Ophelia,
I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to consider my proposition by now. My children aren’t like me. They’re young and fragile, and they miss their mother. They need proper mentorship, as well as someone to call their friend. Neither Connor nor Amie have ever been to The Causeway. They know nothing of the world outside of New York and the home they shared here with their mother and me. If you would assist them (and me) during this huge transition stage, I would be eternally grateful.
Yours,
Ronan Fletcher
CHAPTER FIVE
The Causeway
Another plane. Another journey. Two days hadn’t been nearly close enough to get my affairs in order. I hadn’t even had time to rethink my decision to accept the job. Perhaps that had been Ronan’s plan all along, to stump me by requesting that I jump on a flight forty-eight hours after offering me the position, so I wouldn’t have time to weigh up my options or chicken out. That’s what would have happened, I’m sure. Given enough breathing room, I would have talked myself out of it. The Causeway was too far away. What if something happened to Mom or Dad, or with the restaurant?
Mom had burst into tears when I’d told her about the plane ticket and files on the children. She’d been so guilty, didn’t want me to leave, didn’t want me to feel like I had to. Dad had told me over and over again that we’d figure it out if I didn’t want to go, but I could see on his face that he was relieved. If I did this, stuck out six months on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, I’d come back with enough cash to solve all of the financial problems with the restaurant, and there would probably be enough left over to do a few renovations here and there, spruce the place up a little. If I didn’t, the place was going under and that was a fact. Two, maybe three months—that was how long we might have been able to limp along, scraping money together to keep the place open another day.
In the end, the decision had been obvious, though sad.
And so here I was, on another plane. Wheels up. Thirty thousand feet. Another gin and tonic, and another bad airplane meal.
I’d had plenty of time during the seven-hour journey over the country to review the children’s files. Connor and Amie. Through the yo-yoing and the indecision of the past few days, I hadn’t really considered the small people I was being charged to care for. Normally the children were all I ever considered. From reading the files, both Connor and Amie seemed like your average five and seven-year-olds. Connor loved soccer and apparently wanted to be a zookeeper when he grew up. The first part of his file held records of his favorite food (pasta), his favorite color (orange), his favorite animal (Zebra), and many other small facts that would undoubtedly make it easier to build a bridge with the boy. The later part of his file, however, was way more comprehensive. It contained what turned out to be notes from numerous sessions with a Brooklyn child psychologist by the name of Dr. Hans Fielding.
“Connor demonstrates an unwillingness to comply with authority. Upon speaking with his father, I have confirmed Connor was a happy, lighthearted, fun-loving child before the death of his mother five months ago, but since then has been belligerent and often prone to bouts of anger and depression. This is all to be expected, of course.”
And—
“Eight months after his mother’s death, and Connor is showing little sign of movement in what might be considered a positive direction. Connor is unfortunately yet to acknowledge the death of his mother. His refusal to believe she is gone denotes an underlying emotional flux within the child, whereby he is not yet emotionally mature enough to handle the deep and painful realities of grief and loss. It is crucial that Connor accepts his mother’s death, and soon, otherwise the fantasy in which he maintains she is still alive may become a deep seeded and vital aspect of his personality.”
Ten months after Mrs. Fletcher’s death, it seemed Connor had a breakthrough, though.