#30 For the Sake of Love - Ar Mhaithe Le Gra Cuid 1

I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. Well that was a lie, I'd slept for a few hours on the train. But that seemed like years away. It was implausible that so much had taken place over the span of forty eight hours. Regardless of how much time had passed I didn't use any of it to sleep the night before, instead taking advantage of the dimly lit train car to immerse myself in my mother's world via the tattered red journal.

Though I should've been exhausted, I felt rejuvenated.

Of course that could've been the secondary high I got from the bitter smell of coffee that enveloped me for the last four hours. The train arrived at ten at night, assuming that Monroe didn't keep regular hours before after seven I found a twenty four hour fast food a block away from the address Lyle showed me 1101 N. Hampshire St..

After my sixth hour of sitting alone in the cheap plastic booth an employee took pity on me and gave me a box of French fries. She mumbled something about break ups being 'the worst' as she patted my shoulder and retreated behind the cash register.

Eventually I left, migrating to a small coffee shop on Hampshire St. kitty corner to X Enterprises. The modern business skyscraper stood thirty-two stories high – I had plenty of time to count them- and was located on a triangular property that jutted out in the road creating a split in traffic. Pristine windows covered each floor and their reflective surfaces caught streaks of bright cars as they raced past, but did not allow me to see inside.

At 6:02am when I finally caught a glimpse of a professionally dressed woman sporting a matching beige suit enter via a door at the point of the building I jumped up from my table, nearly knocking it on its side.

Rushing across the sporadic traffic I stopped upon meeting my reflection in the mirror. No wonder the fast food worker took pity on me.

Although my hair – most of it at least – was tied up in a bun it was clear I hadn't washed or brushed it lately. Wisps of windblown strands stood out in every direction and refused to be patted down. Silently I cursed the window washer for doing such a good job that I could even make out the violet shadows forming under my eyes. So much for not feeling tired because I sure did look it.

I shook my head, breaking eye contact with my reflection in embarrassment. It was one way glass and I had no idea if there was someone on the other side watching me critique my hectic appearance. Never the less I redid my bun and patted my cheeks in an effort to urge some color into my face.

The door stood apart from the rest of the building as it was the only non-window fixture of the façade. The stainless steel frame with the words X Enterprises etched into the material was much lighter than I expected as it swung open revealing the well lit interior.

The ground floor was completely open and much larger than the reflective exterior let on. Abstract chandeliers hung from the high ceiling that caught the light coming in from either side. Only the back wall perpendicular to the flanking streets was a solid steel, holding no windows at all, instead three elevator doors stood neatly spaced. In between them were simple white lettered lists of names and corresponding floors. Above each elevator hung a flat screen television set each playing a different news station.

In fact as I did a quick three-sixty of the room I saw ten more televisions mounted at varying heights somehow hung on the delicate looking window frames. Behind me where the two windowed walls met at a point was a small rectangular fountain. The body was black marble with one triangular tier pushing a steady stream of water that trickled into the base. Above it an elegantly framed painting hung, invisibly suspended a foot above the modest fountain. From behind the modern wood frame a man no younger than seventy sat, classically posed by a fireplace - though his expression did nothing to suggest warmth.

The company's CEO I wagered? Did that mean the elderly man was Monroe? For some reason I didn't think so.

Following the grey tile covered floor to the back wall I walked I past the only structure in the lobby. A single circular desk that sat in the middle of the room. A woman and a man sat at on the inside of the curved counter their focus held by an assortment of four or five computers that sat before them. The man wrote something down every few seconds while the woman typed furiously without pause. Both were so in tune with their duty that neither of them paused to greet or register my appearance for that matter.

Although the windows encouraged the suns warmth to filter through the barrier I shivered. There was something distinctly empty about the building, I thought for a minute trying to place it. The sound, there was none. I couldn't hear the passing cars or the hum of thickening herds of pedestrians who crossed the street on their way to work, not even cheap elevator music. It was eerily quiet.

Maybe that's how the desk attendants preferred to work I rationalized. Heck I would be easily distracted if I were surrounded by a three-sixty view of the middle of a bustling city – but maybe that's just a small town girl talking.

A woman walked by and I allowed my eyes to watch her as she used the mirrored surface to check herself ruffling her platinum hair and adjusting the strap on her leather purse. I squirmed, it was like I was in a zoo. Except I was completely shut off from the rest of the immediate world, and even though I was the one watching there was a pervasive feeling that led me to wonder whether I was the free or the caged.

Shaking that thought I scanned the white lettering that protruded a few centimeters from the smooth back wall. It took me a few minutes to locate Monroe's name on the top of the middle list.

Richard Monroe ... Executive Branch ... Floor 32 ... Room 321

There was no hesitation in my hand as it connected with the elevator's up button, pushing it firmly down I waited to be taken to Monroe.

