Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (34 page)

He pulls his hand away from me, rubbing his fingers against his face to dry it clean. “But I prayed for you every day. I prayed that God would let me back, that Evelyn, that you, would forgive me. I wrote you letters, so many letters, love. Every week, sometimes twice a week, because I missed you so much. I hurt from how I missed you.” He points to a bag next to the window. I grab it, hand it to him. “I never gave you your birthday present and I know it’s perhaps too late, perhaps it won’t mean much to you, but I have these for you.”

Joe unzips the bag and withdraws stacks and stacks of letters, bound together with twine, the same twine Declan used to wrap my birthday present. There are hundreds and I have to hold them in my lap, on the bed as Joe continues to hand them to me. These letters are my father’s life, Declan’s, journaled and recorded for all the memories we couldn’t share.

“A letter for every time I thought of you.” He grabs my hand. “If you’ll let me, love, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make amends for the pain I’ve caused, for all those lies. For breaking your heart and your mother’s. I swear to you, I will.”

When his grip on my hand tightens, and he inclines forward, the letters scatter around me, some slip to the floor but I don’t care. There has been too much pain, too many disappointments and I nearly lost it all. Lies do that. Secrets do. They bend your life so that the only thing that is left is your anger, your tight hold onto the poison that only you die from. I’m tired of it. I watch the thick lines on Joe’s forehead, the bushy whiskers against his chin and decide to leave the past to rest. The name hitches on the tip of my tongue and when my father cups my face, kisses me, it leaves my mouth with ease. “Daddy…”

He holds me and his tears are heavy, streaming down his face. Quick and unexpected, the panic forms in my chest, bubbles until I feel a catch just above my heart. But my father senses this, feels the rigid shake of my limbs, the thumping beat of my pulse and he pulls me down to his side, wraps his arms around me and hums low; a hypnotic melody I have not heard since I was fourteen. My father’s voice, singing to me, chasing away the monsters, chasing away the panic from the room.
  

I read Joe’s letters. Not all of them, God knows it would take weeks to get through eight years of random thoughts, love letters to a daughter he missed like breathing. His words, not mine. But I did read many. My father, it seems, is a poet. He tells me it’s just the Irish way, that there are bits of lyric in each strand of DNA. Perhaps it is the suffering his folk have endured that forces eloquence, the romantic. Long-held sorrow and melancholy make for beautiful expression. Perhaps he just spent years remembering his life with us and his heart grew fonder; his imagination filling in the spaces left blank by a slipping memory.

In many of the letters, Joe mentions Declan; how proud he was of him. How strong he was, how frustrated he made my father. They are normal complaints and boasts of a parent. Lacking technicalities, Declan is Joe’s son. There is no blood tying them together, no familiar features that bond them to the same family tree, but my Dad has been a father to Declan, when his own did not bother.

Declan is my stepbrother. His mother’s death and the end of her marriage to Joe aside, he is still my stepbrother. So what am I to do about that? It should disgust me. It should make me feel like I’ve committed some unpardonable sin against morality.

It does not.

I finish my father’s last letter from two years ago, when Declan had moved to the States and left Joe alone in Galloway. He’d been in Utah, playing his freshman year as a first string wing at Brigham Young. Dad had been proud that Declan had managed a scholarship; prouder still that his talent and intelligence had been rewarded. But Joe’s concerns were not that Declan would feel ill at ease in a foreign country. He seemed concerned that Declan would not let himself enjoy life; that he had grown too like his mother.

“He does not smile often, does Declan,”
the letter reads.
“And I cannot tell if this is his nature, to be sad like his mum, his bitty moods not on display for the world to see; or if he truly is an unhappy lad. My hope is that he finds a smile, that his laughs are open, like yours were, Autumn Honor. I wish that he would find someone that makes him smile as my Evelyn did with so small an effort for me.”

My father rolls on the bed, adjusts his pillows and I look up from the faded page to offer him a smile. “How was your nap?”

He tries to speak between a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you know, love, I believe I sleep better when you’re near.” I laugh, remembering how quickly Joe will flatter when he isn’t sure if he’s in trouble or not.

