Chapter 15

May 2019, Boston

Kaitlin

‘Brian and Riley are in Washington for the weekend,’ said Susan, voice varnished with pride. ‘They’re looking at apartments. Otherwise, they’d be here.’ She picked up a serving bowl. ‘You’re too pale. You ought to eat more vegetables.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Kaitlin, accepting the dish. ‘That’s nice. About Brian and Riley, I mean.’

‘Well, I think it’s very exciting,’ said her mother, her tone implying that Kaitlin hadn’t shown sufficient enthusiasm. She insisted on providing regular updates on Brian’s new job, whether they were wanted or not.

Kaitlin’s tame response was at odds with the turmoil in her stomach. She felt like she was at the top of a rollercoaster, seconds away from the swooping descent. She reminded herself that being nervous was stupid. Attempting to trace your ancestors was normal. Hundreds of thousands of people were out there right now, wading through names and putting saliva samples in the post.

Telling her parents would be different if she’d made more progress. If she could surprise them with a ta-dah moment. A revelation. That was what she’d hoped for. Instead, all she had to offer was a lengthening list of humdrum relatives who’d lived and died within a ten-mile radius of their birthplace.

It was Clay who’d insisted that she talk to them. ‘Your father might be able to help,’ he’d argued. Anxious to prove that she wasn’t as secretive as he’d claimed, she’d given in. At least he’d reconciled himself to her search. He could see why she might find it therapeutic, he said.

In the two weeks since her conversation with Orla and Drew, she’d located the older couple from the Revere Beach photo. Like Drew had said, they were her paternal great-great-grandparents, Ray and Bertha McDonagh. Unfortunately, the 1940 census had told her little she hadn’t already known. To find out more, she’d signed up to several genealogy websites. When she’d run ‘Raymond McDonagh, South Boston’ through the first, it had promised – or should that be threatened? – hundreds of matches. Thankfully, the real figure was closer to thirty. She’d whittled them down until she’d isolated the right Ray. Then, slowly, methodically, she’d spooled back through the decades. 1930, 1920, 1910: every census had captured Ray, Bertha and family. They’d had seven children, and it occurred to Kaitlin that Boston must be dotted with cousins she’d never met.

The previous evening, courtesy of the 1900 census, she’d had a breakthrough of sorts. Ray had been twenty years old then and living at home. Bertha had been seventeen and living less than a mile away. Kaitlin now had the names of their parents, her third-great-grandparents: Patrick and Finola McDonagh, Edmund and Edith Lankford.

To dig deeper, she’d have needed to pull an all-nighter, but with Sunday lunch looming at her parents’ place, she’d decided against. At the best of times, a meal with her mother required all her energy. The records would have to wait.

Although simple, the meal was wonderful. Herbed roast chicken, mashed potato, roast root vegetables, crisp green beans: her mother always went the extra mile for Clay. The house was pristine, the smell of lemon Pledge lingering in the air, the vacuum cleaner’s lines visible on the carpet. She’d also taken care with her appearance. Her blonde hair was blown out, her make-up buffed and blended. (Orla had once described her mother’s look as ‘senior news anchor with dermatologist on speed dial’, prompting laughter and feelings of disloyalty from Kaitlin.)

Lunch with her parents didn’t unnerve Clay in the same way as larger family gatherings. All the same, she couldn’t avoid the sense that he viewed spending time with them as an obligation rather than a pleasure. To be fair, she had a similar attitude towards his parents. While she couldn’t claim that Landon and Hilary Abbott had ever been anything but polite, she suspected she wasn’t quite what they’d expected. Something about Landon in particular made her feel more like a recipient of his benevolence than a member of the family. No matter her expensive education and successful career, she was, and always would be, the daughter of an Irish builder. Her people had carried hods rather than bank files. The Irish might have gained political power, but they weren’t on the boards of galleries or tasteful charities. They were sentimental and brash and overly obsessed with the slights of the past.