The thirty-second floor was much busier than the lobby; plain grey cubicles lined the floor leaving narrow pathways for professionally dressed men and women to scurry through. It was like a giant rat maze separating the workers into small sparsely decorated thinly walled rooms.

Only the right wall of windows were visible where I made my way over to a small waiting area that held a geometrically patterned beige couch and matching chair.

From my seat I took in the rest of the floor in greater detail. The left wall was lined with private offices featuring richly colored mahogany doors. At the point of the room a glass wall separated the last row of uniform cubicles from an oblong table, a conference room I guessed.

As I waited more employees filed in, paying little attention to me as they found their respective cubicles and began work – whatever that constituted. I didn't devote much interest to them, instead I kept my eyes trained on room 321 located at the back adjacent to the conference room.

By nine o'clock my entire body fidgeted with nervous energy. I'd done my best to keep my cool, trying to avoid replaying the scene I scripted and re-scripted in my head. My knee bounced up and down in anxiety, it was getting late. What if he wasn't coming into work today? Then what would I do?

Just then the elevator chimed and a group of men in expensive suits exited the doors. Instantly one stood out to me, he stood at the head of the group of suited professionals and his confident stride outlasted them as he made his way alone to the back of the room.

In ten seconds, I'd crossed the floor catching a brief glimpse of his profile as he shut the door to room 321 behind him. I had my hand on the cool metal handle when a woman called out to me instructing me that I wasn't to go in without an appointment.

I ignored her.

My heart pounded as I marched into the spacious office. It was larger than the first floor of my cabin, with windows lining the entire back wall. Because of the buildings unusual shape Monroe's office was an elongated triangle of sorts. Typical office supplies, filing cabinets, and book shelves lined the sides, and in the middle of the room sat a massive oak desk upon an intricate oriental rug. I took in the room quickly but one thing caught my eye - even before I saw Monroe.

Directly behind his desk hung a portrait - much like the one in the lobby - only this one was much more pronounced and assertive. A gaudy gold frame surrounded the man's bold stance and steely-eyed look, his head was tilted slightly up as if he were looking down at whoever sat across from him in the leather-lined chairs.

"Do I know you?" The deep voice brought my attention back to the man I was so intent on meeting. He gave me quick once over before turning back to a stack papers on the polished wood desk.

He was older than I imagined, his thick midnight black hair was peppered with white strands and I could see the deep wrinkles that formed on his forehead as he squinted at me.

I balled my hands into fists at my side trying to push down the tide of anger that rose in my gut from his dismissiveness. Taking a deep breath I readied myself for a conversation that I knew would change my life.

"I have Mo Soileireacht." I stated evenly.

Monroe stopped suddenly, the words clearly jarring him though I didn't get much of a chance to gauge his reaction as the door behind me cracked open and a middle aged woman stuck her head in.

Her perfectly straightened bobbed hair hardly moved with the tilt of her head as she addressed Monroe.

"I am so sorry Mr. Monroe she slipped right past me." As she spoke she did not enter into the office, instead electing to pass her concerns like a talking head, levitating out of thin air. The woman continued in quick sentences offering to call security if it was 'necessary' she remarked turning her gaze to give me a distasteful once over.

Her comments seemed to slide right over Monroe's meticulously combed hair as he rose slowly from his desk, his tall frame perfectly covering the grand portrait behind him. With one look he silenced the woman and she slipped away, head and all.

My shoulders relaxed only slightly as I struggled to hold his intense gaze.

His eyes seemed to reach out and grab me by the shoulders pinning me in place. Perhaps this is how he rose to the thirty second floor of an international company, by pinning his clientele to their seat. His look – the color of his eyes were nothing out of the ordinary. Yet as he studied me I instinctively crossed my arms. Sizing me up in one look he left me small and vulnerable.

"I am surprised," he tapped his hands on his desk in thought. "I thought I sent another party to collect the item - but perhaps I am mistaken." He nodded then reached into a drawer to his right. Pulling out a checkbook he leafed through for an empty spot. "Well, where is it?" He raised an eyebrow at my empty hands.

I stood stock still as he waited for my response.

I'd made a plan - well sort of. When I got off the train I knew I needed to hide Mo Soileireacht, if Monroe was desperate enough to send his lethally armed cronies after me it would be idiotic to bring it willingly onto his turf. So I hid it in a locker at the train station. Admittedly that was as far as I'd gotten in my plan, the rest I decided I'd play by ear - after I got my questions answered.

But now, I couldn't respond, I was frozen. I'd spent the entire morning entertaining what I learned from my mother's journal, and what I would say to Monroe when I found him. But now every well crafted sentence seemed weak – or was it I that felt weak?

I looked away from his skeletal gaze.

