Reconstructing Madonna - Parts Ten and Eleven
Chapter Nine here.
Part Ten
Kyle wants to make a joke.
It’s what he does and - usually, at least - what he’s good at.
He figured out pretty quickly that if he wanted any lightness in his life, he would have to be the one to provide it. And apart from the occasional wisecrack from Michael or even rarer shot of humor courtesy of Max, this has largely proved true.
He is forever breaking up awkward silences with witty banter and making light of weighty situations with only a slyly interjected comment or noise. Because, hey, someone has to make sure they don’t drown in their own tears.
No one has ever shown any interest in the job, and so it falls to Kyle.
This doesn’t really bother him, though. Quite the opposite, actually.
When Isabel and Max give him that half-condescending, half-affectionate glare programmed into them from birth and Michael threatens to pummel him, it feels like he’s found his place in the world. His niche. Like maybe he’s the one bright spot in this otherwise grim extraterrestrial entourage.
It’s his job to hold them together, to be the glue when they’re tearing in fifty different directions. This, naturally, is more often than not displayed in wisecracks about Isabel’s cleaning habits and Michael’s sexuality.
But right now, even though waspish, nervous commentary is running through his head at the speed of a freight train, he can’t make himself give voice to any of it. (This doesn’t really seem like a joking matter, anyway.)
He can only stare at the four people he’s come to consider family.
Isabel is crying.
(Not particularly unusual, but still disturbing.)
Jesse is brooding.
(A little more surprising, but still, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.)
Michael looks like he wants to throttle someone.
(And this is almost comforting, because when isn’t Michael preparing to throttle someone?)
But Max… Max is crying, too.
Max doesn’t even cry over his nightmares.
In fact, the only time Kyle has ever seen Max cry is on one of their semi-spontaneous hospital runs, when something goes wrong.
Or when something reminds him of Zan.
Kyle’s at a loss.
And that, maybe, scares him even more than Isabel’s confession.
“Max, it’s okay. I called Maria, and I asked her about it, and she said that Liz was fine,” Isabel says, breaking this freakish silence they’ve fallen into. There is a desperate, unsure hope in her voice that makes him want to squirm.
Max doesn’t look up at her words, but Michael and Kyle both turn to look at Izzy.
Her hair, blond and shoulder-length once more, is parted on the left side and looks like it hasn’t said hello to a brush in weeks. Her skin is fluctuating scarily between grey and green. And her eyes are practically a water table.
Michael’s expression says he isn’t willing to believe anything Isabel says right now if it involves the word ‘fine.’
Kyle is inclined to agree.
And so, apparently, is her husband.
“Is, why don’t you go lie down?” Jesse asks quietly. “Give Max a chance to process this. I’ll bring you some of that ginger tea that’s supposed to help with morning sickness.”
Kyle snorts.
Ginger tea in bed? What the hell kind of pansy is this guy?
He remembers holding back Isabel’s hair while she threw up yesterday morning, mere minutes after she broke the joyous news to him, and some of the wind leaves his sails.
“Morning sickness? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Michael demands irritably. And of course, because it’s their terminally suspicious General, this valid question careens into their tentative avoidance and threatens to shatter it.
Isabel hasn’t broken the news to Michael yet. Right.
Max is in absolutely no state to soften the news or otherwise guilt his brother into submission.
Oh, shit.
With that near-regal composure that once had Kyle convinced he was in love with her, Isabel draws her shoulders back and levels Michael with determined eyes. “Jesse and I are going to have a baby.”
Michael explodes.
“Oh, that’s great, Isabel! That’s just fucking great! Are you going to invite Pierce’s successor into the delivery room, or are you just gonna leave him a nice little trail of bread crumbs to the door?”
“Watch it,” Jesse growls. As if to prove a point, he unconsciously flexes his arm muscles.
Kyle sighs knowingly and shakes his head.
Like that’s going to get you anywhere.
Mikey, of course, ignores Jesse completely and focuses on his sister.
(And never let it be said that Max is the only who plays Bad Cop, because Michael too has had plenty of practice where Isabel is concerned.)
“How could you let this happen?” he bites out.
Isabel stiffens. “Excuse me? Nothing ‘happened’ that wasn’t planned, Michael! The special unit has never given me and Jesse any trouble. I’m twenty-five now, and I don’t plan to be fifty by the time my eldest child graduates from high school!”
Michael’s already darkened face becomes roughly the same color as a tomato. Kyle wonders what name Martha Steward would give this truly spectacular shade, and concludes it would probably be dubbed some brand of rose.
“Eldest? Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, there?”
The last time any variation of this argument was remotely new was around 2000 - and yet, he notes, they don’t seem to be stopping any time soon.
Kyle rolls his eyes. If he wanted this kind of entertainment he’d watch a dog fight.
