July 2019, Boston
Kaitlin
Before Kaitlin could explain the reason for her call to Gina Queally, there were traditions to be observed. First, Gina revisited the times they’d met in the past. Next came the obligatory enquiries about Kaitlin’s parents and other members of the Wilson inner circle. Finally, they talked about the relationships and careers of various cousins. Only when these formalities were complete were they able to speak about Alice and Martin McDonagh.
Gina ummed and aahed while she listened, throwing in the occasional remark about the people who’d gone before them. Then, with the mental dexterity of a math professor, she announced that they were both descended from Ray McDonagh, Alice and Martin’s grandson, which made them third cousins once removed.
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Kaitlin, whose brain was several steps behind. ‘I wondered if you might know more about the original McDonaghs, like how they became a couple or whether they had any contact with their families back in Ireland.’
Gina gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Oh, sweetheart, just wait until you hear about our girl Alice.’
The way she said Alice’s name stoked Kaitlin’s curiosity. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You do know she wasn’t actually called Alice?’
‘Um, no. According to every document I’ve found, she was Alice Ann King who later became Alice Ann McDonagh. Who else was she?’
Her third cousin (once removed) gave another chuckle. ‘You’ll have to come and see me. I need to show you a few things. Well, letters mainly. They were handed down through another member of the family who died last year. Do you remember Nancy O’Hagan? No? Anyway, I figure they ended up with me because no one else wanted them. Let me tell you, they have no idea what they’re missing.’
Gina said that she and her husband lived in an old South Boston three-decker. ‘I’m sure plenty of folks are happier out in the suburbs,’ she said, ‘and good luck to them. But this is where I belong.’
Kaitlin suspected the remark was aimed at her mother but decided not to probe further.
Afterwards, she called Orla, whose excitement radiated down the line.
‘That’s brilliant,’ she said, followed quickly by ‘Can I come with you?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Kaitlin. ‘Gina sounded quite evangelical about whatever it is she inherited.’
Having promised to keep Jessie informed of her progress, she sent an email. The reply was disappointing, its four perfunctory lines containing three misspellings. Either Jessie had lost interest, or she was distracted. Kaitlin remained embarrassed by the email she’d sent on Friday. Never before had she been so candid with a relative stranger.
On Monday morning, she was forced to return to the boss’s office. This time, Barrett Weston was less conciliatory, more abrasive. Did she realise the disrespect she’d shown to a valuable client? Did she appreciate the gravity of the situation? Did she understand that a reputation for unreliability could stick to a lawyer like tar? He spoke to her in the sort of clipped tones that she feared he usually reserved for slovenly wait staff.
For a minute, she was tempted to level with him. Look, she felt like saying, I went drinking with my brother, and we tried to solve the world’s problems. Or, at least, we tried to solve the ones relevant to us. Haven’t you ever needed to do that? Her sensible side prevailed, and she apologised before promising that it wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t imagine anyone in Barrett’s family bothering him with their problems. No doubt all emotional messiness was tidied away before he climbed into his BMW and drove home to his six-bedroom house in Wellesley.
‘The company offered professional help,’ he said, ‘and you chose to decline. We’re going to try a more proactive approach to your, ahm, difficulties.’
He referred her to the human-resources woman, who supplied the names and numbers of several psychiatrists covered by the firm’s insurance plan. She also instructed Kaitlin to take a week’s leave to ‘refocus your energies’. The leave was with immediate effect. This gave her no choice but to call Clay and tell him.
‘You keep assuring everyone you’re fine,’ he said, ‘but that’s not how you’re behaving.’
She sighed. ‘Everything’s gone a bit . . . askew. I’ll do what they ask, though.’
‘Kaitlin, I don’t think you have a choice. Frobisher’s gave you the names and numbers for a reason. Everyone has sympathy for you, but you’ve got to help yourself.’
‘I understand.’
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about this, but I’m up to my eyes here. We’ll have to discuss it all later.’
She reminded him that she was going to see Gina that evening.
‘Is that a smart idea right now?’ he asked.
When she pointed out that he’d supported her family search, he said he’d made a mistake. ‘I thought it would help you,’ he added, ‘but I was wrong.’
‘We’re not really talking about my family tree here, are we?’ she said. ‘We’re still talking about work.’
‘Yeah, we are. You’ve put so much effort into getting where you are, and now it’s like you want to throw it all away. It’s like your ambition has disappeared. And I can’t see why. I mean, I used to think that Stella’s death was the cause of your difficulties. But I don’t know any more. This isn’t just about Stella. Is it?’
No, she wanted to say. It’s not just about Stella. It’s about my whole life. And you’re wrong. My ambition hasn’t disappeared. It’s shifted. That’s all.
She didn’t say this. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t face another session of loaded questions and pointed observations. Not for the first time, she wondered if her job was Clay’s favourite thing about her.
Before hanging up, she promised to call a therapist. She intended to honour the promise. But not today. Today was about Alice, Delia and Martin. Kaitlin’s aim had been to follow the family thread all the way back, and she was almost there. When her questions had been answered, she would focus on putting the rest of her life in order.
Brian’s description of their cousin was perfect. Even though slightly elevated by red wedge-heeled sandals, Gina barely passed five feet. Her white hair was cut into long spikes, like a miniature spider plant. Her lips and nails were deepest crimson.
