It was strange how interacting with Lucy was a kind of therapy for Jack. He brought me many books on childcare and development from the library, but it seemed he had always read them first. He often said he wanted to be a dad, but he was afraid of getting it wrong because he had such poor examples for parents.
31
I graduated with an honours degree in Drama and Theatre Studies, which was a miracle considering I’d had a baby and a spell in rehab while my college mates all took up opportunities to travel and take film and theatre roles. Professor White told me that other mothers made it work, that being a mother had taught me the discipline and responsibility that I had not been able to learn from him. ‘Life lessons come in all sorts of ways, but you have come through and deserve congratulations,’ he said. I beamed with pride, but I was prouder of my child-rearing and my recovery.
By the time Lucy was a year old, I had successfully weaned her off breast milk to give myself a little freedom, and she graduated to whole milk without too much resistance. I know I was later than most mothers to do that, but I had an extra reason. Any alcohol I drank would go straight into Lucy’s system and, if I was breastfeeding, I couldn’t drink. But one year was enough. Mom booked two weeks’ holiday with her friends straight away. I was a little alarmed. I knew I needed to go it alone as a mother, but I hadn’t thought I’d be totally on my own. It was tough. Lucy was a delight, but she was hard work. I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since she was born. She cried and cried and cried the first night I placed her in her own room. It was well past time. I cried too but I waited it out until she cried herself to sleep. During the day, she cried a lot. She was restless and squirmy in my arms. She was alert, looking around, probably wondering where Mom was. Me too.
Sinéadand Jane came to the house bearing a home-made casserole and bags full of shopping, including nappies and baby wipes, fresh fruit and ready meals, and a bottle of sparkling lemonade. Their thoughtfulness took me by surprise. I guess crying down the phone toSinéadthe night before because I had literally spilt milk was received like an SOS. They ran a bath for me and changed the sheets in my bed and the baby’s crib. They amused and fed Lucy for about two hours while I bathed and napped. When I got up, we toasted my graduation with lemonade, and I felt lucky and blessed.Sinéadwas going to London the following month to try to get an acting agent there, while Jane had won her first role in a touring show around Ireland.
I admit that part of me felt left out. I should have been embarking on a career by now but there was no way I was going to put Lucy into full-time daycare yet. I had a few people I could call on as babysitters – my lovely neighbour Helen, and another teenager from the house opposite had offered too – but I thought it would be easier if I stopped going to AA meetings so often. Yes, they helped me stay sober but the emphasis on forgiveness and honesty and making amends were things I could not reckon with. I made up my mind. I was going to have to give up AA. I was sure I could stay sober without it, but I couldn’t continue to live a lie with my AA family. I would have to do without them.
I kept myself busy. I started going to auditions, which was tough when you had a child and no agent. All my female college friends went for the same roles, but those with agents were more likely to hear about auditions than those of us without. I would generally hear about these shows through my former classmates. My accent didn’t help. It was frustrating that I could do every accent except an Irish one – in fact, in my drinking days, I often pretended to be French or Russian for whole days while on a binge. No agent would take me on because I had become aninfamous drunken liability during my college years. It was a label that was hard to shake off. On a few occasions, I’d have lunch with Jane orSinéadand then bump into them the next day at an audition. The friendships started to become strained. There were few enough roles being cast for theatre work and having to directly compete with friends was tough.
Eventually, I got a supporting part in a stage show and, thankfully, as a result of that, I was introduced at the after-party on opening night to an agent who was also in recovery. We found ourselves leaving for the cloakroom at the same time and struck up conversation. Daphne was honest and upfront. I warmed to her immediately. She was rebuilding her agency after losing a lot of her clients because of her addiction. We were a perfect match. After that, the stage parts got bigger, though they were still few and far between. Still, I was slowly losing my bad reputation. Daphne tried to convince me to audition for TV and film roles, but I never wanted to be on TV. ‘You know you are reducing your potential earnings by ninety per cent,’ she said. I didn’t care. I was still in hiding. I didn’t want to take the chance of turning up on a TV screen in Boston.
I stopped going to AA meetings altogether. Nasrin said that she couldn’t continue to sponsor me if I wasn’t going to do the programme. I told her that I couldn’t get past the forgiveness part. I’d told Nasrin about the incident. Not the real one – I’d told her I couldn’t forgive my rapist. She urged me to pray for him. She didn’t know that I thought of him every night. I asked if we could remain friends and she said yes, as long as I was sober. I tried to stop myself thinking about it and Lucy certainly kept me on my toes. I could stay sober for her. I attended my last meeting in January 2008.
Jack called and pleaded with me to come back. He was adamant that I would never recover on my own. I pointed out that I wasn’t the person who had relapsed after a year of AA.He hung up and I immediately called him back to apologize. There were lots of ways to stay sober, I told him. Thousands of people were sober without going to meetings. He wanted to see me, so we met in a café in Inchicore. I think he was relieved to see me looking well. He admitted that he thought I’d already relapsed. Lucy sat in his lap and gurgled happily. She was always pleased to see him.
