The Claddagh

“I know you took it” I screamed at my mother.

“Oh Bullshit, I didn’t take your stupid ring” she screamed back.

“How could you do this?” I cried.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, right now, I’ll slit your God damn throat” she hissed.

It actually wasn’t my ring. It belonged to my best friend Chrissy. It was a beautiful, gold, Claddagh ring. A Claddagh is recognizable by its two hands, holding a heart, the heart has a crown sitting on top. The hands symbolize friendship, the heart, love, and the crown symbolizes loyalty.

Chrissy’s grandmother had gifted her the ring, for her fifteenth birthday. It had been forged in Ireland and was her most precious treasure. We had been best friends since the first grade, and we were now Freshman in High School. 

One of the many things Chrissy and I had in common, was our Irish descent. My mother taught me Irish songs, and fables. She told us, how her own grandmother had traveled across the Atlantic, from Ireland. We were told certain foods we ate were traditional Irish cuisine. 

Chrissy and I had plans to travel to Ireland when we grew up. We wanted to go as soon as we graduated. We talked about haunted castles, and leprechauns, cute Irish boys, shamrocks, and the Cliffs of Moher. We would check out books about Ireland from the library and read them together. It had been our dream all through school.

My mother knew all this. I had questioned her about our ancient clan name, and any other information she could give us about, what I was raised to believe was our mother land. My interest wasn’t just in Ireland, or in the connection with my friend. It was also a bridge to communicating with my mother.

You see, my mother was an addict. Both of my parents were. Their drug of choice was meth. With it, came all the horror and abuse one could imagine. She would often disappear for days or weeks at a time. If she were present, you never knew who you would be coming home to. Often, it was an irate woman looking to inflict pain on whoever crossed her path. 

I was, more often than not, her designated whipping boy. It didn’t matter what she was incensed about, she would take it out on me. When she was destitute, which was almost all the time. She was a thief. She had stolen money, and items from most of our family. My father was just as guilty. They were two sides of the same coin. A match made in perfect hell.

In spite of these things I was still desperate for any kind of love or positive attention from my mother. She was a flawed human being but I loved her. So I made a tremendous mistake, and asked my friend if I could borrow her ring for the day to show my mother. I just knew she would be thrilled to see and touch something from Ireland. 

Chrissy was reluctant, however she had a huge heart and a generous spirit. So she allowed me to borrow the ring. I promised to bring it back the next day. I swore to God above, that I would. Chrissy trusted me. I would not let her down.

When I got home from school, I opened the front door with hesitation. Who was behind it? My father wasn’t home, but my mother was. I thanked God, that she was in a decent mood, and seemed approachable. I was elated. Nearly jumping out of my skin with excitement.

She said the ring was beautiful. She held it and turned it in her hand. She tried it on, it fit her pinky. She said how lucky Chrissy was. She wondered aloud if the gold were mined in Ireland or if it was Welsh. We chit-chatted about it for a while. I loved these talks with her. I thought to myself, when Chrissy and I go to Ireland, I am going to buy her a ring like this, of her very own. 

I thought about how touched she would be, and how she would treasure it.

When I went to bed that night, I placed the ring on my dresser along with other items I would need for school the next day. I know I put it there. The next morning, when I awoke, the ring had gone MIA, and so had my mother.

I knew she took it. I anguished over the thought. How could she do this to me? Chrissy will never forgive me. I tore my room, and our house apart looking for it. I stayed home from school. I could’t face Chrissy without her ring. 

Neither of my parents were around to enforce me going to school. I was heartbroken. I didn’t think my mother would do this, not to me. Not with something that was so meaningful to her, Chrissy and myself. I was wrong.

When Chrissy got home from school, she called me. Our phone rang fifty times it seemed. But I couldn’t answer, I was so ashamed. So her parents did what any normal parents would do. They drove to our house, and knocked on our door. I confessed to her then, that had I lost her beautiful ring. I didn’t know where it was.

I had placed it on my dresser and upon morning, it had vanished. 

Her parents wanted to talk to my parents, but of course mine were no where to be found. 

They could have, and probably should have, contacted the authorities. It was theft, there was no doubt. If they had, I would have taken the fall for my mother. However, I think they knew. They never said, but I think they knew my parents took the ring, and they took pity on me. Chrissy would never speak to me again, our friendship annihilated. I couldn’t blame her. But I also couldn’t admit what my mother had done, to her and or her parents.

When my mother finally decided to return, I asked her about the ring. 

She played dumb. “What ring?” she said, with a patronizing tone. She smiled her wicked smile, she always did when she had done something abhorrent. Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

That’s when I unleashed and began screaming at her. 

After she told me she would slit my throat, if I didn’t stop, I stopped. 

I didn’t care if she did kill me. I knew another word about it was pointless. I knew, I would never see that ring again. I had lost my best friend, and I had been betrayed by my own mother. I wanted to die. My teenage life, felt like it was over.

I never spoke of Ireland to my mother again. The last shred of faith I had in her, lost. 

Years later, and well after my mother’s death. I would find out, while surfing one of those genealogy sites, we were not, of Irish decent at all. 

She had fabricated her entire family history. 

I was deceived, and betrayed by her, once again.