Keeping Faith. Janice Macdonald

Liam could feel the vibration under his feet.

      He had a daughter. He repeated the words to himself, trying to make them seem real. A daughter. And he didn’t even know her name. Hadn’t asked her name.

      “I have a daughter,” he told Brid when she came to see what he was doing out there all by himself.

      “God, they’re banging saucepan lids in there.” She cupped her hand around her ear. “You have a what?”

      “A daughter.”

      Brid looked at him for a moment, then disappeared and returned a moment later with a plate of carrots. With a nod, she directed him down to the far end of the deck, away from the noise. “All right, what’s this about?”

      “That girl I was talking to tonight.” He drank some beer. “We were married for about a year. She got pregnant, and I thought she’d had an abortion. Tonight she tells me that wasn’t so. Apparently, her mother lied to me.”

      Brid leaned her elbows on the railing, staring out at the water. “So this girl,” she said after a minute, “what’s her name?”

      “Hannah.” Actually, he’d always called her Hannie. Now he thought of her as Hannah. He eyed the plate of carrots. “You didn’t eat any of the barbecue stuff?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “The chicken had a sweet sauce all over it, and I don’t eat beef. So Hannah didn’t know what her mother was telling you?”

      “That’s what she claims.” He forced his mind away from Hannah and her news. “Brid, you’re worrying me with this food thing. There’s enough in there to feed an army. If you don’t like the chicken, find something else. Some bread or cheese or something.”

      “For God’s sake, Liam.” She tossed the carrot she’d picked up onto the sand. “What’s it to you what I eat? You’re getting on my nerves, always watching me.”

      “Who will, if I don’t? You’re not exactly doing much of a job yourself.”

      “I’m fine. Leave off, will you? I swear, you’re like the bloody food police.”

      Liam said nothing. Inside, they were singing “The Belle of Belfast City” and someone yelled for Brid to join them. She glanced over her shoulder but didn’t answer. Moments passed and then she put her arm around his shoulders, pressed him close.

      “Sorry.”

      He shrugged. She was a grown woman and it wasn’t his role to watch over her, but he couldn’t help how he felt.

      “Do you believe that she didn’t know?” Brid asked.

      “I’m not sure.” His thoughts back on Hannah’s bombshell, he picked at a bit of peeling paint on the railing. “You’d have to know her family. When one of them sneezes, the others not only know about it, they’re there with hankies and cough mixture. Hannah was always close to them. I can’t believe she didn’t know all about her mother’s conversation with me.”

      “But she came to the club to see you,” Brid pointed out. “And she told you about your daughter. If she’d wanted you to think she’d had an abortion, why would she do that?”

      Liam looked at her. Brid had a point. On the other hand, if Hannah wasn’t in on it, why had she never tried to communicate with him? She’d never sent so much as a single picture. Nothing. A daughter—and he had no idea what she looked like.

      “It sounds to me as though the mother was trying to get rid of you,” Brid said. “Probably thought the abortion thing would do it.”

      He considered. It wasn’t hard to imagine Margaret’s thinking. The family—to put it mildly—had never been particularly fond of him. Being a musician was bad enough, being an Irish musician was worse. Easy enough to imagine their thinking. He would take Hannah back to Ireland, leave her barefoot and pregnant in an unheated shack while he traipsed off around the world drinking and womanizing. Maybe they’d thought rescuing her from him was their only option.

      “Did you love her?”

      He shrugged.

      “Come on, Liam. It’s me, Brid.”

      “I used to.”

      “Not anymore?”

      “I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

      She laughed. “You should see yourself. Furiously picking the paint off the wood because this whole thing makes you squirm, doesn’t it? Talking about feelings?”

      “‘Feelings,’” he sang, trying to distract her. There was nothing he hated more than rambling on about what was going on in his head. It was one of the things he and Hannah used to fight about. She was always trying to drag him into long, drawn-out talks. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she’d say. “Tell me you love me. Why is it so hard for you to say it?”

      He eased off another chip of paint, realized what he was doing and stopped. Hannah. He’d spent years hating her for what she’d done, or what he thought she’d done. Seeing her tonight was…he couldn’t believe it. She looked different…great, really. Enormous green eyes and a wee little face. He used to pull her leg about looking like a kitten. Now she looked all grown-up. The way you’d expect the mother of a six-year-old to look, he supposed.

      “What now, then?” Brid asked. “What will you do?”

      “I don’t know. I’m still trying to get used to the idea I’m a father.”

      “Does she know about you? Your daughter, I mean?”

      “I’ve no idea what they’ve told her.”

      Brid lit a cigarette, waved out the match and tossed it onto the sand. “Want to know what I think you should do?”

      He grinned. “Have I a choice?”

      “No.” She spoke through a cloud of blue smoke. “If you’ve any sense, you’ll forget tonight ever happened. Getting involved will only cause trouble. The child’s here. You’re in Ireland. Music is your life. You spend half of it on the road and you know nothing at all about being a daddy.”

      “That’s your opinion, is it?”

      “It is. But from the look on your face, I’ve the feeling I might as well be talking to the wind. You’ll regret it though, Liam. I’m telling you. You’re not a daddy sort of fellow.”

      HANNAH STOOD OUTSIDE her mother’s bedroom, trying to tell from the sounds inside whether Margaret was sleeping. The house had been in darkness when she got home from Fiddler’s Green. A note from Margaret on the kitchen table said she’d dropped Faith off at a friend’s house for a slumber party. Hannah raised her hand to knock, then stopped. Back in her own room, she sat on the bed. Maybe she needed to sort things out in her own mind before she spoke to Margaret.

      Including why seeing Liam tonight made her want to run around locking windows and doors. She got up, went down to the kitchen and microwaved a cup of chamomile tea, carried it up to her room and set it on the bedside table. Fully dressed, she lay down on the bed. Even in the familiar security of her room, she felt shaky and anxious, as though the stability of her life had been physically threatened.

      Jen had advised her to move out immediately. “Your mother lied to you, Hannah. She told Liam you’d had an abortion. There’s no way you can go on living there.”

      Most parents really only want to do what’s best for their children.

      However misguided their motives. How many times had she had to remind herself of that when dealing with the parents of her students? But she hadn’t been a child. How was she ever supposed to trust Margaret again? She picked up the phone to call Deb. Changed her mind and set it down. Swung her legs off the bed and wandered over to the window. Stared out at the dark night.

      The room overlooked the rose garden her father had started shortly after