32
Erin
Fabian was a great listener. The relationship wasn’t moving fast enough for me, though. I wasn’t sure he was the marrying kind. I waited for him to suggest moving in together, but despite dropping hints, he either didn’t get them or got them but ignored them. In 2007, on the six-month anniversary of our first date, I invited him to move into my small apartment. It was only marginally bigger than his, but by New York standards it was okay. I had more storage space and a tiny outdoor terrace on the roof. I had stayed over in Fabian’s a few times, but his bed was narrow, and he didn’t have a lot of stuff. He was hesitant. How would it work financially? I told him that what he paid in rent would cover utilities and he’d still have money left over for saving. I was made vulnerable by his hesitance. When I said saving, I had meant for the wedding we were going to have. I might as well have proposed. After a week of talking it over back and forth, he agreed. Nobody was more excited about this than Aunt Rachel. She adored him. She came to New York regularly and took us to lunch in upmarket restaurants. We never knew the celebrities she pointed out. They were painters or musicians of her own era. Sometimes I pretended to recognize them just to make her feel good.
Dad liked Fabian too. We went to dinner together when Dad came to visit, and although he didn’t quite approve of us livingtogether without a wedding ring, I had to remind him I was twenty-six years old, and Fabian made me happy. He accepted I was an adult and treated Fabian like a son. He and Dad liked to get into theological discussions.
I didn’t dare raise the subject of children, but one day out of the blue three months later, Fabian started talking about names for kids. A friend of his had named his son Bart, as in Simpson, not as in short for Bartholomew, and Fabian asked me what I would call ‘our children’. He was talking casually as he stirred more parmesan into the risotto, but I knew him well enough by now to know that he never made eye contact when he was making big decisions. I played along, throwing out comical names to make him laugh. A few days later, he went missing for several hours in the evening. I couldn’t get him on his phone. He came home after ten, claiming he’d been at a PTA meeting that he’d told me about. I knew it was a lie, but I let it go. Perhaps he was planning a surprise proposal.
But that was just the beginning of the lies, sudden absences, trips away with the guys. It took me a while to realize because I desperately wanted everything to be okay. I’d convinced myself I was in love, but after another two months I knew that he was emotionally withdrawing from me. I confronted him. The worst part was that he was relieved to be caught. He would have happily lied to my face for God knows how long. He was seeing his ex-fiancée, and he was still in love with her.
I admit I lost it. I threw his stuff out into the hall and changed the locks. Cisco was embarrassed. He said he’d planned his wedding outfit. I told him bitterly that he could wear it to Fabian’s wedding to Natasha. Aunt Rachel called Fabian up and unleashed holy hell upon him. I didn’t try to stop her.
There was something wrong with me. I attracted bad men, and I could no longer trust myself. Once his stuff had been cleared out, I was relieved to find that I did not miss him.I missed the companionship, I missed the affection, but I did not miss Fabian. My heart was surprisingly intact. Maybe I hadn’t fallen in love after all. Maybe I wasn’t capable of it. Milo’s fault.
Once again, I buried myself in work. I had been promoted to editor, but I had to do all the assistant administration work as well. I was still at the Schoolroom imprint and there was no sign of me moving to the fiction side of the publishing house. It was frustrating but I was forced to accept it, having no other alternative. The publisher acted like one big family when it suited them, but I felt like an unwanted step-grandchild. I decided to look around to see how other publishing houses worked.
I got a phone call from Margie Kelly a few weeks later. I couldn’t believe her audacity. I hung up when I realized who she was but somehow she got my cellphone number and she kept calling over and over again. Eventually, I took the call. She begged to meet me. She said she had some information I needed to know, but I said no. I told her never to call me again. In the aftermath of Fabian, I was still at a low ebb. I was vulnerable and spent two sleepless nights wondering if Milo was going to be released early. Was he going to try to reconnect with me? Was he out already? I called her back and agreed to meet in NYC. She said she’d take the bus.
Margie was two years older than Milo, but in the intervening years, she hadn’t changed that much. Her dark hair was lightened, and she was wearing no make-up at all. She chain-smoked as we walked through Central Park, lighting one cigarette from another. We eventually sat down at an outdoor café.
‘You know he didn’t do it, right?’ was her opening salvo. ‘Somehow, they got a fake DNA result and framed him.’ Milo had served almost eight years by now.
‘Margie, first of all, that is impossible and I’m leaving if this is how the conversation is going to go.’
She wouldn’t stop. ‘Did your sister have a pair of denim shorts? Cos that’s what she was wearing when my brother knocked on your door that day.’
As she continued to talk, I shouted over her. ‘Margie, DNA does not lie. You can convince yourself as much as you want but it doesn’t change facts.’
‘Your pop, though, he’s got money. He could pay to get the right results.’
I grabbed her arm. ‘You have to stop sending those letters, okay? Stop it. You’re not going to persuade anyone. They’re pathetic.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t bother trying to pretend, Margie. I know it’s you.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about. But your dad and the DA’s office. They’re connected. They faked the DNA evidence.’