His eyes go to Max, who has been lost in the shuffle of the latest Isabel drama. Feeling a compulsive need to make sure he’s still in the room.
They all react differently in crises.
Kyle makes jokes.
Jesse dusts off his often ignored morality.
Isabel and Michael erupt first and think logically later.
But Max, he just folds in on himself. Disappears inside his own head until he’s comfortable enough with his best-face-forward to step up and take back control.
That’s usually around the point that things really start going to hell.
Right now, Max looks like a browbeaten dog. All of the noise can’t be helping.
“Guys -” Kyle attempts.
He’s ignored.
(But of course.)
“What are you going to do about doctor’s appointments and blood tests, huh?” Michael raises his eyebrow, looking victorious and generally asinine.
“Max has already agreed to regularly check in on me during the pregnancy. We’ll tell everyone that we want a home birth, and then, a week before the due date my midwife will catch pneumonia. Max - or you, if you’re willing - will come to the hospital when I go into labor and take care of everything,” Isabel replies.
Kyle only vaguely absorbs this. He is still shooting worried glances at Max.
The muscles in Max’s forearm flex as he rests his head against his hand.
He draws in deep, frantic breaths, as if struggling against imminent suffocation. Clenches his jaw repeatedly.
Even as he realizes how dysfunctional and unhealthy this entire situation is, Kyle feels relief lap at his tattered nerves.
If Max is breaking down, at least he isn’t shutting down. In a minute he’ll be cheerfully pushing his feelings aside long enough to play referee and figure out what the hell they’re going to do about Liz. Then he’ll be back to collapsing, and maybe, like the semi-healthy person he can sometimes be, coping.
“I can’t believe you would be this irresponsible! Maybe they’re not giving you trouble today, but eventually they will be. What are you going to do then? Take junior on the run? Give him up like Max had to with Zan?”
He watches with despair as the minimal progress Max has made is dashed by the mention of his son.
“Max didn’t have to give Zan up. He chose to,” Isabel grinds out. Her nostrils flare threateningly.
For a minute, Kyle forgets that he’s pissed off at Michael for barging into Isabel and Jesse’s apartment, and for jumping down Isabel’s throat because seeing Max cry is something he’s never been able to deal with, and for being a tool and bringing up the original munchkin Czech. He actually feels a stab of sympathy.
Because if she doesn’t pass out from exhaustion first, Isabel is going to rip him to shreds.
“Maybe that was the best choice at the time, but this is a completely different situation. This is the natural progression of my life with Jesse. Why does the idea of the future - of the three of us trying to build a future - scare you so much?”
“Because there is no future for us! There’s only right now, and we’re pretty lucky that we even have this!” Michael bellows.
Kyle huffs in aggravation. Now they’ll be here all day.
(And for a second he is almost thankful that Max is out of commission, because the minute Michael or Isabel starts preaching he has a tendency to turn into a self-righteous ass. Buddha only knows how many more angry vibes Izzy’s little slugger can absorb before it goes into distress.)
Jesse dusts off his lawyer hat and steps up to the plate. Kyle mentally says his goodbyes. “Can we please retreat to our separate corners here? There are more pressing issues at the moment.”
Isabel swings her arm in a dismissive gesture, and comes dangerously close to clocking her optimistic husband in the nose.
“No. No, you know what, Michael? You’re just bitter because you had a chance with Maria and you threw it away!”
Michael whitens.
Kyle curses under his breath.
Max’s head comes up from the protective cocoon of his hands.
Mike’s voice is rough as he responds. His face finally betraying some measure of vulnerability. “Protecting someone you love is not the same as throwing them away.”
Isabel, apparently, finds this hysterical.
Kyle cringes.
“Protecting her?! Like Liz and Max ‘protected’ each other all the times they lied and isolated themselves? Like my parents have been ‘protected’ from the truth of what we are while they grieve a dead son? Lying to someone is not protecting them!”
Michael jabs his index finger in the general direction of Isabel’s chest. “Don’t you dare talk to me about lying to people you love. You wouldn’t even be married if you hadn’t bullshitted your way into it!”
And with a swift change that Kyle can only attribute to pregnancy hormones, his female friend is suddenly back to emotional square one.
Isabel’s lower lip trembles. A stray tear falls rapidly down her cheek.
Jesse, who, like Kyle, has previously limited his contributions to sighs and eye rolling, has reached his breaking point. His face is ruddy with anger. A vein in his forehead throbs as his pecs once again flex disturbingly. “If you can’t show respect for my wife and my marriage then you’d better get the hell out of my house.”
Snap.
Isabel and Michael haven’t fought like this since the death fake-out, and then most of the arguments between them and Max were carried out behind closed doors. Jesse has never been privy to the whole spectrum of dysfunction the three of them operate in when they fight, where Isabel’s ‘proper techniques’ and ‘unthreatening words’ and precious ‘calming breaths’ all get thrown out the window.
