Putting Out the Stars (42 page)

And still Frank’s mouth was opening and closing – what more could he say, what other horrors lay waiting for her to discover?

‘Don escaped relatively uninjured, a few broken bones, lots of cuts and bruises. But he fractured his pelvis, and there were some internal injuries there . . . we were told that it might
have repercussions later, when he wanted a family.’

And as he said that, something slotted into place. A last piece being added to the jigsaw, the whole picture clear now.
Yes, that explains that.
Her throat was so dry . . . Laura
reached for the milk jug, poured some into her cup, then lifted it and took a gulp, coughed as it went down too fast. A few more tears spurted out.

Frank waited until she was listening again.
Nearly there
, he wanted to say.
This is nearly over.
‘He was put into a correctional home for two years, until he was
eighteen. We visited him, but he wouldn’t talk to us. When he was let out, he left Sligo, and I haven’t seen him since.’

Laura closed her eyes, ignoring the tears that were pouring down her face. Found her voice again. ‘Your wife?’

‘She died just over a year ago – brain haemorrhage. He may know, if he kept an eye on the death notices.’

Laura opened her eyes again, noticed that Frank’s hands were trembling slightly – had they been, all along? She tried out a few sentences in her head.
Donal wasn’t an only
child. His parents didn’t move to Australia. His sister died when she was twelve. He crashed a stolen car while he was drunk and killed a woman and her baby. He was left impotent after the
accident.

And after that, more thoughts came.
He knew. All the time, he knew, and he never told me. He left me to hope and pray, and despair, and he never told me. He came to the doctor, and to the
gynaecologist, and he sat beside me and he held my hand. And pretended he didn’t know.

After a while she wiped her face with her sleeve, lifted her eyes from Frank’s hands. They sat across from each other, waiting, not talking any more. And eventually, when the tea left in
the pot was completely cold, the door opened and Donal walked in. And they both turned and looked at him.

R
uth pulled her key out of the door. ‘Hello?’

Her mother’s head poked out from the kitchen. ‘In here, love – he’s been as good as gold.’

Ruth smiled – her mother always said that, even if Gerard had yelled his head off from the minute she left. She followed her mother into the kitchen, headed straight over to the baby
carrier on the table. Her son looked up at her, sucking intently on his blue soother, arms flapping as he recognised her.
He has his father’s eyes
, she thought, as she bent her head
to nuzzle against his chest.
Gorgeous green eyes, just like Andrew.

‘What kind of a day had you?’

‘Grand – the usual.’ Ruth wriggled a finger into her son’s tiny fist, felt his strong grip. ‘Two body waves, two highlights, a few cuts. Mrs O’Carroll was in;
her nephew won five thousand Euro with a scratch card last week, imagine.’ She tickled Gerard under his chin, and he gurgled and grabbed her hand.

‘You’re joking; I didn’t think anyone won those. I hope he treated her to the hairdo.’

Ruth laughed. ‘If he did, she didn’t mention it.’ She disentangled her hand and lifted Gerard’s bag from the chair, marvelling again that babies needed so much luggage
when they went anywhere. Then she turned back to her mother. ‘What about you – what did you two get up to?’

‘We made a cake, didn’t we, lovie?’ Her mother smiled down at her grandson and he gurgled at her, soother slipping sideways. ‘He was a very good helper. And here
–’ she lifted a tinfoil-wrapped package from the table ‘– before big Gerard eats it all.’

‘Poor Dad – all his cakes come in halves now.’ Ruth took the bundle and tucked it into her bag. ‘Thanks, Mam.’ She slung the bag over her shoulder, lifted the baby
carrier with the other arm. ‘Well, we’d better get going, give this little man his dinner.’ She put her free hand on her mother’s shoulder, kissed her cheek lightly.
‘Thanks again, Mam. See you Thursday.’

‘Mind yourself, love.’

Driving back to the apartment – she still couldn’t think of it as home, although her tiny garden was just beginning to bloom; that would help – Ruth thought
beans on
toast.
That would do her fine: such a relief not to have to worry about cooking for someone else any more. Gerard was easy – just open a jar of Heinz. She wondered idly what Cecily was
cooking for Andrew tonight. Something wonderful, as usual. With wine and silverware and cut crystal. She shuddered, remembering her terror when she’d done the washing-up in her
mother-in-law’s house; such a long time ago, it seemed now. Thank God she’d never broken anything.

In the seat beside her, Gerard crowed happily. Ruth glanced across at him. ‘Yes, darling. I’m happy too.’ And miraculously, she was. She never thought she would be again, when
everything had come suddenly, terrifyingly crumbling down around her last May. When Andrew had walked in from work one day – hardly a week after she’d told him she was pregnant –
and announced that he’d been having an affair.

With Breffni.

Even now, almost a year later, Ruth felt slightly sick whenever she allowed herself to think about that horrendous day. Standing there, face rigid with horror, listening to her husband taking
her dreams and squeezing the life out of them – she’d felt her world shattering, had had to reach out and grab on to a chair, to touch something solid and hang on to it.

