Her Name Is Rose by Christine Breen Page B

said, “Barren, you mean?”
    â€œNo. We don’t need to know,” they’d said. The next week they rang Social Services to inquire about adoption.
    *   *   *
    â€œPlease take a seat, Mrs. Bowen. One of the social workers is on her way down.” Iris was sitting inside the large foyer of a Georgian house on Merrion Square, in the offices of the Irish Adoption Board. Moments after settling, self-consciously, into an old wingback chair, she heard footsteps and stood quickly. A tall, slim woman, carrying a brown folder, came down the wooden stairs, then paused at the bottom. The unsmiling receptionist nodded toward Iris. The woman with the folder introduced herself as Sonia McGowan and led Iris into a nearby room with a corner window. She motioned to a chair to the left of a center table and sat opposite.
    â€œThank you so much for seeing me,” Iris said. She was breathless with rising excitement.
    â€œIt seemed we had no choice.” Ms. McGowan said.
    â€œI’m sorry it was—”
    â€œYes. Well.” Ms. McGowan smiled thinly. “Hearing that you’ve come all this way, Mrs. Bowen, we thought it best to agree. We do appreciate your circumstances. But you should have made an appointment. We’re very busy. With cutbacks and—”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry. But considering what’s happening, or might happen, I mean, I thought you might…” Iris felt her face flush. “I just need some information.”
    Sonia said nothing and for a second Iris thought she would be asked to leave. Sonia went on, “It’s really up to your daughter—”
    â€œYes. I know that. But … as I hoped I’d explained clearly to the receptionist, I just need to know one thing. Just in case. Because obviously I don’t want to tell Rose unless the news is not good. About me, I mean. About the cancer scare. I have an appointment on Friday!” Iris’s voice rose. “Do you see? I mean, what if?” With her eyes tearing up, Iris fumbled in her bag for tissues she knew were not there. She felt Sonia’s eyes keenly on her.
    â€œI do understand. First let me say, Mrs. Bowen—”
    â€œPlease. Call me Iris.”
    â€œAll right. Iris.” She handed Iris a tissue from a small box decorated with yellow ovals on a white background. Iris dried the corners of her eyes, then held the tissue between her hands. She folded her fingertips into her palms, hiding her chipped nails. After an awkward pause, Sonia finally spoke, but this time with a kind of chirpy drone.
    â€œAnd how is your daughter getting on?” She laid down the folder she’d been holding, placing it beside the tissues on the side table between them. “Your daughter has gone to college in London to study music. You must be so proud of her. I understand it’s not often an Irish student gets into the Royal Academy of Music.” Sonia’s breathing was measured, as if she was doing yoga in her mind. Everything about her was now measured and straight, as if she was schooling Iris in the ways of conducting oneself in stressful situations. Her fingers were soft-skinned and her nails were lightly polished. Her flat shoes were unscuffed. She might have walked in from a photo shoot advertising women’s office clothes with her gray cardigan and smart pencil skirt.
    Sonia McGowan was a woman in her early forties. And once upon a time she might have been eager and full of the energy young social workers initially possess, but on this day what Iris saw was great weariness. It was around her eyes. A few strands of gray peppered her otherwise shiny black hair.
    â€œRose … her name is Rose. She’s doing well. Considering. She’s very gifted. Her father would have been so proud of her. And she loves London. And I’m happy for her, but … I miss her terribly. What I really want—”
    â€œSounds very