They fight dirty. They manipulate.
When it suits them, they dissolve into tears or vent their frustrations on helpless TV sets.
And to step in and insinuate that a completely useless third party like a husband has any say in their altercation is definitely not going to go over well.
But while Kyle has been trying to blend into the scenery and avoid getting clipped by the crossfire, Max has been completing his miraculous recovery.
Halle-fucking-lujah.
He rises to his feet looking ten years older and preoccupied. “Michael, back off. This is between Isabel and Jesse; and anyway, it’s done. The most we can do now is try to make this as safe as possible for everyone. She doesn’t need this any more than you do.”
Isabel smiles gratefully. Has the sense to seem chastened and a little guilty. “Thank you, Max.” She crosses the room and hugs him tightly. “Liz is all right,” she murmurs.
Something about the way she says it makes Kyle think that these words are meant only for Max. The way he clings to her in response reinforces the privacy of the moment.
Jesse’s face is once more a mask of concern, and Michael is staring at the floor, sending out vibes that fall between shame and aggravation. None of them say anything.
“What happened to her?” Max chokes out. Sounding fearful and raw and tiny. “She was supposed to get out. To have a normal life.”
Kyle grins mirthlessly. These aliens really are clueless, aren’t they?
There’s no going back to normal after you’ve had your life thrown in a blender and doused with thematic green food coloring. It’s just not feasible.
He’s sure wherever Liz is, she’s realized this too. He just hopes she’s not kicking herself for believing - hoping - otherwise.
Isabel is still attempting to comfort her brother.
“I know, Max. I know she was. But we’ve done all that we can.”
That’s when Kyle sees it: that spark of determination that used to ignite in Liz’s eyes right before she would say, “I have a plan.”
But the aforementioned eyes aren’t Liz’s, and Max is looking right at him.
He tries not to crap his pants.
“Kyle, you’re going home to visit Jim and Amy today, right?”
What is that, a trick question?
“Yeeeaaah. That was kind of the point of the whole ‘get everyone together for awkward conversation’ exercise. You know, so if the plane crashes I have a suitably awful last memory to cling to while I’m dying,” he says. Suspicion colors his tone.
“And so I could get my damn casserole dish back,” Isabel mutters.
Kyle fondly takes in the nauseas look on Michael’s face. Serves the prickly ass right.
“Kyle,” Max starts, and the apprehension that had momentarily fizzled in the face of Michael’s distress comes back full force, “can you talk to Mr. or Mrs. Parker while you’re in town? Get an address?”
Even without alien powers, Kyle knows that there’s no possible way this can end well.
“What, so you’re back to stalking Liz from afar?” he asks uncomfortably. Waits for Michael to snicker appreciatively or back him up. For Jesse to go off on a tangent about free will and Liz’s right to live her life away from them.
Instead, support for Max arrives from an unexpected corner.
“If Liz is in trouble - or if she’s involved with the government or with something alien - then we should know,” Isabel insists.
Kyle stares at her in surprise. He knows that if he lets his jaw hang open any longer he’s liable to trap a fly, but for the life of him he can’t seem to snap it shut.
Because however sensible her words, all he sees in Izzy’s eyes is stomach-churning worry - and not for herself, or for Max, or for the aliens as a whole; but for Liz.
He’s not sure if it’s this or Max’s pleading gaze that makes him cave in the end.
Either way, he still finds himself saying, “Sure. Okay. Anyone else you want me to track down? I hear Vicki Delaney turned out nicely.”
“You’re an ass, Valenti,” Michael grumbles.
He can’t help but huff at this, because excuse him, but not every freaking momenthas to carry the weight of an army tanker.
Isabel brushes her thumb across the dime-sized dimple in his right cheek and smiles warmly. He gives her a half-hearted grin in return and thinks she’ll probably make a great mom to some lucky little martian child.
She drops her hand. Claps energetically. Now that the argument has been cut short and their first crisis in years resolved successfully, Heidi Homemaker is ready to take center stage once more. “So, who wants some quiche?”
As Max is trying to find a way to gracefully decline, Isabel rapidly begins resembling Kermit the frog. “Oh, God,” she says, and then she is streaking toward the bathroom in a blur.
The four of them cringe sympathetically at the retching that comes seconds later.
Then, shaking his head and running a large hand across his forehead, Michael raises his eyebrows. “So, where’d she hide the normal food?”
And just like that, Jesse has started making his miracle ginger tea and is pointing Michael to the topmost cupboard, a temporary truce struck between them, as Kyle and Max slump onto the couch.
He revels in how unbelievably solid this all feels.
Then, because he’d be a crappy friend if he didn’t, he goes back out onto shaky ground to make sure Max is still with him.
