew my nose.
Then I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. Hysteria, it would seem, was at the back end of my stormy weather.
Throughout it all, Dr. Larry just watched me, his face in empathetic repose.
"Penny for your thoughts, doctor," I managed to say.
"What I think doesn't matter, Joelly. Why don't we start all over again?"
I wanted to say isn't our time up? but he was being kind.
"Everything all right now? Feel better?"
"No. Everything is completely and utterly fucked up."
Pass the tissue.
Installment Thirty-Seven
After my ridiculous emotional display in his office, Dr. Larry suggested that it may be a good idea to be completely forthright with Deborah and Sean before we proceed any further with wedding plans.
He's not named Dr. Wright without a good reason.
Excellent idea, except, he hasn't had the pleasure of meeting Deborah's father. There's also a very good reason he is called That Bastard Martin.
I was picking up the phone to call my daughter to arrange to meet the young couple, to come clean about Sean's father, when it rang even before I could dial.
"Why didn’t you tell me that you were once in love with an Irish diplomat, Mom?"
"Hello to you too sweetheart. And he was just a diplomatic kid, like me, at the time."
TBM, inflamed for God knows what reason since this is a happy matter, was angry nonetheless and had ranted at his daughter about the Irish.
"He was actually mad at me, Mom...for falling in love and getting engaged to be married. Why does he have to act so badly? He also said he hoped I wasn't expecting him to pay for a large wedding. As if I even want one. And just what does it matter that you went out with someone Irish when you were young? He seemed really hung up on Sean being Irish."
Oh dear. Where to start?
"First of all Deborah, you probably caught him by surprise with the news." Hell has frozen over. I'm defending the bastard. "I'm sure once he calmed down he told you he was happy for you, right?"
"Well, yes, he did."
Thank God for that! But I want to shoot him about the wedding. Obviously he's worried about money. I will have to tell him about Edna's generous offer.
"So, something else is obviously happening in his life, sweetheart. And it has nothing to do with you." That sounded diplomatic enough.
"Luckily, Brian was nearby and overheard our conversation at that end. He got on the phone too. Dad seemed calmer when he returned to the line. Why didn't you ever tell me about your Irish love? I think it's kind of cool, actually, considering me and Sean."
What to do?
"Mothers have lots of secrets, Deborah. You'll learn that one day when you have children of your own."
But speaking of secrets...
"Sean was very sweet about it," she interrupted me as I almost began to share mine. "He has no one to call to share his news with except for his kid sister."
"Deborah, we need to talk..."
"...I know. How are we going to handle Dad and a wedding? Will you be all right?"
My lovely daughter. This should be the happiest time in her life and her parents are screwing this up for her on so many levels.
"Deborah, do you think there's a chance that Sean might decide not to contact his father given their history?"
“Actually, he sees this as an opportunity for a rapprochement. He says that falling in love with me has given him some new insight and understanding of his father's grief. Isn't that sweet? He may even forgive him."
God forgive me, then.
"I need to tell you something, honey."
He's not named Dr. Wright without a good reason.
Excellent idea, except, he hasn't had the pleasure of meeting Deborah's father. There's also a very good reason he is called That Bastard Martin.
I was picking up the phone to call my daughter to arrange to meet the young couple, to come clean about Sean's father, when it rang even before I could dial.
"Why didn’t you tell me that you were once in love with an Irish diplomat, Mom?"
"Hello to you too sweetheart. And he was just a diplomatic kid, like me, at the time."
TBM, inflamed for God knows what reason since this is a happy matter, was angry nonetheless and had ranted at his daughter about the Irish.
"He was actually mad at me, Mom...for falling in love and getting engaged to be married. Why does he have to act so badly? He also said he hoped I wasn't expecting him to pay for a large wedding. As if I even want one. And just what does it matter that you went out with someone Irish when you were young? He seemed really hung up on Sean being Irish."
Oh dear. Where to start?
"First of all Deborah, you probably caught him by surprise with the news." Hell has frozen over. I'm defending the bastard. "I'm sure once he calmed down he told you he was happy for you, right?"
"Well, yes, he did."
Thank God for that! But I want to shoot him about the wedding. Obviously he's worried about money. I will have to tell him about Edna's generous offer.
"So, something else is obviously happening in his life, sweetheart. And it has nothing to do with you." That sounded diplomatic enough.
"Luckily, Brian was nearby and overheard our conversation at that end. He got on the phone too. Dad seemed calmer when he returned to the line. Why didn't you ever tell me about your Irish love? I think it's kind of cool, actually, considering me and Sean."
What to do?
"Mothers have lots of secrets, Deborah. You'll learn that one day when you have children of your own."
But speaking of secrets...
"Sean was very sweet about it," she interrupted me as I almost began to share mine. "He has no one to call to share his news with except for his kid sister."
"Deborah, we need to talk..."
"...I know. How are we going to handle Dad and a wedding? Will you be all right?"
My lovely daughter. This should be the happiest time in her life and her parents are screwing this up for her on so many levels.