“No need to charm, Dad. I’m not so angry anymore.” The letter in my hand shifts when I fold it back and my father watches as I replace it in the envelope. “You said Declan didn’t often smile,” I say, point at him with the letter.

Joe’s eyes are gray today and bright with small flecks of blue peeking out between the red lines. But his features are relaxed, and he reaches for me, urging me to leave the recliner and sit next to him on his bed. I am careful with him, laying on my side to nuzzle against his shoulder. “Moira was such an unhappy woman, love. Even when we were first wed, she never smiled and for such a time I feared that Declan had taken on her manner. I was sore with worry over him, if I’m being honest.”

“What changed?” I ask, playing with the ridges on Joe’s thumbnail.

He exhales, links his fingers in mine. “You changed him, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think—”

 “Joe?” I hear behind the quick whoosh of the door opening. I sit up, on guard when Heather enters the room. I don’t know why this scrawny tart is here or how she even knows my father, but when she rushes to the bed, pulling Joe’s hand out of mine to take it, I have to restrain myself from punching her in her awful button of a nose. “I was so worried about you.” When she backs away from greeting my father, there is a garish pink lip print on his skin. I feel Joe’s back straighten. Then, Declan stands at the foot of the bed and he and Joe exchange an expression I can’t quite read. Annoyance, perhaps anger, but then Heather bounces next to Declan and loops her arm in his and rational thought becomes a remote, forgotten concept. I want to kill her. I want to kill him, bring him back and kill him again.

Mostly, I want to leave this room.

When I start to leave Joe’s side, he grabs my wrist, keeping me next to him. There is a calm, restrained tone to his voice when he speaks, but it is absent of any warmth. “Heather, thank you for your kindness, but I’m here with my daughter.”

Her reaction is immediate. Glints of shock, of confusion, shadow under her eyes, flicker like a sparkle in the way her smile widens and then, utter giddiness. She thinks I am no threat, that Declan and I couldn’t possibly be involved now.

“Daughter?” Heather says, her smile so disgustingly wide I can see the small gaps in her molars. “Oh, well. Then Autumn and I are like family, aren’t we?” She smiles at Declan and his face pales. He tries to dislodge Heather from his arm, staring at me like there is an excuse tilting against his tongue, but just then, a nurse enters the room, bustling around Joe and forcing me off the bed. 

While the nurse fusses, I check my cell, eager to avert Declan’s long stares and the way Heather keeps trying to hold his hand. Ava has called three times. I hear the squeak of Declan’s shoe against the floor and I know he wants to speak to me. But it’s too much. That smirk on his face, the one I’ve always connected to his sarcasm, his lecherous advances, don't match the sad boy Joe mentioned in his letter. Well. They didn’t. Now, however, there is no humor in his eyes, only the long gawk over my face as he steps closer, and the deep shades under his eyes. I can’t do this, not now. He brought Heather to my father. Heather, who he swore was a stupid tart, who pissed him off enough that he lectured her on the finer points of Geek Pride. Heather, who I discover from her brief mention as the nurse checks Joe’s vitals, has cooked for my father in his home. She plans to cook for him again once Joe is able to leave the hospital.

It took one day. My fear, his betrayal, gave Heather an opening and she stepped right in, stealing back Declan as though I was nothing. And he let her. He told me he loved me, but it’s Heather who has comforted him. Heather who is looking at him like he’s a prized calf she intends to fatten up for the slaughter.

Declan’s steps are slow, barely a nudge toward me, but I cannot stand to be near him. I feel the deep hum of my heart pounding, my anger boiling and know that if I don’t leave right now I won’t be able to stop myself from striking out.

“Joe, I have to go see Ava.” He tries to argue, tries spitting the thermometer out of his mouth, but I stop him. “It’s fine, I’ll come back tonight.” My eyes slip toward Declan, but can get no further than his nose. “I’ll stay with him tonight.” Heather takes his hand, holding it tight and I look back at Joe, though my remarks are not for him. “I’m sure you could use the rest.”

“Thanks,” Heather speaks for Declan.