“In all seriousness, Max,” he asks, “are you alright?”
Their eyes meet, and Kyle, not what one would call an emotional maven to begin with, decides not to even try deciphering the tangle of feelings he sees on his best friend’s face.
“Find out how Liz is,” he says softly. Simply.
Then he turns the TV on, and Isabel’s pukefest and Michael’s uncouth eating habits are drowned out by the weather channel.
Neither of them speaks again.
Like any true comedian, Kyle knows that some silences shouldn’t be disturbed.
-
He watches, not a little pessimistically, as the gate empties.
There’s no one here to pick him up.
It shouldn’t be that surprising, really: as he stands awkwardly to the side, he mentally replays each and every time this happened to him as a kid.
Concludes that if it weren’t for all those gossip-hungry PTA moms, he probably would have spent the better part of his childhood getting from home to school and sports practices on foot.
There were always citizens to protect. Suspects to question.
Clues to follow.
And somehow, in the scuffle he was always getting left behind. Is still getting left behind.
Kyle thinks of boarding the plane: of Isabel, looking like hell, having to lean on Jesse in the terminal as she handed him a bagged lunch.
Of Michael’s scathing parting shot and oddly emotional handshake.
Of Max, obviously wanting a million and one promises and reassurances, merely wishing him a safe trip.
He thinks of them, and remembers why despite their angst and self-absorption and general dreariness, these are the people who come to mind when he thinks of family.
Then he hears the loud clattering of high heels. The gate, one of only two in the small airport, is now empty, and the sound echoes eerily.
Kyle looks up and sees his step-mother heading toward him with a frazzled expression.
“I am so sorry, Kyle! The car broke down on the side of the road, and then I had to call for a tow truck, and you know how long Lou takes, and then I had to call your dad to see if he could come get me, but he was out on a call, so I had to ask Hansen and you know how slow he drives -”
She cuts off, smiling as she takes him in. The cheerful expression doesn’t hide her haggardness.
He feels a pang of guilt for his thoughts. And also, a burst of relief that he hasn’t once more been forgotten or abandoned.
They pick up his luggage and walk back to Hansen’s cruiser, Kyle in relative silence and Amy chattering happily. He is reminded of an older, less self-possessed Maria.
“- I’ve had to completely revamp your father’s diet. You wouldn’t believe how much weight he’d gained! Of course, most of that is probably from eating so many of my pies…” Amy actually blushes at this, a hesitant but proud smile blooming on her face.
Kyle, remembering his Czech-related mission, sees an opening and takes it. “So are you still making pies for the Crashdown?”
They are approaching Hansen’s cruiser now. She stops at his question, face hard and eyes sad. “Yes, I am. Nancy and I talk a lot. It helps to have someone who… well, it helps.”
Hansen’s head pops out of the passenger side window. “Hey, son,” he says, in that cheerful and clueless voice that always makes Kyle want to slug him.
He thanks God that after his dad got his hands on a Deputy badge the good people of Roswell had the sense to reelect him as sheriff.
“Hansen.” He nods in acknowledgment and throws his suitcase in the trunk.
“So how is my wayward daughter?” Amy asks. She tries to play it off as nonchalant, but her hands are balled into tight fists.
Kyle shifts uncomfortably. “Eh, you know. We e-mail.”
Six months after leaving Roswell, Maria dropped him a line. They’ve continued on like that since, their one or two-line e-mails occasionally punctuated by the odd photograph or amusing story. For the most part, they’re friendly strangers.
He’s pretty sure that’s how she wants it.
“Actually, I wouldn’t know.”
He feels like shit.
Wonders why Maria couldn’t figure out a way to get to her mother’s wedding, and why Amy can’t be the adult in the relationship and let that and a million other small things go already.
(But he thinks he knows why Maria didn’t come; and that, maybe, is the saddest fucking part of this whole mess.)
They get into the cruiser, and to show that he is forgiven, Amy slides into the back with him. She pats his knee. “So, how was your date last night?” Her eyes have become lively, excited.
He groans inwardly.
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
“Language, young man,” she reprimands. “When Isabel called she mentioned that she’d fixed you up with a Buddhist friend of hers. So, how was it?”
Well, you see, Amy, after dragging my best friend back to my apartment and watching him cry himself to sleep, I was pretty exhausted myself. So I overslept and showed up at the restaurant looking like a reject mountain climber, and over appetizers this seriously imbalanced chick claimed that we were siblings in another incarnation. Overall, not a very promising engagement.
He musters up a sour-looking grin. “I think it went well.”
Amy talks all the way back to the house.
-
He’s struck by just how little the Crash has changed.
It makes him remember briefly why he was so damn terrified of being stuck in this town forever.
When he walks through the door that infernal bell dings as loudly as ever, and he notices with equal parts delight and disbelief that Agnes is the only waitress out front.