"Deborah, do you think there's a chance that Sean might decide not to contact his father given their history?"
“Actually, he sees this as an opportunity for a rapprochement. He says that falling in love with me has given him some new insight and understanding of his father's grief. Isn't that sweet? He may even forgive him."
God forgive me, then.
"I need to tell you something, honey."
Installment Thirty-Eight
It's a contest who was more shocked by the conversation I had earlier today with both my daughter and my future son-in-law.
The situation is complicated enough for Deborah thanks to her father and mother getting divorced. But now, neither my daughter nor the love of her young life can get their heads around the fact that I know Sean's father. At least I knew him.
"You didn't just know him, Mom," Deborah had rightly pointed out when I tried to explain. "You were in love with him!"
"Sweetheart, it was just puppy love. I was all of 13. But he was my first 'boyfriend', the first boy to kiss me, so of course he holds a special place in my heart." I would never tell her that for years, after I had re-met him again as a young adult, I compared every man I dated to this childhood crush.
Sean confessed that he felt 'outed' as a Kelly, an infamous name in his foreign ministry.
"Have you told anyone my real name?” he had asked me almost immediately. Luckily, from the look of relief on his face, I was able to confirm that I had told no one. (Except of course, everybody knew. I mean, if those old farts I overheard at the Irish tea knew, it was probably common knowledge.)
"Not even your father knows, Deborah."
"Is Sean's father--and your feelings for him--the reason Dad over-reacted?"
"Maybe. But it was so very long ago and your father never even knew him." I looked at both of them when I hammered home this point.
"Did you love my father?"
"Did you ever love mine?"
"Yes and yes to both of your questions."
It was definitely time for a drink. I wonder if the garbage has gone out. I could retrieve the wine box I chucked. I didn't realize I was talking out loud.
"Since when did you start drinking wine out of boxes Mom?"
The comic relief we all felt at that moment was therapeutic and allowed me to ask what was on everyone’s mind.
"So the question now is: how do we proceed?"
The young couple had been sitting throughout this emotional ordeal on a battered old love seat I had dragged in from the street. Someone had left it out with their garbage!
They looked so cute together. They were being incredibly mature, and certainly more adult than Deborah's father.
I had loved Martin. I wasn’t lying to Deborah. But that love was sorely tested by his infidelities (this last one in Beijing being the final straw) and it had ultimately disappeared long before my money did. His embezzlement only made it worse.
And can anything compare to a lost love, especially one that went unrequited?
"Sean," I finally said. "Deborah's grandmother in Montreal has told me to go ahead and arrange any plans that you two kids want. Your wedding is her gift to you both."
Deborah's eyes started to well up. I hadn't told her this news yet. I hadn't told her father yet either. Oh dear.
"Sean, whether your father is involved in any way is entirely up to you. I will handle Deborah's father."
"Mrs. Schuster...Joelly..."
"...it doesn't matter what you call me Sean. Joelly works for me.”
"I honestly don't know what to do about my father."
Gabe! You have such a lovely son. How could you have deserted him? And will I ever know the truth?
The situation is complicated enough for Deborah thanks to her father and mother getting divorced. But now, neither my daughter nor the love of her young life can get their heads around the fact that I know Sean's father. At least I knew him.
"You didn't just know him, Mom," Deborah had rightly pointed out when I tried to explain. "You were in love with him!"
"Sweetheart, it was just puppy love. I was all of 13. But he was my first 'boyfriend', the first boy to kiss me, so of course he holds a special place in my heart." I would never tell her that for years, after I had re-met him again as a young adult, I compared every man I dated to this childhood crush.
Sean confessed that he felt 'outed' as a Kelly, an infamous name in his foreign ministry.
"Have you told anyone my real name?” he had asked me almost immediately. Luckily, from the look of relief on his face, I was able to confirm that I had told no one. (Except of course, everybody knew. I mean, if those old farts I overheard at the Irish tea knew, it was probably common knowledge.)
"Not even your father knows, Deborah."
"Is Sean's father--and your feelings for him--the reason Dad over-reacted?"
"Maybe. But it was so very long ago and your father never even knew him." I looked at both of them when I hammered home this point.
"Did you love my father?"
"Did you ever love mine?"
"Yes and yes to both of your questions."
It was definitely time for a drink. I wonder if the garbage has gone out. I could retrieve the wine box I chucked. I didn't realize I was talking out loud.
"Since when did you start drinking wine out of boxes Mom?"
The comic relief we all felt at that moment was therapeutic and allowed me to ask what was on everyone’s mind.
"So the question now is: how do we proceed?"
The young couple had been sitting throughout this emotional ordeal on a battered old love seat I had dragged in from the street. Someone had left it out with their garbage!
They looked so cute together. They were being incredibly mature, and certainly more adult than Deborah's father.
I had loved Martin. I wasn’t lying to Deborah. But that love was sorely tested by his infidelities (this last one in Beijing being the final straw) and it had ultimately disappeared long before my money did. His embezzlement only made it worse.
And can anything compare to a lost love, especially one that went unrequited?
