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The sunbeams gleam off the ocean. Light dances on the whitecaps, and the faint breeze shifts the sand and ruffles the grass, bringing the faint scents of salt, sea, and seaweed to my nose. It's a beautiful day. Far too beautiful to be sitting at my son's funeral.
He would have loved this, though. I can still see it in my mind: Tom running down the shore, chasing after his brother, laughing as he adjusts the target on his water gun, aiming at a perfect shot at Jake. Destroying him in the game, then insisting on using his own allowance money to buy him ice cream afterward. Waving to his father and I while sitting on the float driving by at his homecoming parade, while tossing candy at Jake and his cousins. Running around at the park, inilating Jake, Steve, and I at a three on one basketball game. Laughing as he threw his little brother into the deep end of George and Ellen's pool. Begging us to come to a Sharing meeting, collecting litter on the streets, because the weather was far too nice to pass it up…
Yeah, Tom would have loved this.
I glance over at Steve. He's facing forward, back straight, gaze fixed on the rabbi. Tears stream silently down his cheeks, and he raises a hand to wipe them away. His other hand is clutching Jake’s, squeezing so tight it probably hurts.
Oh gosh, Jake.
He isn’t crying, or shaking, or anything. Worse, he sits perfectly still, expression vacant as he stares blankly at the ocean. There’s no recognition in his gaze, no hint of emotion, no...anything. He’s closed in on himself, drawn a wall between himself and the world. I only wish I knew how to break it down.
I grab his other hand, squeezing it gently. Trying to break that wall, get any sign of life from my only living child. His gaze shifts slightly, down to our intertwined hands. But that’s the only response I get from him.
I was crying already, but now I start sobbing. How could I have allowed this to happen? What kind of mother am I, that allows this to happen and doesn’t even realize that her children have slowly whitered away?
It all started three years ago…
Hey Mom, I might be late for dinner tonight.” Tom grinned ear to ear.
I laughed. “What’s got you so pumped up?”
I teased him, bumping his shoulder lightly. My oldest was always energetic, but rarely so happy-go-lucky.
“Did you get that date?”
“You know it,” he laughed. “Lila wants me to go with her to some club meeting, then we're going to get ice cream afterward. Hopefully I’ll have a girlfriend by the end of tonight. Then Jake, Dad and you will have to throw me a party to celebrate.”
He winked. I chuckled again, then kissed his forehead. That was getting harder, he had finally grown taller than me.
“Good luck, sweetheart. Remember what I taught you, always be a gentleman, right?”
“Right,” he confirmed.
“I love you”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I feel myself shaking, and I try to take a few deep breaths to get a handle on my emotions. Steve reaches over Jake and puts a hand on my back, rubbing in gentle little circles. I look up at him, and he turns to meet my eyes. There are tear tracks painted down his face, and more tears leak from the corner of his eyes, but he's breathing steadily. I subtly glance at our son, who has not moved positions for the entire time we've been sitting here, and who's clearly not aware of anything going on around him. Steve looks at Jake as well, and then we look back at each other helplessly. Jake has been living this nightmare for so long, and he's so haunted that he can't…what are we even supposed to do?
I wish with my whole heart that I could pick him up and take him back to a time when life was simple, problems that could be fixed by a firm conversation and a mother's gentle touch.
Jake was sitting sullenly on the couch, chin resting on his hands. I walked up to him and knelt on the floor next to him.
“What's wrong, honey?”
He flung himself back onto the couch. “Tom promised he was going to teach me layups, and then he took forever getting home, and then he ditched me to go do homework.”
Jake looked up at me as if this was a cardinal sin. I wrapped my arm around him and hesitated slightly. “Honey, Tom's in high school now. He's busy with his friends and yeah, he has a lot of schoolwork. He's not going to have time to play basketball with you every night. Why don't you call Marco and see if you can go to the arcade?”