For twenty minutes, Kaitlin swung between telling her parents and remaining quiet. Why was it that small issues were harder to raise than significant ones? In the end, as she’d feared he would, Clay forced her hand.

‘Has Kaitlin told you about her search for long-lost Wilsons and McDonaghs?’ he said.

‘Sorry?’ replied her mother.

Her father put down his knife. ‘Tell us more.’

And so she did. She managed to outline the steps she’d taken while gliding over the reasons why. She talked about the satisfaction the task gave her. And she mentioned the importance of heritage – because who could argue with heritage? As she spoke, her confidence returned. Clay squeezed her knee. He had been right. This was the ideal place to discuss her project.

Her mom made the occasional noncommittal noise. Her dad asked a question or two. Otherwise, they said little. It was only when Kaitlin mentioned the help she’d received from Drew and Orla that her mother’s expression changed.

‘Orla certainly knows plenty about landing in America without papers or permission,’ she said.

No one replied.

Eventually her dad lifted his glass. ‘Well, I think it sounds interesting. I’d love to know where we all came from. Have you ever tried to trace your ancestors, Clay?’

Kaitlin waited for one of them to raise Brian’s new job. No one did. Neither, she noticed, did her father offer any information about the family.

The phone calls came the next morning. Kaitlin ignored the first two, then muted her phone. The screen continued to light up. By call five, she gave in.

‘Hi, Mom. Is anything wrong?’

‘No, not really. I want a quick word. That’s all.’

‘I’m afraid I’m kind of busy. Can I call you back later? I’ll look forward to a chat then.’

This was a lie twice over. Rather than working on a document for an energy analytics company, something that bored her into a stupor, she was browsing a genealogy forum. (The message boards had become her secret addiction, her version of dating apps or real-estate sites or TMZ.) And the last thing she wanted was a chat, especially when she knew what it was likely to be about.

‘Now, Kaitlin, I’m sure you can afford to down tools for five minutes.’

Okay, she said to herself. Just get it over with. ‘All right, but you’ll have to bear with me for a minute or two.’

She rooted around for the shoes she’d kicked off an hour before. Then she looped her purse over her shoulder and walked out to the corridor. She didn’t need eavesdroppers.

‘I’m all yours, Mom. Shoot.’

‘I wanted to ask about this family search idea you sprang on us yesterday. I was reluctant to say anything in front of Clay, but are you sure it’s wise?’

Stay calm. You’ve got this. ‘Um, is there a reason why it wouldn’t be?’

‘Wee-ll, a lot of those stories can be very dark. I’m not sure you’re in a good place for them right now.’

Kaitlin hesitated before replying. The corridor smelt of cleaning fluid. She rubbed her free hand over her forehead and down the side of her face.

‘I promise I’m fine. Both Clay and Orla think it’s a good project for me. It’s a challenge and it stops me thinking about myself, you know?’

‘Whatever about Clay, I wouldn’t pay a lot of attention to Orla. Her own story is hardly one to be proud of.’

Kaitlin gripped the phone more tightly. She hated arguing with her mother. That Susan wasn’t always logical didn’t make her any less formidable. In fact, it was her ability to weave off topic that made her such an awkward opponent. She had a knack of lobbing in the sort of statements that were guaranteed to rile her daughter: ‘You can’t say anything these days without someone finding offence,’ or ‘Women would be happier if they accepted that sometimes men deserve to earn more.’

Over the years, Kaitlin had taught herself to think before giving a snippy response. Her mom had grown up clipping coupons and sharing a bed with her sister. Susan’s own mother had worked a succession of low-paid jobs. Her father had been drunk as often as sober. By comparison, Kaitlin’s early years had been a stroll down Easy Street. Still, this was the second time in as many days that her mom had thrown a grenade at Orla, and her claims had to be challenged.

‘She’s been in America for more than thirty years. I don’t think you’re being fair.’

