Chapter 11Ronan
11
Ronan
R onan sat on a bench, waiting for his granddad. They’d planned to meet near Pasadena, close to the festival where he was supposed to film with Eden later that day. His eyes wandered to the pond in front of him, watching ducks glide lazily across the water.
His mind wandered to the night before; never in his five years as a journalist had he allowed himself to be so...unprofessional. He’d never let himself get too close to the people he interviewed. Hard lessons had taught him to keep a safe distance.
Still, his mind drifted back to a family he’d met in Egypt. He’d walked into their home and felt an immediate connection, something rare and unexpected. But when he returned the next day, they were gone—vanished without a trace. The house was empty, abandoned. Ronan never found out if they’d fled some looming danger or met a tragic end. A part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that their disappearance was somehow his fault, and that thought haunted him for months.
It was just one more layer of guilt, stacked high on a career full of them. Each layer felt like a chapter in a heavy book, dense with regrets. And though he wasn’t sure if he could rewrite what was already written, he was slowly learning to face it, one page at a time.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he glanced down to see a call from his boss, Mr. Lopez.
"Good morning, Mr. Lopez. How are you today?" Ronan greeted.
"Hey Ronan, I'm good. Just wanted to touch base with you. How's it going with Eden?" His boss maintained his usual friendly tone. "I know she wasn't thrilled about the big documentary crew. How's it working out one on one?"
"Yes, we both felt that one on one is more intimate. It's progressing well," Ronan replied. A little too intimate.
"I trust your opinion, Ronan. Whatever you think will lead to the best documentary, follow it." Mr. Lopez stated. The way Ronan was going would likely lead to his imminent death but a damn good documentary.
"Besides that, how are you holding up? I know it's been hard adjusting since Yemen." Ronan had been fortunate; BNN had granted him an extended break following his last assignment. It was time that he desperately needed to get back to normal.
"Better. It's been just over 8 months now, but I'm still taking it day by day," Ronan replied to his boss. "How is Bobby?" He couldn't resist asking about Bobby, his colleague who had been injured in Yemen. He hadn't found the courage to speak to Bobby directly, so he often relied on others to gather information. A persistent guilt still gnawed at him, a sense that he was responsible for Bobby's life-changing injury. After all, he was in charge of the team, and one of his crew members got injured on his watch.
"He's doing well, spending time with his family. I think he misses talking with you," Mr. Lopez mentioned. Ronan felt a sharp pang of guilt. He knew it was unfair that he hadn't spoken to Bobby, but he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Facing him was something he wasn't ready for just yet.
"Oh, hold on a second. I've got Jackson Foster breathing down my neck. Do you want to talk to your old cubicle buddy?" Jackson Foster had started at BNN around the same time as Ronan and shared a cubicle with him during their first few months at the network. They had remained friends over the years, occasionally meeting for coffee or dinner when Ronan was home. Jackson had rapidly ascended the ranks and now anchored one of BNN's prime-time shows.
"Yeah, put him on," Ronan responded.
"Murphy, what's up, man? It's been a while," Jackson's smooth voice echoed over the line, carrying his distinct southern accent.
"Nothing, Foster. I've just been watching your prime time slot and self-flagellating myself," Ronan replied with a small smile.
"Crazy, I've been doing the same with your interviews. So what's this I hear about the Eden Percy documentary? How on earth did you score that?" Jackson's voice conveyed a hint of incredulity.
"Pity, more or less." There was a snort from Jackson on the other end of the line.
"So, when are we catching up? I haven't laid eyes on you in almost a year besides through my TV screen." The last time Ronan had seen Jackson was just before his Yemen assignment. Their friendship had always been easygoing, founded on their mutual passion for journalism.
"Soon. I've been working on getting back to my old self." And he had been, slowly. His therapist had told him healing takes time, and he was living proof of that.
"Well, that's good to hear. We've always got a spot on 'Jackson Foster 24/7' if you ever feel like spit-shining my shoes. Maybe even feeding me grapes while I read my cue cards," Jackson said with a smile in his voice.
"Over my dead body, Foster. I'd rather eat my own shoe for lunch," Ronan replied.
"Still the same old odd duck, I see. On a serious note, I could genuinely use your help behind the scenes. I'm taking a railing from the BNN executives, and your insights on international affairs would be invaluable," Jackson's voice held a hint of seriousness.