“He's doing something with his dad. But I wanted to hang out with Tom. Mom, he promised he would play with me. He's never broken a promise before. Never.” he said it with finality.
I hesitated. That much was true. Tom was an honest kid when it came to his brother. As far as I knew, he'd never disappointed Jake in anything.
I needed to have some words with that child.
“Jake, why don't you go see if there's anything good on TV? I'll be right back.”
I left without waiting for a response, walking upstairs, turning into the hall, and pausing outside Tom's door. I knocked lightly. I heard some shuffling inside the room, and then Tom popped his head out.
“Hey Mom,” he said casually. “Did you need something? I'm a little busy right now.”
“I needed to talk to you, sweetheart. Can I come in?” Hesitation briefly flashed across his features. Then he smiled, opened the door, and gestured widely.
I entered the room, and stopped dead. Tom had cleared away the dirty clothes that usually littered his carpet, he'd made his bed, and had been sorting through his bookshelf. A stack of books, magazines, and comics already rested in a cardboard box on the floor.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “So you finally decided to clean your room and donate to the library? Who are you and what did you do to my son?” I joked.
I'd meant it as a joke. Only he didn't quite seem to take it that way. His expression shifted, and for a second he looked downright terrified, before he laughed and changed the subject.
“What did you need to talk to me about?” He bounced back onto his perfectly made bed. I took the desk chair. I took a deep breath. I always tried to have a conversation when the kids were in trouble. Yelling had been a vice in the past.
“Why did you ditch Jake this afternoon?” I asked sternly.
He shrugged. “Oh, that. I had more important things to do.”
“More important than spending time with your only brother, who waited for hours for you to get home?” I took another deep breath. “I'm glad you're cleaning your room. It's about time you were a little more responsible. But you really hurt his feelings. I want you to go downstairs and apologize right now.”
He sighed. “Fine. I'll apologize to the Midget, and then maybe he can help me clean.”
It was such a deadpan delivery that I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
The rabbi continues talking, but my attention is on Jake now. He's still sitting still, and his expression hasn't changed, but he suddenly shudders, and a single tear leaks from the corner of his eye. I gently reach up to wipe it away. He doesn't respond to the touch, other than to close his eyes for a second. Steve wraps his arm around Jake's shoulder, and I follow suit. He kind of leans into our touch. I share a look with Steve. It's a subtle improvement, that he's showing any emotion at all. He's been trying to shove his pain into a corner lately. Of course, he's been doing that for the past three years, except during the most vulnerable moments, in the middle of night, when it's impossible to hide anything.
I woke up to the sound of screaming. Bloodcurdling, terrified screaming. I yanked the covers off and stumbled out of bed in a blind panic. Steve sat bolt upright.
“What's…” he squinted at me in the dark. I could hear him breathing, hard and fast. “It sounds like it's one of the boys. I'll take care of it.” I said in a rush.
Without leaving him time to respond, I dashed out of the room, toward the sound. It was coming from Jake's room. His door was locked, but I reached for the spare key above the door and inserted it into the lock. Then I stumbled in, determined to protect my son from whatever was hurting him.
He was tangled in the sheets, thrashing and yelling words I couldn't make out. Tears ran down his face. I quickly turned on the light, and he flinched. I ran to his side and gently pulled him out of the sheets and into my arms.
“Jake, wake up. You're having a nightmare.” I gently shook him awake. He opened his eyes, not seeming to register anything. Jake reflexively pushed me off him, screaming louder.
“Jake, wake up! You're okay, you're okay,You're okay,” I whispered.
Slowly his eyes cleared. He sat up unsteadily, gasping in sharp breaths. He blearily rubbed his face, wiping away tears.
“Mom?” he mumbled.
I rubbed his arm gently. “It's okay, baby, I'm here. It's okay, you're okay.”
He let out a choked sob, then took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. “I'm okay, Mom. You can go back to bed.”