‘Tuh. To listen to her, you’d swear she was forced into exile at gunpoint. I hope you don’t buy any of her nonsense. She left a country that was perfectly capable of supporting her. She preferred life here, that’s all.’

Kaitlin had the impression that there was a subtext to her mother’s words. Maybe she’d fallen out with Orla. Again. ‘You’re talking about the 1980s. At the time—’

‘You don’t have to tell me about the eighties. I was there. Besides, I didn’t call you to talk about Orla. It’s Brian we need to talk about. Have you considered him at all?’

‘In what way?’

‘You know the importance of this job with the IRAA, but you seem determined to set off on a crusade about immigrants.’

‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ said Kaitlin. ‘I’m curious, that’s all.’

A sigh fluttered down the line. Her mother had an extensive range of sighs, an entire repertoire of them. ‘You’re my daughter. I know you better than I know myself. You don’t approve of his choice, and you want to make things uncomfortable for him.’

‘And suppose that was my aim, what would be wrong with it?’

‘He doesn’t interfere with your decisions.’

‘He doesn’t have to. I’m not a hypocrite.’ She was aware that this sounded pompous, but it was how she felt.

‘We’re all hypocrites to one extent or another. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate that.’ Her mother paused. ‘I’m only saying this because I love you, and because I realise that, right now, you’re probably asking yourself a lot of big questions. If you want my advice, you ought to focus on Clay . . . and allow your brother to do what he thinks is best. Your life would be a whole lot easier if you could just be happy for him.’

Big questions. That was new. Over the past three months, she’d grown accustomed to euphemisms. To slippery-slidy language. To diffident enquiries and well-rehearsed platitudes. She knew people meant well and that their sympathy was genuine. Yet somehow she found expressions of pity more corrosive than offhand or tactless remarks.

Of course she’d heard those too. The previous week, a colleague with childcare issues had put down her phone and said, ‘Kaitlin, never have children.’ Immediately her hand had gone to her face. ‘Oh, hell,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘It’s cool,’ Kaitlin had replied, for what else could she say?

She told herself that by now she should be getting over the miscarriage. Some women lost five, six, seven babies. And, while it wouldn’t be accurate to say that they carried on and never looked back, they coped.

Losing one baby wasn’t unusual. Having a miscarriage at nineteen weeks was. By nineteen weeks, Kaitlin had been noticeably pregnant. She’d been making assumptions and plans. Miscarriages were something that happened early on when the foetus was little more than a cluster of cells. At nineteen weeks, her daughter had been as long as her hand. She’d had a button nose and tiny arms and legs. All her fingers and toes had been in place. She’d been a perfect person.

But if the baby had been flawless, the fault must lie with Kaitlin. That was why every day she asked herself, What did I do wrong?

Logically, she knew the answer was ‘Nothing.’ Logic didn’t matter. She would think she had recovered, that everything was fine, and then the questions would find their way in. She would look at women pushing strollers and wonder how they’d brought another life into the world when she had failed. Teenagers carried babies to full term, as did women in their forties. Women with cancer. Women with drug habits. They all succeeded. She was the right age and in good health. She had every advantage and privilege. Yet her body had rejected her baby.

Her unhappiness was compounded by the sense that she’d also let her family down. She didn’t voice these thoughts, not even to Clay. He would tell her she was being absurd and urge her to get help.

Although her pregnancy hadn’t been planned, she’d quickly come around to the idea. So had Clay. Within a couple of days, his initial shock had been replaced by enthusiasm. They told each other that their lives would change and that a baby would swallow every minute of every day. They decided they were ready for change. For the time being, they would stay in the apartment, but they’d start looking for somewhere new. They’d buy a family home in a neighbourhood with good schools.