She told them that Greg, her husband, was out with his brothers. Their daughter lived in New York, she said, her pronunciation of ‘New York’ making it plain that the city didn’t meet with her approval. Thankfully, their son was an accountant in Dunkin’ Donuts HQ and lived in Dedham with his wife and two daughters.
‘Isn’t that the most Boston job ever?’ said Orla, who was considerably more relaxed than Kaitlin.
Gina agreed that it was.
Her house didn’t match their expectations. As she’d walked up the street with Orla, Kaitlin had joked about visiting a museum of Irish Americana. They’d piled cliché upon cliché: a Sacred Heart lamp, a portrait of JFK, an embroidered Irish blessing. Orla had sung a few bars of ‘With My Shillelagh Under My Arm’, prompting a bemused look from a guy washing his car. In actual fact, with its bright decor, stripped floors and lack of memorabilia, the house wouldn’t have been out of place on an interiors website. Even old-school Irish Americans moved with the times, it seemed. Not only that. Kaitlin had assumed that Greg and Gina lived on one floor of the three-decker. As it turned out, they owned the entire property.
The three sat at the kitchen table. A light breeze pressed against the thin drapes. Gina and Orla drank white wine, but Kaitlin declined the offer. She needed to keep a clear head. For a few minutes, they engaged in family chit-chat. Although they’d met before, Gina and Orla didn’t know very much about each other so there was plenty of ground to cover. Gina had a sizeable number of friends who’d moved from Ireland to Boston in the 1980s, and it didn’t take long for them to find a point of intersection.
‘Oh, my God, yes,’ said Orla. ‘I remember Angie Farrelly. From Kildare? Super-long legs? Got a green card and worked in Filene’s?’
‘That’s the girl,’ said Gina.
‘She went out with the cousin of a friend of mine. What’s she doing these days?’
On and on they went, connection piling upon connection, until every county in Ireland had been mentioned. Both appeared to have endless anecdotes about myriad Gráinnes and Sinéads, Nialls and Declans.
All the while, Kaitlin sipped her water, stared at a small cardboard box, which she assumed contained the promised treasures, and told herself not to get twitchy. Just as she thought she’d explode with impatience, Gina tapped the side of the box.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘you’re probably wondering what’s in here.’
Barely trusting herself to speak, Kaitlin nodded.
‘Before I show you what I have, I’d better give you a little background. The contents were passed on to me by an aunt who received them from an aunt of hers. I’d love to tell you I’ve pieced together Bridget’s full story, but I haven’t. What I have done is—’
‘Bridget?’ said Kaitlin.
Gina broke into a wide smile. ‘Like I told you on the phone, Alice was what you might call her official name. Her real name was Bridget. Before she married Martin McDonagh, she was Bridget Moloney. She met Alice on the—’
‘No way! Bridget Moloney from Clooneven in County Clare?’
If Gina had been expecting Kaitlin’s first interruption, this one took her by surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s where she was from originally. How did you know?’
Kaitlin’s breath caught at the back of her throat. ‘Because I’ve been in touch with a member of her family.’ She turned to Orla. ‘Remember I told you about Jessie Daly?’
Orla gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘Yes, you said her – what was it? fourth-great-grandmother? – was on the same ship. Didn’t that woman drown, though?’
Gina put down her glass and waved her hands in front of her face. ‘Whoa, ladies, you’re moving too quickly for me.’
Kaitlin, who felt as though her insides were dancing, described how she’d made contact with a woman in Ireland. One of her ancestors had died on board the Mary and Elizabeth, and they’d been sharing information. When she’d finished, Gina reached over and patted her hand.
‘Bridget Moloney didn’t die, sweetie. She survived, and so did Alice’s daughter, Delia. Then, so she could keep baby Delia, Bridget pretended to be Alice. How she got away with it, I don’t know, but she did.’
‘So it was Alice who died?’ said Kaitlin.
‘That’s right.’
‘What an amazing thing to do,’ said Orla. ‘Look after Alice’s baby, I mean.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Gina. ‘When you think about it, Bridget was an incredible woman. It would have been an awful lot easier to leave Delia behind. From what she says in her letters, she found it hard to get work when she first arrived in Boston.’
Questions were lining up in Kaitlin’s head. What letters? she was about to say. Who was Bridget writing to? Before she got the chance, Orla spoke again.
‘Doesn’t this mean,’ she said, ‘that you’re both related to Jessie?’
‘I guess it does,’ said Kaitlin.
‘I assume,’ said Gina, ‘that Jessie is descended from Bridget’s first child, Norah? The girl who stayed in Ireland?’
‘She is,’ said Kaitlin. ‘How do you know about Norah?’
There was a sheen of excitement on Gina’s face. Her eyes slid towards the box. ‘You’ll find that her story – or part of it, at any rate – is in there.’
Desperate as she was to hear more, Kaitlin needed to pause for a moment. ‘If Jessie Daly and I share a fourth-great-grandmother, we’re . . .?’
‘Fifth cousins,’ said Gina, without missing a beat. ‘Like Orla says, we’re both related to her because we’re all related to Bridget.’
‘She’s not going to believe this. She was disappointed because she thought Bridget had died before she got to America. I can’t wait to tell her.’ Kaitlin tapped her forehead. ‘I’ve just remembered: she gave me her number. Why don’t I call her?’
Orla drank the last of her wine. ‘Because in Ireland it’s almost one in the morning. I reckon you ought to leave it until tomorrow.’
‘Besides,’ said Gina, as she rose to refill their glasses, ‘I’ll have to tell you a bit more about Bridget and Norah first.’