I shook my head. What had happened to Jake to make him wake up shaking and shrieking like his limbs were on fire?
“Jake, are you okay?” I asked seriously. “Did something happen that I should know about?”
His eyes widened slightly, then he very quickly covered up his slip. “No, I'm fine.”
He forced a smile. “I was watching slasher flicks with Marco last night. Bad idea, I guess.”
“Well,” I said slowly. “You know you can always talk to me about anything, right? I'll always listen to you, and I'll believe you if you tell me something serious. Okay?”
His forced smile brightened. “Okay, Mom.”
I kissed his forehead. “I love you. Do you need anything else?”
“ No. I love you too.” he muttered, turning back over.
I went back to my bedroom, feeling uneasy.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn my head around, and see my little niece, Sara, sitting in the row behind me. She stretches out her hand to reveal a little daisy chain she had apparently been weaving together during the service.
“For you,” she whispers sweetly. Her blond hair and colorful dress make her look like an angel, a little bright spot of innocence in the aftermath of a war torn world.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I whisper back.
I gently take the flowers from her outstretched palm and squeeze her hand. I glance at her mother, sitting straight up, expression hard, and features painted with weary grief. She turns to meet my eyes for a second before making a face and hastily glancing away. Her own daughter's funeral had been only three days prior. She had managed to pull herself together in front of the media, even forcing a smile that almost seemed genuine. But I know it had to have been hell to pretend, especially for someone with such a no nonsense attitude.
That's one thing I can be grateful for, I suppose. Tom wasn't important enough to warrant international attention. He'd just been one of thousands of nameless victims of the conflict. No one but us cared that he was dead.
In an effort to shove that thought away, I let my mind wander to another horrible thought. Illa 274 had played my failures on repeat, every memory I had of Tom and Jake when they started to change, when they started to break down in front of my eyes. There had been times, though, when I wasn't completely blind.
George pulled up another chair beside Saddler's hospital bed. I sank into it, relieved that Saddler had recovered, and exhausted. It had been a long week.
Naomi collapsed into the chair beside me, face flushed. She smiled at me grimly. “I guess miracles really exist, huh Jean?”
I laughed. “And here I thought you didn't believe in such impossible things as miracles.”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I'm not sure what to think. It was a remarkably fast recovery, and he was practically dead.”
We both paused, watching Saddler chatting enthusiastically with his parents. I glanced over at Tom, who was leaning against the wall, frowning, as if trying to solve a complex puzzle. Naomi nudged me, indicating Jake and Rachel. They were sitting on the stairwell at the end of the hall, their backs to us, engaged in an intense, whispered conversation. She hesitated.
“Do you ever wonder if something is wrong with those two?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Rachel is hardly home anymore,” she admitted, her gaze distant. “And when she is, she's moody, she lashes out at Jordan and Sara for no reason at all. Her sleep patterns have been irregular, and she'll blow off curfew on a weekly basis.” She paused. “But it's more than that. Something's changed about her. I can't put my finger on it, and I don't like it.” Naomi scowled. I hid a grin, even as I considered her assessment. Naomi was a lawyer. She was methodological, and hated anything not being as it should be.
“Well, Jake hasn't been doing the best either, lately.” I admitted. “His grades have dropped. I mean, he's never been a top student, but he's always managed a B-average. The second he got put into high school, he could barely pass any of his classes.” I slumped lower in my chair. “And he's woken up screaming in the middle of night more than once. And he sometimes blows off curfew, as well.” I paused, considering my words. “Maybe this is all just normal teenage behavior. But… I don't know.” My shoulders slumped.
Naomi nodded. “This is my first teenager, and she can be a little hellspawn sometimes. Was Tom ever like this?”
I considered the question. Tom was right behind us, and he had a habit of eavesdropping, so I had to be careful what I said. “Not in the same way. The worst thing with him was that he slept past his alarm and he was a little too arrogant about basketball. Oh, and we caught him sneaking out once. That’s about it. He’s a great kid. And once he hit sixteen or so, we’ve had no trouble with him at all.”
