Michael Gilligan grew up in a town twenty-three miles west of Boston. He was raised Catholic and was the youngest of five. Michael, the only boy was five years younger than his next sister. A common joke among his sister was what happens when the rhythm method fails? Michael!
He knew they resented him not only because he was the only boy and the baby, but also because in their four bedroom cape, he was the one with his own room. Still by the time he was in his teens all of his sister had moved out. Now he had a lot of nieces and nephews.
He grew up with a diverse group of friends as there were three Catholic churches, two temples, and every protestant denomination in town. Michael was a very good student, an observer, and a storyteller. He knew at a young age that he wanted to be a writer. His father wanted him to choose a successful career like business, but he had no interest in sitting at a desk all day answering to some boss.
He came from a middle class family. His mother was a nineteen-fifties housewife and didn't work. Instead she taught CCD, volunteered for church and school activities, and played with her bridge group. His father worked at a bank in Boston and every evening drove down the street at exactly six o'clock. Which incidentally was the same time his drink, scotch on the rocks, was poured. Dinner was on the table at six fifteen. Michael knew he needed to be running home the same time the car came down the street. At twenty-four, Michael still didn't understand how his father managed to leave his desk, drive twenty-three miles down the turnpike and arrive home at the exact same time. All the neighborhood kids would be heard saying, "Look it's six, I need to go home."
As a teen he realized that not everyone's father drank scotch every night. He even had friends with mothers that worked outside the home. His mother seemed too busy meddling in her children's lives to ever work. His father had expectations he didn't want to live up to. He didn't want to live a miserable existence like his parents. He only wanted to get away and spread his wings. His first stop on his road to his own life was his college dormitory. He went to Boston College and much to his father's disappointment majored in English. As a compromise, he added the education degree so he could at least get a job. He liked teaching, but really he just wanted to write.
He had never met a girl like Angela Turner. She was so British and pretty. Her sweet disposition made her beautiful and she was smart… smarter than any girl he'd ever met. He knew she had a boyfriend in London and would only be here for a short time so he told himself, that he had to settle on just being her friend. He knew that he was lying to himself, because his feelings were much deeper than friendship.
When she talked about her family, he knew they were nothing like his family. He said the only way that they were similar was the fact they both had much older siblings. Angela said, "No, you're like my brother. The baby boy who came quite by surprise."
When he questioned her, she explained her interesting and unique family story including all about her adoption. "So your father, a doctor, and your mother, a nurse…"
"...nurse and midwife," Angela corrected.
"Yes, sorry… Is that how they met?" he asked.
"I can't tell you that story. If I did you would feel the need to write about it and, well, that wouldn't do," she explained.
He was intrigued, but instead asked her about midwives. He was unfamiliar with them as everyone he knew was delivered by an obstetrician. As she explained, he stopped her and exclaimed, "Are you saying that not long ago it was common for babies to be born at home!"
"Yes, I don't know where I was born, but my brothers were both born at home delivered by midwives. Sister Julienne delivered Teddy. I remember a little bit about the time he was born, but mostly I just remember a carousel."
"A carousel?"
"Oh that's another story," she laughed.
"So there were nun midwives?"
"Oh yes, the Anglican kind, not your kind with the rulers," she teased, "I assume you were delivered in hospital."
"In hospital," he teased, "Yes, I was delivered in the hospital. We all were… My father would drop my mother off and then come home and wait for the phone to ring."
"In England, many an expectant father would go to the pub and wait for word," she said.
She made him laugh and he could listen to her stories forever. He just wished she didn't have a boyfriend and was staying longer. Still, she didn't say much about the boyfriend. He wasn't sure if she was being sensitive to his feeling. She had to know that he like her. Maybe she made him up, but he didn't think so. She didn't seem as if she had a deceitful bone in her body.
He settled on being her friend and as summer turned into fall, he showed her around the city. In late August, he took her to Fenway Park to see his Red Sox. He taught her about baseball and she told him about cricket. They watched as Yaz and Jim Rice took the field even though it wasn't a great season. She criticized him for eating a hot dog, but did share his Cracker Jacks. He gave her the prize, a tattoo.
They went to a Boston College football game and she kept saying things like... "This isn't football... That doesn't look like a ball...Look they used their hands… Only the goalie can use his hands… Where is the goalie?... There is no goalie!"
Michael thought she was funny, but some others around them did not. A particularly drunk jerk told her to shut up. They left early laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.
He wanted to bring her to his house for Thanksgiving, but she had to work. He was disappointed. Thanksgiving was a tradition she would never have in England. She said, "I heard the cafeteria will serve some traditional dishes." Somehow it wasn't the same. The truth was he wanted his family to meet her. He knew it was crazy, because of geography, but he found himself loving her more and more every day.