Meant To Be

Chapter twenty-seven

Dirty dishes were neatly piled in the sink. Milk sitting on the worktop. The thick tick of the clock overwritten by Helen hooking about upstairs. Ronnie lifted the carton putting it in the fridge next to the butter and yoghurt on the second shelf. Closing the door, she noticed a photo peeking out from behind the list of emergency numbers, held in place with a magnet that said Kentucky in bold, red writing. Ronnie pulled the picture sideways with her finger, zooming in on the characters she didn't recognise. A man with a big moustache, eyes as sharp as Zac's. Hank, surely, thought Ronnie. She brushed over Helen standing next to him, taking ten years off the version she knew now.

Leaning in closer, Ronnie's eyes laid on Zac. The extra strength he was carrying, his lips styled upwards. The difference it made to his being equated the size of the ocean. She found his hand comfortable on the young woman's waist like it belonged there. Ronnie assumed all sorts of things, like her place among the Parker family. Her skin was darker. Hair jet-black. She was stuck in mid laughter, busy enjoying life. Jacob too.

"I love that photo."

Ronnie jumped. Finding Helen, the relief rewrote her face. "You scared the life outta me." Helen laughed a little, setting the cardboard box on the kitchen table. "Who is that woman, in the photo with yese?"

Helen lifted the picture out from underneath the emergency numbers and held it in her hand. "That's Dena. And that's my husband Hank." Her fingers stroked his face as if she could feel the tenderness of his skin. "Zac reminds me of him every day."

"He's the spit of him," said Ronnie. Helen looked at her, amused by the confusion. "I mean he looks identical to him."

Helen's smile grew. "He sure is." She slipped the picture in underneath the emergency numbers again, hiding it completely. Walking back towards the kitchen table, she unpacked the belongings in the box, scrap books and packets of photos, piling them on top of one another. Ronnie watched, wondering about Dena. "This is the one." Helen's hands were firm on the edges of a photo album dressed in red. The two women took a seat at the kitchen table, side by side. Helen ran a calming hand over the front cover before opening it. "This is the only picture my mother had of her mother, my gramma. I've no idea how she got it." Helen took the image out from underneath the transparent cover. It was smaller than a regular photo. Square. Black and white. Creased and dirty around the white border edges. Helen gave it to Ronnie. She held it with flat hands.

Locked inside the photograph was a teenage girl - barely. She was standing outside a shop with Suzy's Sweets above the door, clutching a small, brown paper bag in one hand, dressed in slack black trousers and a white shirt, hair trailing beneath her shoulders, spilt into two pig tails. Her figure was fine, smile wide showing all her teeth, her mouth crammed for space. Ronnie turned it over.

My home, Baltimore. My favourite place for sweets. Mrs Suzy is very good to me. She gave me two extra brandy balls for free today! (1 June 1928). Signed, Miss Peggy O'Donnell.

"She must have fell pregnant shortly after that photo was taken," said Helen, as she watched the vile assumptions arranging Ronnie's face, her gut sweating. "I never told Hank. Zac and Jacob have no idea either. They think my family left for work, a better life." Helen's smile shook. She took a breath to steady herself, her shoulders rising and falling. "My mother was adopted by an American couple from Brooklyn when she was a baby. Bessboro House, Blackrock, Cork. That's where she was born. My granny had her when she was fifteen."

Ronnie continued to stare at the photograph, but all she could see was Patrick's face twisted with disgust. "I dunno how you can still go to mass," he had said. Ronnie asked him if he wanted tea. He said aye. Ronnie got up. The RTE evening news was on. A blonde-haired woman was presenting, every word perfectly pronounced; child abuse; catholic church. Patrick said thanks, taking the mug from Ronnie without really meaning it. Ronnie went back into the kitchen and lifted the car keys off the windowsill, making the effort to be quiet as she slipped out the back door. Patrick never said a word when she returned. Dinner was almost ready – chicken curry.