Rifiuto: Non Miriena
A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia
Aidan Liam and Margaret Sian.
Twins.
Fiona had given birth to twins.
Kathleen could barely wrap her head around the information, even as she grabbed the family tree and quickly jotted down the two names before Evelyn and Moira. She quickly did the math in her head, checking the date on the letter-
So the twins had been born in aught-three, three years before Evelyn and five before Moira.
She sank into a chair at the table, gaze moving over the family tree. They'd already managed to unravel so much in such a short time, but there was still so much more-
How had Fiona gotten out of the laundry? Where were her twins? Had they survived and been given up for adoption, or died after birth? What happened to Aileen and her family? Had the Spanish flu stolen the lives of that branch of O'Shea tree? And what about Kit, and her supposed son and second marriage? Where did that fit into this?
For ev'ry piece ye unravel, ev'n more pops up.
A sigh escaped her, and she dropped the pencil, rubbing a hand over her face with a soft groan. She couldn't handle this right now. She had John's wake to unfortunately look forward to in three days, and then the funeral. And then yer chil'ren will be goin' 'ome t' Am'rica.
Kathleen wasn't too proud to admit that that was part of the reason she was so distracted; she'd gotten used to, in the last few days, having her children home with her, that the thought of putting them on the plane to go home, tore at her already broken heart. She knew she'd be fine, and that they'd be fine, but the thought of being in this house, alone, with only the ghosts of the past for company-
She sniffled, quickly reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks as the front door opened, and Tim and Sarah came into the house carrying groceries. She quickly moved the tree aside so they could use the table, and stood to help. The kids chattered on about some shop they'd stopped at before coming home, and Kathleen only partially listened, almost robotically putting the groceries away, before Tim's voice pulled her back into reality.
"'ey Mams?" She stopped, letting the fridge door swing shut softly, turning. "Wha's this?" Her gaze lit on the family tree, and she sighed. "Who're... Aidan Liam an' Margaret Sian? An'... why are they und'r Fiona's name on th' tree?"
"Twins." Sarah stopped unpacking the cans of soup she'd grabbed and turned at her mother's soft whisper. Kathleen swallowed against the cotton in her throat. She could feel Fiona's gaze on her, even though she refused to let her own flick to the doorway, where the teenager stood, peeking around the corner. "Fiona 'ad twins." She swallowed again, clearing her throat slightly. "At th' laund'y. They were taken from 'er."
She caught the surprised look shared between her children, and after a moment, Tim shook his head. "I... I don't und'rstand... 'ow d' ye kn-"
A shrug; a glimpse towards the doorway. The girl bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably as she leaned against the door frame, watching intently. A moment passed, before Kathleen took a seat at the table. Slowly, the kids joined her, and she reached for the family tree. Tim handed it to her. Her gaze lit towards Fiona again, for she knew now that's who stood at the door frame. "Ye r'memb'r learnin' 'bout th' Church in school, aye?"
They shared a glance. "Aye, bu'... Mams, we both wen' t' Catholic-"
"I know, Timothy," His mother interrupted. "Bu' ye mus' und'rstan', this..." She sighed, briefly thinking of how it could have very well been her own fate, had Zippi not stepped in and John not accepted his responsibility and married her. She thinned her lips, deep in thought, a sigh escaping her.
"D' ye und'rstan' exac'ly wha' ye've done t' this family's good name, Kathleen Helen?"
"Shame? Since when is a babe consid'r'd a shame, Da? A babe is a blessin'! Zippi said so!"
She cried out in surprise as her father, the patriarch of the family, grabbed her arm, roughly tugging her up from her chair. The growing bump she'd tried so hard to hide the last three months was now exposed as her shirt rode up, and she heard her mother gasp. Liam Nicholas O'Shea- nay, O'Brien, as he now went by- was a tall, slender man, with rich red hair and striking green eyes. His years as a docker in the ports had made him strong and firm, yet gentle, if he wanted to be. Unlike his grandfather before him, he was content to work the ports; he wanted nothing to do with the stockyard, and had turned down the position when offered.
"Oh, Kathleen." She glanced at her mother; Sian Aebh- Eve, as she was called by friends and family- while not as religiously strict as her husband, still saw sex before marriage as a sin, and to now know that one of her beloved daughters had broken that rule... only appropriate action could be taken. A sigh escaped her mother's throat, and she shook her head, setting the beads she'd been clicking softly in prayer down. "'tis n' need f'r pray'rs now. 'twill be up t' God t' d'cide yer punishment."
"A blessin'? A child b'rn o' shame 'tis no blessin', Kathleen!" He tightened his grip, unaware that Moira, home to visit from university, had slipped off to call Zippi. "'tis sin, i' is!"
"Ow! Da, ye're 'urtin' me!" She winced, expecting him to strike her, but he only tightened his grip harder. "'e loves me! 'e's wantin' t' marry me! 'e plan t' ask ye on Sa'urday! I begg'd 'im t' wai' 'til then-"
"Marry?" Her mother's voice broke the argument, and Kathleen turned to glance at her. "Kathleen, that McGee boy is a Protestant-" The word slithered from between her lips like a snake's tongue darting out to test the air; the disdain was evident. "'e may as well be a-" Despite the Troubles raging in the North- the violent conflict currently taking place between Britain and Northern Ireland- and the closed borders that kept the violence from leaking into the free South, it was widely believed- in small pockets of Dublin, anyway- that Protestants were no better than- "an Englishman. Protestants are no' Irish; they spi' on wha' i' means t' be Irish."