No, I felt strong, confident. I'd waited for this moment all of my life even though back then I had no idea precisely what 'this' constituted. I needed to be strong for myself, for all the years that I refused to think about my mother for fear of living with the pitted feeling in my stomach. The feeling that I was completely and utterly in the dark, that I knew nothing of her or why she left. For this reason I squared my shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. Today I was getting answers.

"What did you say to her?" My voice was quiet but sturdy.

"Excuse me?"

"To make her leave me, what did you say?"

My statement caused him pause and I watched a glimmer of recognition grace his eyes, before he shook it off and went on to feign understanding.

"I'm sorry I don't know who you're talking about-"

"Bullshit." I spat no longer able to contain my years of outrage. "You seem to remember that little painting well enough but not the woman attached to it? Charlotte Ellis, your mistress, the one who painted Mo Soileireacht." I let the statement fall before me. There it was out in the open, finally. A piece of the truth - of her truth.

It was on the twenty-seventh page that she began to mention a man, but only by the initials R.M. At first I couldn't believe it, it seemed to be too much of a coincidence, that her lover was the one who'd nearly killed me to acquire the painting. The painting, which now seemed so insignificant compared to what was behind it's canvas, and I had to wonder if that was what he was after all along.

But why?

I could only settle on one conclusion.

"May." His shoulders fell as he uttered the word, and in this particular case the name of his daughter.

I ignored his realization and took a few confident steps toward him. "Did you pay her off again? Like when you knocked her up - maybe ten extra grand to leave me." The stream of accusations left my mouth numb as if the words had taken my every emotion and strewn them on the floor.

"She loved you," I confided. It was odd being the one to relay the message, because for some reason I felt as if he didn't know. If he did I wouldn't be here now. But maybe he just didn't care. "I don't know why, but she loved you. That's why she came back a year later - a fucking year. Did you even acknowledge her feelings or me?" I was gushing now unable to hold back the bits of information I collected from the worn pages of Mo Soileireacht.

My mother's journal read like a book whose pages had been torn out, picked apart, and then rebound. From what I gathered she wrote only when she felt utterly compelled or conflicted to get her story down on paper. What she did write was incredibly detailed; making for just over eighty pages over two years.

Her first entries were typical, recounting a few day to day activities and documenting the completion of a few paintings. Several of the entries held no words, just pictures of perspective art subjects or doodles.

Then came the mentions of R.M. how she'd taken a job in the city and begun – against her better judgement – an affair with her boss.

On page seventy two a lone drawing in red pen of a pregnancy test with two lines inside the oval screen. Underneath were the words "Should I tell him?" the words were outlined several times over as if she'd written and re-written them hoping that if they stuck to the page she'd have a clear answer.

I remember staring at that page in disbelief, not thinking about Monroe or flipping to the next page to see what her decision was, but all at once I felt calm. This was a drawing of me. My mother had drawn me - abstract maybe - but still, it was me.

She was a landscape artists, but I always wondered if she ever drew her daughter. Even just a doodle on a scrap of paper - it seemed inevitable. Don't artists draw what they love, and if that holds true then why wouldn't she draw me? It was an idiotically simple request, but I felt a warmth rise in my stomach as I stared at the penned outline.

I wish I could have relished that moment longer because the next page was like a punch in the stomach. Three sentences detailed how Monroe paid her to quit and move out of the city. Uncharacteristically my mother offered little details, concluding that she was leaving out of love.

Love.

One year later, after I was born she used the same reason to reach out to Monroe for the first time since he'd paid her to leave.

"I am meeting with R.M tonight at the Lily Pad Place for the sake of love."

It was her last entry dated the day she left me, just one sentence and then she stopped.

Monroe was the last person to see my mother and I couldn't let go of the idea that whatever happened between them inevitably led to her abandoning me.

"You found her journal." Monroe broke through my thoughts after a long bout of silence. His question was rhetorical and I didn't bother to answer as he rounded the desk. "She wrote everything down in that ratty thing, some things not always true."

"What?" My face contorted and my arms contracted over my chest defensively.

His features softened. "You poor child. May, your mother – Charlotte - was very unstable."

"What are you talking about?"

"She mentioned she worked in my office correct?" He waited for me to nod my head. "Well in her time here she had quite the obsession with me." A fraction of a smile played at his lips before it faded. "At first it was just a prolonged glance or two, staying late in the office when I was working after hours. Being a gentlemen I was indulgent - maybe a little too much - I'd walk her to the subway and return her smiles." He brought his hand to his temple as if remembering the guilt of his actions.

"Then one day when my wife came to meet me for lunch Charlotte went hysterical, she claimed that I was cheating on her with my wife. Apparently in her head she and I were an item. Needless to say after that incident we were forced to let her go." He waved his hand and clenched his jaw. "A year later, you say she came back, and she did, but that was the first I knew she was pregnant. She claimed it-" He stopped himself locking his light eyes with my own. "You were mine and that she wanted alimony or she'd tell my wife. That time I did give her money. To take care of you." Monroe ran his hand through his hair absently.