“I told you, you can only git that on Sundays.”
An infuriated customer with the distinctive look of a tourist smacks the counter. “But you told me that the Mercury Burger and the Empire Special are the same thing!”
Agnes sighs the sigh of someone who is old and infinitely tired. A pack of Camels peeks out of her breast pocket as her customary Crash uniform shifts with the back-and-forth movement of her head. “No, I said…”
With much more confidence than he feels, Kyle strides across the dining area and pushes into the backroom.
It is empty, and if he shuts his eyes he knows he will be bombarded by the ghosts of Liz and Maria.
(Max and Michael aren’t the only ones who were discarded.)
He resolutely keeps his eyes open.
The grey paint on the waitress’ lockers is chipping, the door hinges rusting. He wonders if Mrs. Parker - he decided on the plane that she would be his best bet - will seem as exhausted as her café. The apartment door slams shut, and he realizes he’ll find out in a minute.
Her voice, clear and irritated as ever, fills him with unexpected emotion.
“I’m sorry, but customers aren’t -”
Kyle turns around. Watches recognition and tears fill her eyes.
Isn’t remotely prepared when she flies down the stairs and clutches him to her tightly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, over and over, “I’m so glad you came.”
-
They settle onto the living room couch. Mrs. Parker warms up a cold pot of green tea, and they balance large mugs on their knees.
Once again Kyle notes how much this feels like a ghost town.
There is only one picture of Liz or Maria; it hangs off to the side on the mantle, and features them posing with two other girls.
Liz and an average-sized blond whose hair is streaked with pink share the center. They are both in dresses: Liz’s a modest and sleeveless V-neck that falls to her knees, her companion donning a slightly racier spaghetti strap number. Maria is situated to Liz’s right in jeans and a blouse, and one long, elegant arm encompasses both girls’ shoulders. On the other end of the group is a woman - Kyle guesses in her early twenties - with cat-shaped eyes and a distinctly cute nose. She can’t be any taller than Liz.
They all look happy and worn.
His eyes linger on the girl next to Liz for a moment before he turns his attention back to Liz’s mom.
She’s noticed the direction of his stare, and is smiling wanly. “That was taken by Jeffrey at Liz’s high school graduation. The girls with them are Liz’s roommate Eileen and Eileen’s older sister Serena.”
He absentmindedly thinks that the name Serena should mean something to him, but he’s still too busy checking out the blond to think on it further.
It’s weird and, to be honest, more than a little freaky, but he can’t help but think that he knows this person somehow. Or that she knows him.
Kyle deduces that it’s probably just because she’s hot.
“That’s actually why I dropped by,” he says, fidgeting. “I haven’t talked to Liz in forever, and since I was in town I thought I’d ask after her. See if you could give me a phone number or e-mail address.” He tries at a winning Max grin.
Mrs. Parker purses her lips. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to help you with that. I haven’t talked to Liz in years, and according to her father, her apartment line was disconnected.”
“Oh. You - but wouldn’t she have called with a new phone number?”
Nancy laughs, a little too bitterly for Kyle’s comfort. “Liz and her father have been arguing since her senior year of high school. Then, when Liz and that girl almost got expelled for keeping drugs in their room, things just escalated completely out of control. I can’t imagine why they kept talking for as long as they did when all they ever did was yell.”
Kyle tries to wrap his head around these newly unearthed developments.
Drugs? Expulsion?
The hollow feeling of hitting a dead end pounces on him as he realizes Liz Parker can no longer be reconciled with the girl he’s carried around in his memories.
Thinking he probably doesn’t want to know but feeling compelled to ask, Kyle inquires, “Why did you and Liz stop talking?”
Her face, all lines and odd angles, holds him captive. “You can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to watch your child die right in front of you when they’re still very much alive.”
It sounds more like an excuse than an answer.
But she’s right, he wouldn’t know.
He thinks of her puttering around the restaurant day after day, and of Amy baking her pies resolutely.
He thinks of these two lost and disconnected women, and Kyle has never been so happy to be ignorant.
Part Eleven
It’s still dark when high-pitched, childish sobs rip him from sleep and drop him into his worst nightmare.
Aaron is out of bed in an instant.
Weighed down with sleep, only fight-or-flight stifles his early morning clumsiness. His form is caged by the small room, though, and adrenaline doesn’t keep him from colliding with the nearby dresser. Searing pain lashes his right shoulder.
Something or other crashes to the floor, and the sound is noisy in the pre-dawn stillness.
It is the continued whimpering that rings in his ears.
He navigates his cluttered floor carefully.
Head pounding.
Bile rising in his throat.
Please God don’t let them have him -
His fingers itch for an invisible trigger and he curses as he realizes the gun is still safely tucked away in his bedroom closet.