And Eve Killarn O'Brien was a good, devout Catholic, with a good, devout Catholic husband. She had birthed four good, devout Catholic daughters, and up until this moment, had believed that nothing- nothing whatsoever- could burst her perfect little bubble. She'd worked so hard on it, for so many years; shaped it and cultivated it, and married the perfect Catholic man, had the perfect Catholic children; she was an upstanding member of the Church- as devout as the Pope himself, that to now be faced with this... horrendous bombshell...
Her gaze flicked to the small curve of her daughter's belly, and she sneered. Her oldest daughter, Fiona, had birthed a healthy boy three years ago; she and her husband had just welcomed their second child last year; that was how things were done- marriage before baby, always. Not the other way around.
"Ye will do no such thing!" Her husband's voice broke her thoughts, and she looked up, in time to catch sight of him strike their youngest daughter. "'tis th' conv'nt f'r ye, girl-"
"No, Da, please-" Though devout to her religion she was, no one- no one- struck her children. She stood, moving to step between them, but stopped when the girl turned to her.
"'tis th' bes' place f'r ye, Kathleen." The girl shook her head at her mother's response. "Th' sis'ers 'twill g't rid o' i', once it's born-"
"No!" Her daughter's cry drowned her out, but before either could say another word, another voice broke through the tension.
"Kathleen is goin' nowhere, Liam. Do ye und'rstan' me?" The three turned as Zippi entered the kitchen, dark eyes blazing in anger. Moira followed behind. "Ye may be th' las' survivin' patriarch o' th' O'Shea's, since yer da passed, God rest 'is soul, bu' I 'ave th' las' say in th' family." Kathleen felt her father's grip loosen, as the matriarch of the O'Shea family strode towards her father. Still as spry as fresh Irish moss, despite her eighty-five years, Zipporah O'Shea, upon taking Moira's frantic phone call while out for dinner with friends, knew she couldn't let her granddaughter befall the same fate her sister-in-law had.
Kathleen met her grandmother's eyes; her parents were fairly relaxed about things- more than most parents in Dublin, except when it came to religion and sex before marriage. She'd been meant to wait until her wedding night, but one long, lazy evening at that Arts Festival nearly four months ago with John McGee- a boy from Belfast who'd managed to get approval from the guards at the border to come down for it- had stripped her of her purity and left her pregnant with his child. "D' I make meself clear, Liam Nicholas O'Shea?"
Both girls started; they hadn't heard O'Shea in years. Da forbid them from using it; they were O'Briens. Liam finally released his daughter, and Eva pulled her child away, but Kathleen shook her head, rushing towards Zippi, who embraced her granddaughter and then pushed her towards her sister. "Answ'r me, Liam!"
Several tense, awkward moments passed, before he finally ground out, "Aye, Zippi." She nodded, turning to check on Kathleen when he spoke up again. "'tis a harlo', my daught'r. She des'rves th' laund'y, f'r th' sin she's committ'd."
A gasp rang out, and both girls looked up as their father cradled his cheek, for Zippi had quickly and fiercely struck him in retaliation. "'ow dare ye call me grandaugh'r such a thin'! "Tá leanbh shamed níos fearr ná leanbh naofa! Shame, on both o' ye! "
Kathleen knew the old Irish her grandmother spoke, A shamed child is better than a holy one- it spoke of removing oneself from the religion long enough to see that all were precious in God's eyes, but that the shame might be a bit more, because they came from a place of heartache. She looked up as Zippi turned, making her way towards them. Her dark gaze roved down her granddaughter, and she sighed, doing the math quickly.
The babe would be born in September, and Kathleen was already nearing the end of her first trimester. She was just beginning to show, for the swell of her tummy was there, now that she was not trying to hide it; it was best if they married before it became too obvious. A small, intimate wedding ceremony in a month's time would keep the tongues of Dublin from wagging, give the boy enough time to convert, and give a convenient cover to her granddaughter's thickening midsection. Unlike most Catholics, Zipporah O'Shea preferred the simple things in life; a good bowl of hearty Irish stew, a pint of cold Guinness or a shot of warm whiskey in a rocks glass, the warmest of Aran sweaters on a windy day... a simple wedding was no different. If she'd had her way, her own wedding back in nineteen-ten would have been small and simple, surrounded by family and close friends. She gently reached up to caress Kathleen's cheek.
The girl met her gaze, even as the old woman's other hand moved down to press gently against her belly. "T'morrow, we'll speak to the priest, and find yer dress. Something tha' canna hide th' swell tha' will be visible a' th' end o' th' month. 'tis no' th' firs' O'Shea bride t' marry wit' chil', an' twon' be th' las'."
Yes, Zippi would make sure she saved her beloved granddaughter from the laundries.
"Mams? Are ye okay?" Kathleen met her son's gaze across the table. The young man sitting before her had very nearly sentenced her to Fiona's fate, merely by growing within her. She smiled softly at him.
"Aye, love." She sighed. The laundries, the shame of Ireland, could wait for another day, for she didn't have the strength to explain it now. "Jus'... los' ina mem'ry." The boy nodded, returning to finish unpacking the groceries. Kathleen watched him, silent, involuntarily reaching up to caress her cheek.
Yes, the boy had nearly sentenced her to a life of servitude and an early grave. But, if she were honest with herself, he had also saved her, not just from religious indentured servitude, but from a life that had been growing unbearable.
