The Briar Archive

9. Ascender-2

She says Sully left “provisions” for her. This is massive. We have to be careful, but we’ve got to make contact with her ASAP.

I was sipping my morning coffee when I read this post and immediately followed the link to Deirdre’s blog. As an aside, I have to mention that I love coffee. I would travel untold distances and face unnamable horrors for my morning cuppa. Any who would dare keep me from my daily communion with that dark elixir of life would find themselves on the business end of a very personal apocalypse.

Yet my freshly poured cup of hot coffee was ice-cold when I was finally able to pull my eyes away from her blog to take a second sip.

Deirdre Green had begun her blog as “Deirdre Byrne” at the beginning of 2016, a New Year’s resolution of sorts. She was twenty-four-years-old, raised by her aunt in Bunratty, Ireland, having never known her father, and was now living in London. Reading the backlog of blog posts over the previous six months, I found Deirdre was an aspiring writer who’d recently been dumped by her photographer boyfriend David, been asked to vacate his apartment by the time he got back from an out-of-country assignment, and had also recently been laid off from her assistant position. She seemed listless, lost, and languishing—but also hopeful. And tenacious. A typical twenty-four-year-old, I thought. But to add insult to what seemed like months of wine-treated injury, she’d just received word about her estranged father from New York.

Deirdre: July 12th, 2016There are days when your world just shifts 180 degrees and you find yourself looking at things from the other side of the looking glass. Today is one of those days. My view of the world and my view of myself is changed forever.

This morning I received a letter from a New York law firm. I’m still processing the contents and I honestly don’t know what to make of any of this. You spend your life with an identity. You build your world based on it. You piece together what you can from the patchwork life you’ve been given. You fill in the gaps with some assumption. But then this arrives and all that changes.

So it turns out my dad has known about me all these years. Probably knew exactly where I was this entire time. And that’s not even the shocker. I’ve found out that he’s dead. He was living IN NEW YORK!!! And he died two weeks ago. The letter says I have to go there. Sorry this is a ramble – a bit much to process.

I called Auntie Monica immediately. Now I’m freaked out. My dad? She doesn’t want to talk about any of this on the phone. She’s asked me to go back to Bunratty, so we can talk in person.

How did they find me? The law firm, I mean. Did he know where I was? When I was a girl I used to imagine he was watching over me, keeping tabs on everything I was up to. It’s some silly little fantasy that I’d always thought about, always hoped for, but didn’t dare to dream it was true. And it just might be.

And now he’s gone.

Oh, and I think my name isn’t actually my real name! What is going on????

DBx

After days of vacillating about what to do, but with what seemed like a solid nothing-left-to-lose attitude given her current circumstances, she decided she would come to New York to deal with Sullivan’s finalities in person:

Deirdre: July 15th, 2016Spent day packing. Most of my stuff will have to go into storage in Bunratty. I’m trying to decide what I should take with me on the longer journey. Auntie Monica is being a total star and has sent me the cash to get the stuff shipped.

What all this means is: I’m going! I’m actually going to go to NY. FREAKED OUT!

It wasn’t until just now that everything sort of hit me. It’s really over. When Dave comes home I won’t be here. I won’t even be in London. I won’t even be in Europe. Weird, weird, weird, weird, weird! No goodbye. Well no goodbye beyond the one we already had. I think I was hoping for a more satisfying end, now that my head is more sorted about it all. I wanted to let him know what he actually did and how he actually made me feel. I wanted that to be face to face, not in a letter.

I broke down (a little) when I found the camera. He gave me a camera for my birthday last year. I loved using it. But since we split, since he’s been gone, I’ve maybe taken two photos – and both of those were with my phone! When your ex is a world-class photojournalist I guess you’re bound to feel a bit odd about taking snaps. The pictures on my phone are not that bad, so maybe I’ll just stick with it. The camera? It’s worth a few quid and hardly used. I guess I know now how I’m paying for my flights!

Bye, Dave – I’ll write you from the new world (maybe) – my new world.

DBx

Before she headed across the Atlantic, she left her packed-up belongings with her aunt in Ireland and spent a few days there, catching up. It turned out her aunt Monica knew more about Deirdre’s father than she’d ever let on.

Deirdre: July 20th, 2016It took us three days to have the conversation, but here’s what I now know.

So Auntie Monica has never lied to me. She always told me that when I had questions I could ask her. I just never felt the need I guess. I’ve always known I was brought to her when I was almost 6 years old, after my mother died. We’d talked about my dad in the past. She didn’t know him that well, but I knew that he wasn’t from Ireland. I knew he was American and that I was born there and brought to Ireland just after my mother passed away. Auntie Monica was made my legal guardian and I was raised here. Irish passport – the lot. Obviously no hint of an American accent, despite actually being born in the States.