I ignore them both when Joe pulls me down to his bed. He wants to tell me something. He wants to say something that will keep me calm, root me to this spot, but he is still sick, still healing. He has no business trying to coddle me. I make the worry leave my face, pull my lips together so there is no expression. “I’ll be back, Dad.” I hug him and can’t help the tears that slip past my eyelids when his arms tighten, when it feels as though he won’t ever let go of me.

“My sweetheart,” Joe says. “I love you.”

“I love you.” One brief kiss over his heavy whiskers and I dart from the room, eager to leave before my anger, my fear, has me making a complete idiot out of myself.

“Autumn!” Declan calls after me, just as I punch the down button on the elevator. I won’t yell and scream in the middle of a hospital. “Thank you. You being here, it means so much to Joe,” he says to my back.

“He’s my father, Declan,” I say, punching the button again. “He’s all I have left.” When I slip inside, wait for the doors to close, I catch a glimpse of his face. It’s drawn low. Lines that weren’t there yesterday wrinkle around his mouth, across his forehead and I have to ball my hands into fists to keep from touching him. To keep from hitting him.

My best friend is a stubborn brat when she’s angry. It’s something we have in common. But when I try her cell again, for the fourth time, she lets the rings linger, waiting until just before her voice mail picks up to answer.
 

“Oh, so you remembered you have a best friend?”

Damn it. She’s going to yell at me. “I’m sorry. I was with Joe,” I say, hoping that sympathy will soften her annoyance.

She’s silent, breathes into the receiver and I can almost hear her thinking. There is likely a sarcastic gibe desperate to escape her mouth, but then she clears her throat and relaxes her tone. “Oh. Well good. I’m still super pissed at you for refusing to talk to me.” Another beat and her voice lowers. “How is he?

“Okay. Healing. And I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry. I just needed some time.”

“Sweetie, I was just worried. Are you okay?”

“Ha. Not even a little, but I’m dealing.” I come to the benches in the courtyard on campus and I think about sitting, but it’s too familiar. Declan kissed me on this bench. I don’t want to remember the feel of his skin, his lips.

“What about the Irishman?” Sayo says and I nearly run into the groundskeeper when I close my eyes, trying to sort out the best way to respond without sounding bitter.

“He showed up at the hospital with Heather.”

“You have got to be shitting me.”

I laugh at Sayo, but don’t find anything funny. “I shit thee not, friend.” I take a breath. “It doesn’t matter. It would be too weird.”

“I get that. There’s just one problem.”

“Yeah?”

“You love him and not at all in a step-brotherly way.”

I hang up on her.

I want my mother. I want her to tell me the truth. I want to know what happened, why she kept me from Joe. Why she couldn’t forgive him. I’m not angry at her. If I’m honest, my anger at Joe died a long time ago. He made a stupid mistake. He’s paying for it now. While he slept and I read his letters, the doctor came in, explained the condition, explained that Joe is quite healthy, but his stress has to be contained, that it likely caused the heart attack. I try not to let guilt overwhelm me. It’s irrational, but if I had not agreed to date Declan, none of this would have happened. But he pursued, he pushed. I didn’t pull away.

None of this is even Declan’s fault. He doesn’t…didn’t deserve my anger. Not until Heather. Beyond that, I know that Declan was my replacement. I could forgive that, eventually, I’m sure, and I know it’s stupid, likely selfish to feel this way when he was just a kid dealt a rotten hand. Just like me. But he told me he loved me. No matter what promises he made to Joe, he should have never touched me, not until I knew the truth.

Irrational, immature, but I can’t let this go. I can’t forgive him, especially after seeing him with Heather today. I want to, but there is a knot festering in my gut, stretching into my heart and I hold onto this rage, for pointless, useless reasons.

I need Ava, missed her at her office. My friends would offer comfort, but they wouldn’t make me see reason. I don’t need echoing agreements about what an ass Declan is. I need gentle consideration, a slight push away from the irrational thoughts that make it impossible to unclench my fists.

I am here, where my mother rests, staring at the black and white picture covered in resin on her headstone and the smooth, flawless skin over her cheeks, the easy smile Joe spoke of. God, how I miss her. It’s like a fever, boiling over my skin, a sudden rash flushing to burn pain, despair into my bones.