The sight waiting for him bruises his heart.
Drew is sitting Indian-style by the foot of his bed.
Eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Face crumpled and wet.
Pitiful hiccups rack his body, and his small finger trembles as it strokes the rendered portrait sitting in front of him on the floor.
Aaron is paralyzed by the picture.
He has seen this woman’s face too many times to count in the past nine months; hers are the cries that follow him into his nightmares.
He thought they were finally putting this behind them.
“Andrew,” he says softly. The gentlest of Texan twangs weaves through the word. “Andy, you’ve gotta get up and try to get some sleep.”
Drew raises one eyelid, and the almond-shaped, whiskey eye that appears contrasts sharply with his alabaster face and shadowed under-eyes. Fat teardrops stick to his nose.
“I can’t. Sh-she’s blocking me. I - I h-have to make sure she’s ok-kay.”
Aaron lifts a work-hardened hand to tug at his hair. Drops it awkwardly as he encounters his new buzz cut.
He has no idea how to deal with this.
Whether he’s supposed to order or merely suggest. If it is more damaging to treat Drew like a kindergartener or the thirteen-year-old he is intellectually - because as far as he can see, neither option works that well.
And he is absolutely furious with his parents for leaving him without so much as an informative letter to help him figure this out.
He decides to be succinct and disapproving. A vague recollection of his father effectively employing that method on him floats through his mind before he speaks.
“That’s because her head’s private, buddy. You shouldn’t be walking around in there.” Aaron is happy to find that his voice is stern but not hard.
“B-but earlier she was so sad,” he argues.
Aaron meets the tearstained eyes, now both fully opened, and wants to clutch Drew to his chest and protect him always.
Even in the space of two years he’s had a few near-slips, though. And right now the person Drew needs protecting from is himself.
He crosses the room and stoops next to his baby brother. The hand he runs up and down Andy’s back in soothing motions dwarfs the small boy’s frame.
“I thought we talked about this. You told me that you could shut this thing off, right? Now it seems like you’re saying that you can’t.” Aaron sweeps away the midnight bangs that fall on Andrew’s temple.
Andrew’s skin is splotchy from crying. The ever-present rings under his eyes are irritated and puffy.
He kneads his full lower lip with tiny front teeth, nervous and resolute at once. “I don’t wanna shut it off,” he admits, voice nearly inaudible.
Aaron swipes a hand down his bewildered face.
It’s too damn early for this.
“Drew, this isn’t up for discussion. I may not be able to read people’s feelings like you can, but I know that this is hurting you.”
Drew guiltily touches the side of his head. The gesture does not escape Aaron’s notice; neither does the furrowed brow and downturned mouth, both of which are classic indicators of a power-related headache.
He wonders what emotional return compels Drew to put himself through this.
“You know I do my best to take care of you. But you’ve gotta take care of yourself, too. All right?”
There is only stubborn silence from his brother.
He is still too tired to be extremely frustrated, and for that at least he’s glad. ‘Loud’ emotions always seem to aggravate Andrew the most.
Aaron picks up the pencil sketch.
It’s a near-perfect depiction of the woman they found last August.
There’s no point in asking where Drew got it. He is well past being surprised that his six-year-old brother can wield a number 2 pencil well enough to draw something like this.
He studies the woman thoughtfully.
Dark eyes peer out of a heart-shaped face. Long, inky black hair frames defined cheekbones and a stubborn jaw.
There’s a small indication of a scar above one eyebrow - he had completely forgotten that detail.
He chuckles, the sound merely an exhalation.
Drew only saw her up close for five seconds.
“Why’d you draw her?”
Andy shrugs. His wide eyes are melancholy. “H-helps me focus the c’nection.”
“Ah.”
He returns the picture to its resting place and looks at his brother soberly. He’s gotten a better at talking since Drew - has gotten better at a lot of things since Drew - but he has no idea how to say this without wounding him.
Drew could be thirty and Aaron would still see him as a baby. As it is, Drew’s only six. And he suspects that six-year-olds need to be handled with some measure of care.
There’s just not a very delicate way to say this.
“Drew, you know she’s not your mom, right?”
His perfect face shadows. “I know. Mommy’s dead.”
Aaron frowns. Elaborates, “I mean, your birth mom.”
“I know.”
Drew’s annoyance fades, and his trembling voice lowers even more. “She’s dead, too.”
His chest constricts at the depth of sadness he sees in his child’s face.
His child’s face.
His child’s feet, arms, legs, skin - but not, he thinks, a child’s eyes.
(Or a child’s soul.)
“So what is this woman to you? Why are you hanging on so hard?” he asks, feeling foggy and slow and generally useless.
He desperately needs to know why.
She’s forgotten you, he thinks, if she even knew you to begin with.
Piercing eyes pin him, like sunlight filtering into a long-forgotten room.