She sighed. “That’s good. What did you do to make that happen? I could use some pointers.” She did look exhausted. I couldn’t imagine the toll it took on my former sister-in-law, raising three daughters on her own while working full time. I’d offered to help her, but she usually tried to avoid anything connected to Dan when possible. Including his family.
I shrugged. “He figured most of it out on his own. Once he got involved with the Sharing, it was like he matured overnight. He’s been the picture perfect child ever since.” I paused. It sounded creepy saying it out loud. “The only downside is that my boys have grown apart. They pretend they haven’t, but…” I sighed. “They used to be inseparable, and now they can hardly be in the same room with each other. I don’t know what happened.”
Naomi nodded. “My girls are that way as well, Rachel especially. I hope it’s just a teenage thing.”
“Me too”
I feel tears running down my cheeks again, as I'm overcome with the guilt that has haunted me since I found out the truth. Why didn't I notice that something was off? Well, I had with Jake, but I hadn't done anything except nag him about improving his grades, ground him for coming home late, and unfairly compare him to his brother- no, his brother's torturer. I had treated a child soldier like a disobedient kid that needed handling. Was that part of the reason he was so despondent now? I choke back a sob.
But the way I had hurt Jake was nothing compared to the way I had hurt Tom. My stomach clenches as I remember the memories that the yeerk had tortured me with. Every word of praise I had given the creature who had kidnapped and abused my son, knowing now that Tom could still hear me. Every time I had told him how proud I was that he had gotten involved in contributing to his community. How glad I was that he cared about school. Every time I told him how much he had matured. Every time I had informed my son to his face that I preferred his torturer. It makes me sick to my stomach, and I have to hold back my nausea.
I take a few unsteady breaths in an effort to calm myself down. Steve reaches over and starts rubbing my back again. I look at him gratefully. He gives me a small, sad smile in return. I glance at Jake and notice that he's holding another one of Sara's flower chains, rubbing it absentmindedly between two fingers. He looks a little more alive now, but still fairly despondent. His gaze has returned to the horizon, and his eyes follow the seagulls soaring over the beach. I squeeze his shoulder. He still doesn't respond. I close my eyes and let Steve massage my back, and I remind myself of the one time we did notice something wrong with Tom.
My grandfather's death had been rather unexpected, and it rattled me. I'd always been close to him, despite the fact that thanks to his PTSD, he'd had trouble getting close to anyone. But he'd had a soft spot for me and my boys, Jake especially. I remembered many summers out here at his cabin, swimming in the lake and eating barbecue. They were good times we wouldn't be able to get back.
I had flown up here as soon as I heard the news, in order to help my parents prepare the funeral services. We were on a break right now, eating chicken salad sandwiches and grapes for lunch.
“How are the boys doing with the news?” my mother asked, wiping her face with her napkin.
I shrugged. “I'm not sure. I only saw Jake in my rush here. He was concerned about me, obviously, and he asked if something had happened to Steve or Tom. I told him Grandpa G had died, and he was upset. So about as well as you can expect.”
My father nodded. “You ought to call Steve, Jean. See how your family is doing, how soon they'll be up here. You can use the new telephone I made my father install in the kitchen.” I stood up and pushed my chair in. “Great idea, Dad. I'll go check up on everyone.” I laughed to myself a little bit as I turned the corner into the house. No matter how old I got, despite the fact that I now had two teenagers of my own, I still listened to my parents. I shook my head in amusement. If I'm lucky, Tom and Jake will still be hanging on to my every word when they're in their forties. After all, good parents are good parents no matter what age their kids are.
I stopped in front of the phone and dialed our home number. Steve picked up on the first ring. “Hello? Steve Bereson talking.”
“It's me, Steve. I'm using the new phone in the cabin. Just calling for an update on how soon you think you can be up here.”
