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I Hope You Have a Good Life: A True Story of Love, Loss, and Redemption - Hardcover

Armstrong, Campbell

 
9780609605318: I Hope You Have a Good Life: A True Story of Love, Loss, and Redemption
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0609605313 ISBN 13: 9780609605318
Verlag: Crown Pub, 2000

Inhaltsangabe

Describes how a woman who gave birth to a child out of wedlock and gave that daughter up for adoption was reunited more than forty years later with her daughter at a time when both mother and daughter were suffering from terminal cancer. By the author of Concert of Ghosts. 25,000 first printing.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Campbell Armstrong is the author of several novels. He lives in Ireland with his wife.

Aus dem Klappentext

in the fabric of space opened, and the baby disappeared through it into dimensions where her mother couldn't follow. I hope you have a good life. It had the feel of an epitaph -- though not one for the dead. One for the living, for the vanished child."<br><br>Campbell Armstrong met his first wife, Eileen, in Glasgow when they were both very young. She was Jewish, the only daughter of an Orthodox family who lived on the south side of the city. When they first became lovers, Eileen showed Campbell a small scar on her stomach, the only remnant of a cesarean delivery she had undergone when she was seventeen. The baby, whom she named Barbara, had been given up for adoption. Eileen's parents never spoke of it again, and Eileen got on with her life. Campbell and Eileen subsequently married, had three adored children, but eventually divorced due to Campbell's heavy drinking, drug use, and affairs. Eileen and Campbell somehow remained friends and kept in touch as a bond for their children. Years la

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I remember the beginning like this.

I'm at home, standing at the windows of my office on a June evening in Ireland, and I'm on idle, one of my favorite conditions. A sunny day, rare in the disappointing summer of 1997. My son Stephen, visiting from the United States, has gone downstairs to make a phone call: his mother Eileen, my ex-wife, has an appointment that morning with a doctor in Phoenix, Arizona. A cough has been worrying her, and she's decided to have an X ray and checkup. Stephen wants to know the results. All day long he's been a little preoccupied. He's usually outgoing and cheerful, his humor nicely marbled with absurdity and nonsense and bursts of mimicry. But today he's slipped a gear or two.

Behind me, across the floor of my cluttered office, where files and papers and notebooks stand in tottering stacks, the windows overlook an expanse of green Welds, sun gleams in the plum-colored leaves of a giant copper beech. The landscape appears in green good health, vigorous and vibrant. Rebecca, my wife, is trying to catch a horse, but the animal's playing games with her, waiting until she gets very close then twisting away from her, so that she has to stalk it again. And the process begins anew. It's frisky business, human and horse, patience pitted against mischief.

An idyll of a day. The peaceful heart of the bog, that part of Ireland named Umbilicus Hiberniae on ancient maps -- and apart from Rebecca, not another human being in sight. The River Shannon is only ten miles away, but few tourists stray into our small corner of the country, and those that do are usually lost in the infamous maze of Irish backroads. Signposts around here are few, and sometimes unhelpful. I find this charming in its way, but it's a charm that often escapes the understanding of strangers who get trapped driving in maddening circles.

I can't hear Stephen's conversation from where I'm standing; the house is old and big, and he's a long way off below in the kitchen.

Again I watch Rebecca and the horse from the window. I remember when she came to Ireland to look at the house I'd bought. The expression of stunned amazement on her face; have you any idea how much work this place needs? Do you know what you've done, Campbell? No, I had no idea. I wasn't practical. We moved in, aptly perhaps, on Halloween 1991, and endured a miserable winter with no heat, and rain pouring through the ceilings. Now, six years of restoration later, Rebecca has told me several times she wouldn't live anywhere else; she's come to love this house.

I have the feeling I should be working, perhaps making notes for a novel in progress, or jotting down ideas: the activities Rebecca calls "pencil-sharpening." In fact, I'm thinking about my son and his phone call to his mother. I have no reason to suppose there's anything wrong with Eileen. The last time we spoke she hadn't mentioned her health. She'd been more concerned with mine than her own.

I'd just been diagnosed as diabetic, an ailment that was a total mystery to me, and an affront of sorts, the way unwelcome surprises are. Diabetic? Me? It doesn't even run in our family! The symptoms had been fierce thirst and serious weight-loss and a general lassitude. Rebecca had been the first to mention the possibility of diabetes, which I dismissed at once. When I had it confirmed by a doctor that she was correct in her suspicion -- her suspicions are usually all too correct -- I immediately began to gather information on this disease that had zapped me out of the blue. One of the first things I did was to call Eileen and ask if she had any knowledge of the subject.

Now I notice on my desk the twenty-page fax she sent me on May 19, just two months ago. It bears the logo of the health clinic in Phoenix where she works. At the beginning of the fax, which is a lengthy extract from a medical journal explaining diabetes and treatment and dietary measures, is a handwritten note in which she tells me she's arranged for me to phone one of the physicians at her clinic if I want further advice. She finishes her note with the words Campbell, I have a lot of people on your case. This is typical of her. I imagine how she leaped into action, making phone calls, arranging photocopies of relevant articles. The sicknesses that afflict other people are her private enemies, and she fights them daily. Her battleground is a rough one. She's a dedicated warrior, though, and an energetic survivor.

I hear Stephen on the stairs. I go to the doorway and watch him ascend. His expression is inscrutable. He reaches the landing and looks at me earnestly. He doesn't say anything for a time. When he finally speaks his voice is lifeless. I hear him talk but I don't absorb what he's telling me, and I ask him to repeat it. He does. And just for a moment -- something about his eyes, or the shape of his face -- reminds me of Eileen when she was young.

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Verlag
Crown Pub
Erscheinungsdatum
2000
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0609605313
ISBN 13 
9780609605318
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
248
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
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