"I never touched your mother. I have two sons at home and when I saw you in her arms-" He paused. "I guess I took pity, but I had no idea she would leave you after she got the money, I would have done something-" His voice trailed off.

My breathing slowed to such a rate that I could barely detect it anymore. Was what he said true? No. My knee jerk reaction railed at me for doubting my mother momentarily. I didn't know this man one bit - but then again - did I really know my mother at all?

My breath froze in my lungs and my hand instinctively clutched the locket she'd left for me. I knew nothing about my mother's character, not even enough to tell if she was a delusional homewrecker.

My knees buckled underneath me and Monroe took a step forward helping me balance on the shoulder of his expensive suit. He guided me to one of the leather chairs at the front of his desk and I melted into the smooth material.

My world was spinning and I tried to focus on what I'd read in Mo Soileireacht, running the passages through my mind again, taking them apart. Could they be fabricated? The fantasy of a confused woman? She'd spoken in such adoration of Monroe, had I confused that for an unhealthy obsession?

"You're not my father then?" The question never bothered me before and in all honesty I hardly gave it any thought. But now it was a double sucker punch, I'd allowed myself to open myself up to the possibility of meeting and maybe even connecting with him just as he was being taken away from me.

"I don't know who is dear."

I nodded and tried to smile, wanting desperately to shake off the debilitating sadness that came over me. This was my worst fear I thought to myself as my fingernails dug into the arm cushions. I sucked in a breath and forced my eyes shut in an attempt to sort through my feelings.

In my gut I knew when I read Mo Soileireacht that my life would change, and as I got deeper into it the feeling that it wouldn't necessarily be for the better grew like a mold at the back of my mind. I'd tried so desperately to wall it off as I waited in the coffee shop and then the lobby. There was no way I could just walk away.

The thing about opening Mo Soileireacht, and maybe even the moment I took Lyle's hand in mine racing through the forest, is that I couldn't let go. I needed to know the full story, even if it wasn't what I dreamed.

"Then why do you care so much about the journal?" My eyes shot open and fixed their gaze at the man before me. If his story was true then why go to such lengths to steal my mother's journal? To continue to protect his marriage? But why now, and moreover if my mother really was crazy why would anyone believe a vanished woman?

He leaned down so that he knelt before me. Taking my hands in his he squeezed them. A look of concern covered his features as he took in my abrupt accusation. His gaze was sharp as he mulled over his answer. The blue of his irises seemed to have faded, giving into a more grey color that seemed hardened with time.

"I was worried of exactly this." He gestured from me to the door. "That you or someone else would find the journal and assume the worst without knowing all the facts." He spoke dismissively as he rose. "You see I am up for a very big, high profile promotion, you understand the press and all that. I didn't want to chance a scandal, like your mother's imaginative journal coming out." He paused his pacing and brought his index finger to his lips in thought. "I may have gotten a little blinded, but I promise you I never meant to cause you any harm."

"A little late for that." I snorted how could he justify sending armed men into my life on the basis of a job promotion.

"I truly am sorry, you must have been through so much." The feeling of his hand on my shoulder caused me to flinch away before I could catch myself, maybe I was being too harsh on him. I was just as much a surprise to him as he was to me.

Still I needed time to think, everything was coming at me so quickly. Inadvertently I'd opened a new channel and the previously stagnant waters coursed through the new path chipping away at the barriers I'd set up. It was all too much at once, I gripped the arms of the chair hoping that the expensive material would stabilize me.

"Let me take you to lunch, I know it's not much after what you've been through, but we could talk. I think you'd find I am not such a bad guy." He extended a hand and a tight smile to me. "Your mother was a good woman, May."

I let out a quiet sigh at his statement, for I was no longer so sure. Just as I thought I had the smallest grasp on my mother's life it was ripped away from me. My understanding was no fuller than the first day I entered Unit #16 and I could feel the pit in my stomach that I swore I would close today widen.

I looked from his hand back to his watchful eyes. "You knew her?" The question felt stupid as it left my lips.

"Why, yes. She worked here for over a year."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Whatever you want to know. I will do my best to answer your questions." He flashed me a smile, one that seemed oddly blank.

I didn't spend much time analyzing him as my mind drifted to his offer. However little, he knew my mother. Both his word and her journal confirmed that fact. At last I was presented with a chance to talk with someone who had met her. He would know only little things I assumed, how she took her coffee or if she drank coffee at all. But maybe, just maybe she would have let something slip. A story about her childhood or what inspired her to pick up a paint brush.

I couldn't pass up this moment.

And with that thought in mind I rose from my seat feeling some strength flow back into my legs.

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This is a long one -hope you all enjoy ! Vote & Comment if you wish xooo