Until that point, Kaitlin had retained doubts about their relationship. In many ways, it was what she wanted. (Or what she believed she wanted. Was anyone ever fully sure?) Certainly, it was the sort of relationship that someone in their late twenties should have. They were an adult couple with adult responsibilities. What concerned her was the way she could fall in and out of love. Sometimes she would think Clay was everything she needed. At others she would find herself asking, Is this it? Is this enough? His reaction to her pregnancy had helped to push those doubts aside.

Her parents, too, were happy. Okay, they would have preferred a wedding first, but they were thrilled about becoming grandparents. Her mother saw the announcement as an opportunity to put her homemaking skills to full use. The baby would have set a world record for ownership of delicate knitted goods.

Kaitlin worried about work. She was supposed to be on the conveyor-belt to better things. It wasn’t the right time for a baby. Her boss, a fifty-something partner called Barrett Weston, was too experienced to let his annoyance show. In the rarefied atmosphere of Frobisher Hunter, people used language carefully. The woman in the HR department was even smoother. She told Kaitlin about the resources at her disposal but was careful not to display any actual humanity.

When the first pink dots appeared on her underwear, Kaitlin didn’t panic. She didn’t want to be one of those women, the ones who treated even the slightest twinge as an excuse to stay in bed and self-obsess. Throughout the day, the pain became more insistent, gnawing at her until it dawned on her that panicking was appropriate.

She remembered walking into the hospital, the February air so cold that she struggled to breathe, her pain at Emergency Room levels. After that, her memories were less distinct. Clay arrived. They hugged and pretended that everything would be all right when they knew it wouldn’t. The following hours were so physically gruelling that thinking was impossible. She was vaguely aware of doctors’ instructions and whispered conferrals. For the first time in her life, everything was out of her control.

Later, they learnt that the baby had been a girl. They were asked if they’d like to see her. Kaitlin had expected this to be the hardest part. She’d been wrong. The hardest part was watching Clay struggle. She had failed him too. She wept then for her empty womb and their dead daughter. They decided to give her a name. She was Stella, their star.

Three months on, Kaitlin was trudging through life. She liked to think she was skilled at hiding her grief. There was no point in upsetting people or making them uncomfortable. This was especially true at work. Even when focusing was difficult, especially when it was difficult, she put in the hours and tried to deliver what was expected. Everything took twice the effort. For all their stated commitments to equality and employee welfare, there was no scope for slackers at Frobisher Hunter.

She also did her best to avoid magazines and their obsession with motherhood. The headlines – ‘My Mom Guilt’, ‘My Miracle Child’, ‘The Greatest Love of All’ – brought a tightness to her chest. On the rare occasions when she did feel like talking about her lost baby, she couldn’t find the right words. She couldn’t stand anyone telling her she was young and that there would be other children.

Until the day Stella died, Kaitlin hadn’t appreciated real sadness. How heavy it was. How suffocating. It was a bag of rocks on her back and a coating of lead on her feet. Mourning, she discovered, wasn’t simply what you did at a wake or a graveside. It stayed with you. It was what you did every day.

Two days after her mother’s call, Kaitlin received a message from Orla: Hope all’s well. Your mother says we shouldn’t encourage you. Was she very pissed off when you told her? Thinking of you

She tapped out a reply: Not quite sure why she’s so agitated. Has she been bothering you? All you did was show an interest in what I’m doing

In a nanosecond, her phone pinged again: Should have warned you this would make your folks uncomfortable. Thought you knew that. It’s a sensitive subject.

Increasingly confused, Kaitlin replied: Oh??

She waited, but there was no response.

Later that evening, the unfinished conversation ran around her head. While she wanted to think of the messages as straightforward statements of solidarity, she sensed that Orla had been looking for information. She’d been trying to find out what Susan had said about her.

Kaitlin decided to rekindle the exchange: Is everything ok? Thought I’d hear from you.

It was the next morning before the answer came: OK-ish. Drew and I had a talk. There’s something we want to talk to you about. Would it be possible to meet up this evening? Please say yes.