“Out of - out of everyoneinthe world… she’s the one m-most like me.”
Some small, instinctive part of Aaron understands exactly what he is saying, but the rest of him struggles helplessly to catch up.
The person most like him in the world?
Who could she be, then, if not his mother?
According to the lawyer who handled Drew’s adoption and his parents’ estate, Drew’s biological dad is younger than Aaron. Could this woman be Andy’s aunt?
Aaron’s eyes skim over Drew’s sketch, looking for any physical resemblance. He finds none and tries not to deflate.
Is she another empath? Someone who could tell Drew what to do when the emotions clouding his head and the tears that he cries aren’t his own?
He thinks back to the first and last time he met her, and realizes she probably doesn’t know any more than he does.
“Aaron?”
The small, musical voice snaps him from his reverie, and he looks down to find Drew watching him cautiously. His eyes are alert.
“We’re not getting back to bed today, are we?” he asks with a sigh.
His head bobs in agreement, his eyes relieved.
“To the kitchen it is, then,” he says, and laughs when Andrew eagerly bounds to his feet.
His tiny hand gently takes the picture back from Aaron. “Food always helps me concentrate,” he grins excitedly.
Aaron’s good mood wavers.
Andrew pads out of the room, still wearing a tiny smile, and he decides not to say anything.
He’s not about to take his little brother’s security blanket from him.
Aaron makes his way to the kitchen and finds Drew already situated on one of the barstools, swinging his legs back and forth as he smoothes his portrait out on the counter. Once more Aaron catches sight of her eyes, and this time he notices that they appear a hundred times warmer here than they did in person.
Questions nag him.
Who is this person, and what exactly does she know?
Does she know that Andy insists she watches over him?
Does she know what could have possessed the parents of this talented, amazing, endangered little boy to hand him off to ill-equipped strangers?
And does she know, he wonders, that without even trying, she’s taking away the only person he has left?
-
The elementary principal is businesslike and to the point. Her graying hair is pulled back, and her eyes look at him speculatively, as if he’s a zoo animal that’s been let loose in a public park.
Aaron does his best to stay relaxed.
“Andrew’s speech therapy isn’t progressing as well as we’d hoped,” she informs him bluntly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. For the most part he’s been doing better at home,” he says truthfully. This morning was a rare occurrence.
“Have you been doing the recommended exercises with him?” Ms. Sharpe asks. One over-plucked eyebrow is raised.
He feels as if he’s been transported back to high school and has once more been called into the principal’s office for falling asleep in class. There is that critical set to her face, that hint of a non-verbal ‘You should be trying harder.’
(He has been trying. Had thought he was doing well, all things considered.)
“To be honest, Principal Sharpe, when Drew is at home I just try to keep him talking as much as possible. He’s very articulate for his age when he’s not so self-conscious,” Aaron says. Trying to explain.
His voice sounds odd in his ears, rough from lack of use. Aaron wonders if maybe part of Drew’s problem is that he’s gotten too used to the silence.
He feels a stab of muted resentment at the condescending glimmer in this woman’s eyes, and tries to reason that he’s most likely imagining it. Still, it seems as though she’s waiting for an apology.
She’s not getting one. Drew doesn’t need apologies made for him, and he doesn’t think he needs to make any for himself, either.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that. You know that we hold Andrew in very high regards, Mr. Carson. There is a reason we placed him a grade ahead of his year mates.” She draws in a deep breath and looks down at the file spread out on her desk.
He has the bothersome urge to lean over and peek at it.
She deftly snatches up a piece of notebook paper and holds it out to him. “Drew’s teacher confiscated this from him during sustained silent reading yesterday. Normally she would have simply sent him to timeout for the infraction, but he said he’d already finished his book, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with this.”
Aaron glances down at the sheet. He feels somewhat sickened as he looks at his own handwriting next to his brother’s larger, loopier scrawl.
1. 52800
x 356
528
356
3168
2640
1584
18796800
2. 3607
x 95
18035
32463
342665
The page goes on like that: numbers lined up neatly, with no eraser marks or notations in the margins to show carrying. The faintest of smiles touches his lips as he sees correct answer after correct answer staring up at him. A ridiculous and completely paternal sense of pride fills him.
“This work is on a third grade level,” the principal says.
He looks up, surprised for some reason that she is still here. “Well, yeah. Drew seemed to be getting a little bored with his math homework, so I’ve been working ahead with him a little,” he says quietly.
‘Working ahead’ with Drew equates to dropping a few textbooks into his lap and giving him two minutes to scan them.
He doesn’t think she needs to know that.
Another paper is pushed in front of him. Aaron glances at it and then looks up, eyebrows raised. “Indigo children?” he queries.
