Secrets Left Neglected

Chapter 37

Tadhg

I flop onto my cot and drop my arm across my face. Scratching at the corner of my eye, some sand must have gotten in it when I entered the tent, I look around and take things in. I'm not even really seeing it all. All I feel is emptiness.

Ever since we arrived in Afghanistan I've felt alone in a crowded room more times than I want to admit. I know what's bothering me, but I've been trying to ignore it; to pretend it isn't there.

It's Duncan.

Dad, I guess.

I sit up on my cot and swing my legs around to the side. I riffle my hair and shake my head.

He's been writing me ever since I left. Caoilainn has been, too, but we're ok. I think we've worked ourselves out and I feel good with our marriage. 

It's Duncan, though. I don't feel right about the way we left things.

For a while I've been so angry at him, at my mom, Ruari, everyone, really. But, now that I'm in this country and they're there...and I see how things are with these citizens, I can't help but feel guilty. I know I shouldn't but there it is. I do.

I watch these innocent families suffering, losing one another in this crazy, unsafe world and here I am tossing away what little family I have because I'm mad at them.

Still, I have a right to be upset, don't I?

He never even acknowledged me; his son. He never told me. All these years.

A nagging part of my mind interjects with the fact that he's always been there for me; listening to me, teaching me, helping me when I needed advice. Together at the I-S, we've worked hand in hand throughout everything. He even taught me how to shoot my first gun when I joined the rifle club with Walker and Cian.

Dammit, but I never knew!

When I think of my mom's hand in this, I get angry as well. What was she thinking? 

She was trying to protect me?

Hah.

Restless, I stand in place and stretch my hands above me, trying to keep my composure. I start to do some squats and then push-ups to work out the tension in my back and head. I can feel a migraine lurking and it's the last thing I need right now.

Pacing in front of my rack, I take a deep breath before sitting back down, reaching under the canvas for the stash of letters I've hidden there. When my fingers brush across the ripped envelop seams I grab hold and pull them up onto my lap. I stare at the return address where Duncan's name is penned in a hand-written scrawl. I've lost count of the number of letters I've received in total. He's been writing me several times a week since I deployed. I always manage to open the envelops, but I haven't yet had the guts to actually read the letters inside.

With shaking hands, and looking around to make sure none of my brothers are going to interrupt me anytime soon, I remove the first envelop from underneath the spongy rubber band holding it together with the others. The heat must be dry-rotting the rubber; it doesn't have much elasticity left.

I scratch my left ear and close my eyes before taking the letter out of the envelop. Slowly unfolding it, I can see that somewhere along the way I must have spilled water on the it. A few of the penned lines are blurred and stained.

I can still make out Duncan's writing, however, despite the wet spots.

As the first letter, I'm surprised to see it's not one of apology. I thought for sure it was going to be. I assumed he'd be writing to try to explain why I should forgive him; why I should understand.

This letter, though, looks like it's the first page of someone's personal diary. As I begin to read, I realize that its dated with my birthday.

Duncan wrote down everything he felt on the day I was born. Words like "proud", "braw", "strong lungs" and "mighty fists" fill the lines. As he continues thinking onto the page, I find myself reading about regret. How Duncan wishes he could hold me in his arms longer than the time he has with me while I'm in the hospital. How he laments not being able to take me home, to wake up with me and rock me back to sleep at night. How he wishes he could tell me about my brother, Ruari and how much we are alike, but also different.

The more I read, the more I realize that the wet spots on the page are probably Duncan's tears. He was crying when he wrote this.

When I'm almost at the end of the entry, I rub my hand down my face before finishing. Duncan wrote how he would have loved to have given me his last name; to have made me his son publicly in the eyes of all of our families and friends.

"I do, too, Duncan," I say to him out-loud, wiping my own tears with my clenched fists. "I wish you would've, too."