So his name is Sullivan Green and my surname is Green. That’s new! He used to do something with books, but the last Auntie Monica had heard, he had fallen on hard times. A deal that had gone wrong. The only really new thing we know now is that he died homeless. But also that he’d left provisions for me in his will. I always wished he was watching after me. I guess he was in a way.

We sat up until three, drinking Chamomile and crying over pictures of mum. I don’t think we look alike, except perhaps in the eyes.

Deirdre was haunted by this, and understandably so. Loss was never easy, but was it worse to lose a person whom you could have known? Should have known? To have to accept that all potential for a familial relationship was simply gone? I was mildly relieved that Sebastian would be spared that pain when I died.

Deirdre: July 21st, 2016I’m suddenly nervous. I just realised that I’ve entered into this whole thing a little blind. A month ago all I had to worry about was the collapse of civilisation and our systems of government, today . . . I have a new name. A father, who’s dead. An inheritance of sorts . . . in a new city in a new country! I have no idea what is waiting for me on the other side of the Atlantic.

At least I’ll sleep on this flight. If I can manage not to throw up.

See you on the other side people, DB (DG?) xx

Once she was in New York, Deirdre posted a picture of the things her father had left.

Dierdre:So this is all that’s left of the man who was my father. This is what he left me. A book, two pieces of paper, and a pocket watch. His body was burned, and his ashes were scattered in a place called the Ramble, which is in Central Park. Those were his wishes.

That’s it. That’s all.

No resolution. No revelation. No last letter to his little girl. No reason for letting go of me. I spent hours with the lawyer today. There’s so much to process. Don’t feel like writing any more right now.

D.

A few days passed, and she posted again. She was still in New York.

Deirdre: July28th, 2016I’m not sure where to start. There is a lot and I don’t want to fill tons of pages. I don’t want to bore you to tears, all you thousands of people reading th . . . oh wait.

The first thing to say is that I can’t actually tell Auntie Monica (or phantom you) where I am. Not properly. Not specifically. I wish I could, but the lawyer says that would attract the wrong sort of attention to my father’s “affairs.” I knew he was deeply in debt despite having quite a bit of money squirreled away in investments as it turns out, but I’ve since learnt he also had this whole secret property thing going on. He wasn’t living in it – which I just don’t get, because it is (well probably was at one point) stunning. Mr. Wallace has said I can stay in the property while they work out my father’s debts (which means I get to delay my return home for a bit longer), but that I shouldn’t let anyone else know about it, or where it is. So this is me keeping my new home address a secret. All I’m going to say is that it’s . . . unbelievably central.

Mr. Wallace (Orvin) is sort of a cross between an adorable uncle and a completely creepy school teacher. He keeps calling me ‘dear’ which I hate, and he seems insistent on giving me hugs. I think he thinks he’s consoling me for the loss of my father. Ummmmmm . . . I never knew the guy, we’re cool.

This city is just incredible, it has to be said. I thought London was mad, but this place . . . I haven’t done anything on my bucket list yet. I’ve done some walking about, but I’ve been too wrapped up in “dad” stuff. I’m still . . . I don’t know, freaked out? I can’t make any sense of the page. I don’t understand why he wanted me to have it, and the handwritten letter doesn’t help at all. It’s just the original version of the book page. Though, the phrase ‘ripe and runny with wonder’ is just haunting me. Mr. Wallace said it seemed “Thoreau-esque.” Maybe it was important to my dad, sentimental, and he wanted it to stay with a “Green,” which I am now? Always was? It’s been brilliant exploring a new part of the world under an assumed name. But Deirdre B. is waiting for me on the other side of the ocean. Not missing her just yet, however.

Tomorrow I’m going to give myself a break from it and check something off. Maybe the High Line? But for tonight I’ll have pizza (the choice here is mad!) and try and get a good night’s sleep on the single mattress – currently placed on the floor of the living room.

Dx

At this point, several of the Mountaineers had debated whether or not they should contact Deirdre. Eventually, Ascender sent the core Mountaineers a cryptic message: “Don’t reach out yet. I might be able to connect with her. Wait to hear from me.”

In the meantime, the Mountaineers tried to discern all they could from the photograph Deirdre had posted. They noticed a string of Roman numerals along the bottom of one of the loose pages. But the photograph was too low-res to make out the numbers.

I had no idea what they could be looking for, but I was content to hang back and watch. The reporter in me kicked in. This new Basecamp forum made it much easier to shadow the Mountaineers and their progress than it had been decades before. And if they disappeared again, at least I’d have a better chance of ascertaining why.