Ms. Sharpe looks vaguely embarrassed. “Yes, well, most of it is rather obscure New Age theory, but some of it has been documented -”
“- I’m well aware of the phenomenon,” he interrupts.
Drew had been in Aaron’s custody for less than two weeks before he was convinced that he was going crazy. After he’d finally realized that he didn’t need medication, he started searching for answers. This popular New Age belief had been one of the first seemingly plausible explanations he came across.
He suspects, though, that Indigo children don’t heal flesh wounds and leave behind silver handprints. They probably can’t disappear at will, either.
“Well?” she prods with a hint of impatience.
He contemplates his answer for a moment. “Well,” he finally says, “from most of what I’ve read, Indigo children are very outgoing and assertive, often to the point that they become disciplinary problems. I’ve never seen any indication of that in Drew.”
“That could be him withdrawing after your parents’ death more than anything,” she refutes gently.
His muscles tense. The familiar headache starts behind his forehead, and Aaron squeezes the bridge of his nose tiredly.
Things like this are supposed to get better with time, but it is his experience that they don’t. This - more than the powers, more than the constant uncertainty - is what makes him ache for his younger brother.
“He was in therapy for that. It was the psychiatrist’s opinion that he was coping as well as could be expected.”
“Yes, well, you’re not to be blamed,” she hurries to add, and her voice says that he is indeed to blame. “Children often spend years dealing with this kind of trauma. And Andrew was there when they died, wasn’t he?”
Aaron draws in a deep breath. This is getting too intrusive for comfort, and the repeated mentions of his parents compounded with this morning’s small disaster are steering his thoughts to a place he doesn’t want them going.
He does his best to seem polite and focused as he redirects the conversation. “I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with Drew’s schooling?”
Her other eyebrow lifts in acknowledgement of his unspoken request. The principal quickly gets down to business. “After talking extensively with his teacher, it is my recommendation that Andrew be placed in our neighboring magnet school, or if possible home schooled or tutored privately.”
He regards her with disbelief. “You’re kicking him out… for being too smart?”
She looks affronted. “Of course we’re not expelling him! If it is his desire to stay here then we certainly won’t mind having him. But you must think of what is best for the child in this case.”
And he’s not sure what it is, exactly, but suddenly he is angrier than he’s been in a long time. His heart feels too large for his body as it pounds a frantic tattoo against his chest. “I’ve done nothing but think of Drew’s welfare since I became his guardian.” The words are practically spat, and his voice is tight.
The older woman looks taken aback. “I’m sure you have. Believe me, I understand the kind of pressure you must be under. You are, after all, rather young - and to be doing this on your own… I’m not trying to judge you. You’ve done as well with him as can be expected, especially considering that you didn’t exactly ask for him.”
A rare violent fantasy of smashing her antique desk to smithereens flits through his mind. He clenches his fists spastically.
He can’t put up with this much longer.
“I don’t think thirty-two can be counted as too young to raise a child. If this is all you wanted to talk to me about, I should be getting Drew. His classes are almost over.”
As if on cue, a harsh buzzing fills the air. He stands stiffly.
Ms. Sharpe stands with him and walks him to the door. “Mr. Carson, I know it may not seem like it, but we are here to help. We simply want to give Andrew the best chance to succeed.”
Aaron meets her eyes and sees that she is not lying. Even so, he feels small and exposed under her knowledgeable scrutiny.
He speaks, offering verbal reassurance to someone who isn’t in the room with them.
“I may not have chosen him, but I do want him. That has never been the problem.”
She nods, and the fist around his chest grows tighter. He leaves the office and makes his way toward the wing where Drew’s classroom is located.
The hallway walls are plastered with posters. Aaron wonders if Andy is the boy pictured with a friend on each side or the one standing alone, eyes begging for acceptance. He knows that for the most part kids like Andrew - it would be hard not to. Still, he worries sometimes.
He feels whole-body heavy, as if he gained twenty pounds in the time between when he entered the school and now.
Rowdy children spill into the hallway and Aaron finds himself adrift in a sea of miniature people.
Andy comes into sight. His hair is ruffled, the knees of his pants smudged with dirt. Another little boy is tagging after him, talking incessantly. His baby brother is smiling broadly. Drew turns to him, and although Aaron hadn’t thought it possible his grin widens.
As if a sense of purpose was all he needed, Aaron’s feet and chest lighten, and his steps are sure once more.
Andy mutters a few words to his friend and then runs to Aaron. He hugs him tightly, his small arms barely reaching around his waist.
When he has stepped back Aaron swings him up into his arms, heavy backpack and all. “You ready to go, kid?”
“Yeah, let’s go home,” he replies.
Home, Aaron thinks, and squeezes Drew tightly for a moment. He sets him down, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth when Drew grabs his hand.
They walk like that, hand in hand and savoring their contented silence, all the way to the parking lot.