"I'll consider it. I'll get back to you once I wrap up my current project." There was no way Ronan was going back overseas, so working with Jackson's team would be a promising next step for him. Ronan heard the telltale sounds of his Grandad's feet shuffling behind him before he saw him.
"Good catching up, but I've got a grouchy old man to attend to," Ronan said.
"So, yourself? Talk soon, Murphy, and think about my offer," Jackson replied.
"Is it an offer I can't refuse, Godfather?"
"You're a dick. Seriously, think about it, fool." Jackson said with a snort and hung up the call. Ronan slipped the phone into his pocket and saw his Grandad slowly making his way over to the bench, a half loaf of white bread in hand. Internally, Ronan groaned at the sight. He didn't have the heart to tell his soft old Grandad that bread was terrible for ducks and provided no nutritional value. He made a mental note to start bringing seeds along next time.
"Hey, Grandad," Ronan greeted as he rose from the bench. Colm waved him down in response.
"Don't hurt yourself, wean," Colm mumbled in his thick Irish accent, adjusting his signature tweed cap as he settled onto the bench beside Ronan.
"What's new?" Ronan asked casually.
"Whole lotta nothin'. My hydrangea's bein' stubborn as a mule and ain't bloomin'." Colm replied as he ripped pieces of the bread from the loaf and threw it to the ducks wading in the nearby pond. Ronan watched as the ducks scooped up the bread with their orange beaks, quaking happily. He couldn't interfere, even though he was tempted to pull the loaf from his Grandad's wrinkled hands and toss it in the nearby trash can.
"Well, what's the story, horse?" Colm asked briskly, his green eyes twinkling in the morning light. Ronan's lips curled into a slight smile. It was a familiar question, one that often led to genuine conversations between the two.
"I've been working on a new project, Grandad," Ronan replied, his voice tinged with cautious optimism. "I've been getting my head right, and I've been doing better."
"Aye, I was worried about ya for a while there." Colm's eyes held genuine concern as he reached over and patted Ronan's hand.
Ronan nodded, his gaze turning distant for a moment. "It hasn't been easy. You know my job has never been easy. I've seen people die right in front of me. I've interviewed amazing people, and then I found out they were killed that same day. But 8 months ago... that was another level of difficulty." His voice strained with a weight of unspoken emotions, the toll his career had taken on his spirit.
Colm leaned in, his hand finding its place behind Ronan's neck. His faded green eyes reflected a resoluteness. "C'mere to me," he began in a gentle yet firm voice, "My father always said to me, 'You've got to do your own growin', no matter how tall your father was.' You are strong, and you'll get through it on ya own time. Don't let any eejit tell ya otherwise." Colm emphasized his words with a reassuring pat on the back of Ronan's neck. Ronan nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"I'm trying my best. Therapy has definitely helped. Talking about it has made a difference." He took comfort in his grandfather's words, knowing he had a strong support system to help him heal.
"Faoi fhoscadh a chéile, maireann daoine," Ronan looked at his Grandad expectantly. He knew some Irish, but this particular phrase was unfamiliar to him. With a hint of pride, his grandfather translated, "Under the shelter of each other, people survive." Ronan felt his heart swell with emotion at the words. He couldn't help but feel an overwhelming gratitude for this wise, caring man.
"Thank you, Grandad." Ronan's voice quivered slightly as he put his arm around Colm, pulling him into a quick hug.
"Aye," Colm patted Ronan's back affectionately before he pulled away. He looked at the ducks, watching them paddle on the pond.
"Still got my fiddle?" he asked with a hint of concern, lacing his words.
"Yes, she's still being fixed at the violin shop." Colm's eyebrows furrowed slightly at the mention of the shop. "By Maura, don't worry," Ronan added quickly. The memory of one of the shop's workers, Todd , mishandling the strings had been an unforgivable offense in Colm's eyes, a fact not forgotten by him.
"So what's the plan for these uncooperative hydrangeas?" Ronan inquired, a note of amusement in his voice.
"Ah, sure, look, I'm getting a wee bit old for a pass in the soil, and I might end up doing it arseways," Colm said with a playful spark in his eye. Looked like Ronan had just added hydrangea rescue to his growing to-do list—right alongside finding proper feed for malnourished ducks.