“Oh, sorry Jean.” He sounded sheepish, and a little distracted. “Hopefully we'll be up there by Friday afternoon, but we may have been delayed a little bit. Tom has decided to be,” he paused with a long, drawn out sigh, “difficult.”
I sighed and furrowed my brow. “Difficult how?”
“He refused to come on the trip at all,” Steve informed me tightly.
“I'm sorry, WHAT?” I yelled through the phone. “Does he not understand that an important member of his family just died? What does he think he's pulling…”
“Hey, hey, don't shoot the messenger!” Steve's attempt at humor quickly fell flat. He cleared his throat and continued , “ Apparently our son has decided that his friends at the Sharing- an organization that supposedly supports family values, by the way- is more important than his family. I informed him he did not have a choice in the matter, and that we will be going to his great grandfather's funeral whether or not he wants to throw a tantrum like a toddler.”
I rested my head against the wall, rubbing the spot in between my eyebrows like I did when I had a severe headache. “Perfect. He needed a talking- to. But where is this attitude coming from? He’s been so well behaved lately. Given how into service Tom’s become, I halfway expected him to stow away on the plane so he could beat everyone else out in helping to set up the funeral.”
Steve didn’t laugh.
I continued, “Did you recite the family motto to him?”
It was an inside joke between the four of us. It had started when the kids were little, and Tom had gone off to play with some neighborhood kids without telling Jake. Jake had been so concerned that he’d practically turned the house inside out looking for his brother. He’d come to us crying, convinced that Tom had been kidnapped. We’d calmed him down and assured him that he was just out playing with some friends, and Jake had been so furious that he’d stormed out the door with Steve and I tailing along behind him. He’d found Tom riding his bike with some other boys, literally slapped him so hard Tom had fallen off his bike and hit the concrete, and then proceeded to burst into tears. One of the other boys had tersely informed Jake that they were busy trying to save the world, to which Jake had screamed, “Family’s more important than saving the world!”
We’d been saying it ever since, whenever one of us had another commitment that was getting in the way of our time together.
“Yes I did,” Steve said tightly. “He was not amused.” He sighed. “I did, however, agree to go to a Sharing meeting to explain my position on why this trip is vital to our family. I’m not really sure why I agreed to that, but I did. If it makes him change his mind, I’ll do anything.”
I hesitated. “Steve,” I said softly. “You don’t think that maybe…”
“Maybe the Sharing is the problem? It crossed my mind.”
“We ought to ground him from that freaking club when this whole mess is over.” I decided. “At least for a while, until he can set his priorities straight.” The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it was probably the best decision. The Sharing had been a good influence on Tom, but it was also taking up way too much of his time. And now that they were pulling him away from us…
“I agree,” my husband said. His voice was grim. “But do you want to try suggesting that to him? He already looked like he had murder on his mind.”
That did it right there. “All the more reason too. This is getting out of hand.” I ran my hand through my hair, sending frizzes everywhere. I sighed. “How’s Jake doing? He was so close to Grandpa G…”
Steve barked out a laugh. “Jake’s as stressed as ever. But compared to Tom right now, he’s a saint. He volunteered to do the dishes last night. Volunteered, Jean”
I slumped further against the wall. “That’s great. I’m glad to hear he’s doing a bit better. I've been so worried about him lately.”
“I know,” Steve agreed. “He just hasn’t been himself. Sometimes I think the kids have been replaced by strangers in their sleep.”
I smirked. “Oh sweetheart, we would know if that happened. We aren’t that blind.”
People are starting to stand up. Alarmed, I snap back to the present. The service is over. I rise from my seat. So does Steve, and he glances at Jake, who's retreated to staring at the sea again.
I gently kneel in front of him, put a hand on his shoulder, and look into his eyes. He jumps about a mile into the air.
“What?” he yells out, his voice hoarse.