"Sean," I finally said. "Deborah's grandmother in Montreal has told me to go ahead and arrange any plans that you two kids want. Your wedding is her gift to you both."
Deborah's eyes started to well up. I hadn't told her this news yet. I hadn't told her father yet either. Oh dear.
"Sean, whether your father is involved in any way is entirely up to you. I will handle Deborah's father."
"Mrs. Schuster...Joelly..."
"...it doesn't matter what you call me Sean. Joelly works for me.”
"I honestly don't know what to do about my father."
Gabe! You have such a lovely son. How could you have deserted him? And will I ever know the truth?
Installment Thirty-Nine
The happy young couple left me, their heads spinning with plans. I told them simply that I would await further instructions. It is their wedding after all.
Before chucking the almost-empty wine box, I had poured its cardboard remains into my glass. Staring out my window at the brick wall of the apartment building next door felt positively metaphorical.
The only question in my mind was whether to go outside and bash my head against it or figure out a way to break through it. The wall might have been covered with my own graffiti.
WTF GABRIEL KELLY?
I simply couldn't rationalize what he had done to his family. Of course his wife's death had been tragic. Anger would have been a natural response. But to run away from his own children? What on earth could have happened to warrant such a drastic decision?
An old friend from my 'diplomatic daughter' days had sent me a newspaper clipping from an Irish newspaper about his wedding. It's probably in one of the unopened boxes still littering my apartment.
I remember how I had studied the picture of Gabe's bride (I can now see her in Sean) and the way the photographer had placed their hands, wrapped together, around her bouquet. I had been terribly jealous.
At the time of his marriage I had not met Martin yet. In fact, I was having a rough time navigating the dating world.
No one I met in Canada had traveled and moved around as I had done. Marrying, even dating, someone who had stayed in one place all his life would practically constituted a mixed marriage for someone like me.
Of course Martin had not been mobile as a child. He more than made up for that, though, with his career choice in the oil industry. He became a serial expat after that.
The Gabe Kelly who ran out on his children was not the Gabe in that wedding photo and certainly not the one I grew up with in Argentina. Something devastating must have happened to lead him to make such a terrible mistake. I simply had to believe that.
As Deborah had mentioned Sean was considering reconciling with his father, I had quietly asked her as she was leaving if Sean had any idea where he might be living. I assumed the answer would be that he was in Ireland somewhere.
It turns out, though, that Gabe may have been 'hiding out' the past decade (if you want to call working in community development hiding), in Ethiopia of all places. It seems Ireland has a lot of aid projects there.
Remembering the last time I saw Gabe, in an airport of course, when he teased me for being out to save the world by working in international development instead of the more lofty (and snobby in my view) field of international relations, I found this news ironic.
But Ethiopia? I couldn't possibly make this stuff up.
I decided then and there that I would find him before Sean did. Exactly how I would accomplish this I would leave to the gods and Google.
Before chucking the almost-empty wine box, I had poured its cardboard remains into my glass. Staring out my window at the brick wall of the apartment building next door felt positively metaphorical.
The only question in my mind was whether to go outside and bash my head against it or figure out a way to break through it. The wall might have been covered with my own graffiti.
WTF GABRIEL KELLY?
I simply couldn't rationalize what he had done to his family. Of course his wife's death had been tragic. Anger would have been a natural response. But to run away from his own children? What on earth could have happened to warrant such a drastic decision?
An old friend from my 'diplomatic daughter' days had sent me a newspaper clipping from an Irish newspaper about his wedding. It's probably in one of the unopened boxes still littering my apartment.
I remember how I had studied the picture of Gabe's bride (I can now see her in Sean) and the way the photographer had placed their hands, wrapped together, around her bouquet. I had been terribly jealous.
At the time of his marriage I had not met Martin yet. In fact, I was having a rough time navigating the dating world.
No one I met in Canada had traveled and moved around as I had done. Marrying, even dating, someone who had stayed in one place all his life would practically constituted a mixed marriage for someone like me.
Of course Martin had not been mobile as a child. He more than made up for that, though, with his career choice in the oil industry. He became a serial expat after that.
The Gabe Kelly who ran out on his children was not the Gabe in that wedding photo and certainly not the one I grew up with in Argentina. Something devastating must have happened to lead him to make such a terrible mistake. I simply had to believe that.
As Deborah had mentioned Sean was considering reconciling with his father, I had quietly asked her as she was leaving if Sean had any idea where he might be living. I assumed the answer would be that he was in Ireland somewhere.
It turns out, though, that Gabe may have been 'hiding out' the past decade (if you want to call working in community development hiding), in Ethiopia of all places. It seems Ireland has a lot of aid projects there.
Remembering the last time I saw Gabe, in an airport of course, when he teased me for being out to save the world by working in international development instead of the more lofty (and snobby in my view) field of international relations, I found this news ironic.
But Ethiopia? I couldn't possibly make this stuff up.
I decided then and there that I would find him before Sean did. Exactly how I would accomplish this I would leave to the gods and Google.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)