And Breffni. Of course it had been Breffni, with her shiny hair and her perfect face and her lip gloss that stayed in place all evening. Breffni, who’d lent them bedclothes and towels, and
who’d given Ruth an eye pencil, to help her make the best of herself. Knowing that if Ruth was worked on from top to toe by the greatest make-up artist in the world, she’d never hold a
candle to Breffni.

It was a miracle she hadn’t lost Gerard. How had he survived it all? That horrible scene, Andrew’s look of disbelief, his hands going up to protect himself as his wife, his docile,
eager-to-please wife had screamed and scratched and thumped, wanting him to hurt too. And after that was over, after she’d shouted herself hoarse, after she’d demanded that he leave,
not caring where he went, or what anyone would think – what did any of that matter now? What did it matter if he was telling the truth when he said the affair was over? – the great
outpouring of her grief that began, the tears that just wouldn’t stop, as she lay alone in their double bed.

And in the morning, when she’d found the strength to drag herself out of the bed, exhausted, she’d pulled her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and started putting clothes into
it. She’d been sitting on the train when she realised that she hadn’t called Helen to tell her she wouldn’t be in to work; halfway to Dublin before she remembered it was
Wednesday, her day off.

And then the months when Dad and Mam had taken over. Settling her back into her old room, answering the phone so they could tell Andrew that she was out. Getting a cushion for her back, an
antacid for her heartburn. Tissues for her tears. And finally, one day, she’d stood up and answered the phone herself when it rang.

‘Ruth, God . . . I’m so sorry –’

She hardly recognised his voice; it was like listening to someone you knew you’d heard somewhere before, but couldn’t for the life of you remember where. For the first time ever,
Ruth interrupted, ready with the words she’d been practising for days.

‘Save your apologies; I’m not interested. In a few days you’ll get a letter giving details of my new bank account, and the name and address of my solicitor.’ Her palm was
pressed against the bulk of her stomach; she was bigger than him now, in every way. ‘You will sell the house and pay half of whatever is left into my account. When the baby is born, my
solicitor will contact you to work out access. I have nothing more to say to you.’

He was speaking as she hung up; cutting him off, silencing him, was deeply satisfying – and the flood of tears that followed soon after seemed, for the first time, to be more healing than
sorrowing.

Over the next few days, she wondered where this new strength was coming from. Was it the thought of the child inside her, was he giving her the courage to stand up for them both? Or was it the
image of Breffni and Andrew together, was that finally turning her grief to rage, making her powerful with it? Determining that They would never again make life miserable for Ruth Tobin? Not Ruth
O’Neill any more – she was changing it back to Tobin. And her baby was going to be Tobin too: another small triumph.

Not that she was over it – far from it. Her parents would lie sleepless for many nights to come, listening sadly in the next room to the sobs that were still too harsh to be hidden. But
the healing process had started; she was going to survive. She and her baby would survive.

And as the months went on, Ruth began to wonder what she’d ever seen in Andrew. Was it just his good looks – could she really have been that shallow? Because now she realised that
that’s all there was to him – just a pretty face. God, she’d been so naïve. So taken in by a handsome man’s attention that she’d never looked beyond it. So
grateful that he’d wanted to marry her, so sure that no one would ever want her in that way. What a pathetic creature she’d been, the old Ruth Tobin.

Gerard had been born two days late, on the twenty-ninth of December. And looking at his screwed-up pink face, stroking his impossibly tiny fingers, touching his spike of thick black hair –
no wonder she’d had such bad heartburn – Ruth had felt something so much stronger than she’d ever felt for Andrew. She’d cradled her child in her arms, oblivious to her
sweat- and tear-stained face, deaf to her mother’s excitement, hardly seeing the flash of her sister’s camera, and thought wonderingly
so this is love.

Two months after Gerard was born, Ruth dropped in to see Sheila in the old salon – Mam had told her that Ruth was back – and asked if there was any part-time work going, and Sheila
had taken her on immediately, three days a week. Mam minded Gerard while Ruth was at work, and Maura and Claire, Ruth’s old flatmates, called around often to the apartment, and Ruth’s
younger sister Irene doted on her little nephew, begged to take him out on walks.

Occasionally Ruth found herself wondering what had happened between Donal and Frank. At least she’d done her bit to help them find each other again, even if an anonymous letter was the
best way she could come up with. She hoped things had worked out all right – Laura had always been good to her. But Ruth never asked Andrew about her; never asked about any of his family when
they met. It was better to cut all those ties now.

She stopped at a red light, looked over at Gerard again. Everything was fine; they were happy now. And she’d always have Gerard – he’d always be hers.

‘Only me.’

‘In here.’ Breffni stretched her arms over her head, yawned hugely, struggled to her feet. Cian came in as she was combing through her hair with her fingers. There seemed to be so
much more of it when she was pregnant; something about it not falling out as much. Maybe she should think about getting it cut, although Cian loved it.