“Branna told me you shut her out of your life after your wife was killed. Is she lying?”
Declan closed his eyes briefly, like his daughter did when she was gripped by emotion; Jake didn’t like seeing the similarity. He didn’t want to feel a damned thing for this man… ever.
“I should have this conversation with my daughter, not you.”
“You could, but then I’d have to tell you where to find her, and I’m not inclined to do that yet, especially as she asked me to make you go away.”
The man flinched, and the hand that reached for his coffee shook.
“I thought she’d speak to me, thought she’d at least do that.”
Jake understood the power of silence, so he said nothing and waited; his father took his lead and did the same.
The room they sat in was on the second floor and looked out over the yard of the Munro family next door. Oscar had been his age, and they’d been able to shoot arrows from his toy bow right from that yard into this room. Jake remembered his mother shrieking at him when one had landed in the fish tank. His parents’ house was home and always would be, no matter where he settled. He loved the wood paneling and the chart that marked his and Katie’s growth. Occasionally, there was another name, usually one of his ten cousins that were scattered around the U.S. and had come to visit. But the real heart of this place, the reason it felt as it did, were the two people that lived in it. He couldn’t imagine growing up without them, or having their love ripped away like Branna had when the man before him had turned his back on her.
“When Rose died, the devastation of losing her stole my will to live. We’d been together since she was thirteen. She was, quite simply, my life. I didn’t know how to cope. I kept seeing her lying there, hearing her screams, and I couldn’t help her.” The words were spoken in his soft Irish burr, and the sadness was evident in each one.
“Did you know that Branna blames herself? That, and I quote, ‘My behavior killed my mother and drove my father and I apart.’”
“No! I never wanted her to believe that.”
It was the truth. Jake could see it on his face. The man was shocked.
“She also said that you didn’t love her enough to forgive her for killing the only woman you’d ever love.”
“Dear God!” Declan started shaking, his hands gripping the cup before him, and he looked nothing like the man Jake had seen in those interviews he’d found on the internet.
“I-I never knew she felt like that. I-I just thought… Christ, I don’t know what I thought. When Rose died, I turned in on myself for a while. I tried to be there for Branna, tried to give her the support she needed while she grieved, but I was so devastated I didn’t know how to comfort her, and when I did try, she’d push me away, saying she was all right. I believed her, so I didn’t try harder. We existed for two years, going through the motions. Me providing food and shelter, working in the same school she was at. Then I was advised to take a break by my colleagues. They said that I was stressed and soon something would give. I spoke with a psychiatrist, who told me to move somewhere quiet, out of the city and into a smaller town, so I saw the ad for a position at the local high school here and took it, hoping the change of pace would help us both.
“Branna seemed okay. She was young, elevated two years due to her intelligence, but she was coping, so her teachers said. So, life just passed us by, until she graduated and came to me the next day and told me she was leaving for Washington, that she’d been offered a place at WSU. I was stunned, hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t even known she was thinking of teaching. I tried to talk to her, tell her I’d relocate with her, but she said there was no need, she had a dorm placement and everything was settled. I asked about money, offered to give her some, but she said she had been given a scholarship and would work for the rest.”
Jake could see her saying these things while wearing that cold, controlled face she sometimes used on him, explaining things precisely with no emotion.
“I hadn’t known what she was doing. Not once did she ask my advice or tell me what she had planned; she just did it. She even forged my signature on some papers she needed signed.”
“She said you tried to stay in touch with her a few times, but the last time you had a fight and she hasn’t seen you since,” Jake said.
Declan ran a hand through his hair, sending the thick waves in every direction.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve always known where she was. In the beginning, I made sure she was settled. Then made friends online with a few of the lecturers, and they keep me up to date with what was happening with her. I then returned to Ireland and started writing, which luckily became a successful career for me.”
He was modest like his daughter too.
“When I’d earned enough money, I hired someone to keep a watch over her for me, because she’d let me know quite clearly that she wanted no further contact with me. I was to be told if she was in danger or needed anything. Then one day, I decided enough was enough. I wanted my daughter back in my life, and so I went to the university and met with her, but it did not go the way I had planned.”
“Too much water under the bridge?” Jake asked.
“We both have tempers, I’m afraid, and they were unleashed that day. Suddenly, all the pent-up emotion and despair came out, and we hurled vicious, hateful words at each other. We’re both wordsmiths, so there was no lack of resourcefulness, and when it was over, we both walked away broken and bleeding.”
“Why are you here now, Mr. O’Donnell?”
“I love my daughter, Jake, and I’m sick of living without her. I’ll stay for as long as it takes to get her to talk to me, and then I’ll take it from there.”
“So, if you’ve had her followed, you know what her career is now?”
“I do, and she’s an outstanding writer, better than I could ever hope to be.”
He was proud of her, the pride a parent showed in a child; in Declan O’Donnell’s case, however, it may be too late.