Then he seems to remember where he is and falls silent, staring at the ground. People are turning around to stare at him, and a few are walking up to us. “Jake, honey,” I say patiently. “It's time to get up and go home.”
I attempt to hold back the tears forming, but a few manage to leak down my face. He lifts his gaze to meet my eyes. I hold my breath. His deep brown irises, so like mine, are wet with unshed tears. He blinks, and they start to run down his face. I slowly stretch out my hand and offer it to him. The last thing I want is to rush him out of here when he's in this kind of emotional state.
Jake stares at my hand for a few seconds, before cautiously reaching out his own and grabbing it, and I gently pull him to his feet. He surveys the entire scene- the gentle waves breaking on the shore, the mourners and well-wishers milling around, the small monument that would be placed beside Rachel's- and turns to his father. Steve attempts to pull Jake into a hug, but he immediately pulls away and mutters something under his breath that neither of us catch at first.
“What's that, Jake?”My husband frowns.
“Can I have the car keys?” Jake mumbles, slightly louder. He swallows a lump in his throat, and tears spill down his cheeks.
Steve and I share an understanding look. If Jake doesn't feel like falling apart in front of well-meaning friends and family members- or worse, any ill-intended news spokesman determined on portraying him as nothing more than a monster, who had somehow gotten wind of Tom's funeral despite the fact that we had tried to keep it as private as possible- then we wouldn't dare to make him stay here.
Steve fishes the keys out of his suit pocket and tosses them to our son. “Just don't drive off without us. We don't have alternate means of transportation.”
He winks. I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. This isn't the time to break tension with humor.
Jake doesn't respond to the ill-timed joke. He just turns on his heel and practically runs to the parking lot.
“He doesn't look too good, huh?” I turn at the familiar voice. My parents are there, smiling grimly, both crying. I wrap my arms around myself.
“I don't know what to do with him.” I admit, my voice breaking. “He's been a shell of himself since…” since he murdered his brother. “Since the war ended.”
I'm crying again. My mother pulls me into an embrace, and I rest my head on her shoulder like I did when I was a little girl and upset over spilled ice cream. Painful sobs rack my body again. She holds me for a while, whispering comforting nonsense in my ear (Although I hate having anything near my ears, these days).
I finally pull away, wiping my eyes rapidly, and force an uncomfortable smile.
“Gosh,” my father says softly, hugging Steve and I as well, “I haven't seen Jake since the last family funeral.” He laughs darkly. “If I'm not careful, I'm going to start associating that child with death.” Then his face falls. “Jean, was he already…you know….by then?”
I nod dimly. I can't imagine all the awful weight he was already carrying by that point.
“If that's the case, then Tom was also…” he chokes on his words. “Well, that just explains everything, doesn't it?” he manages.
“My goodness, we don't even know the last time we actually spoke to Tom.” my mother adds.
Steve nods sadly. “I don't suppose we'll ever really find out. Frankly, I think I'm better off not knowing. For my own sanity.” He laughs unsteadily.
I stay silent. That's true for them, not me. I can clearly recall the last time I ever spoke to my son.
The Hork-Bajir controllers threw me into the cage roughly, with little thought of preventing injury. I slammed into some poor fool who was as trapped as I was, barreling him over. He picked himself up, with difficulty, and offered me a hand.
“First time?” He asked kindly. His words were oddly slurred, as if he'd forgotten how to speak on his own. I nodded grimly.
“How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess,” he shrugged. “But I'm sorry you're here.” With that he turned and shuffled over to the corner of the cage, looking like every step was a controlled decision. I sank to the ground roughly and burst into sobs, shaking as my body rocked back and forth. Not only were aliens real, but they were taking over the world. They had abducted and replaced my son three years ago, and I had never blinked an eye. And my other son had been fighting in a war for just as long, and the weight of the world rested on his sixteen year old shoulders. How much pain had they already suffered? How much could I have prevented? I shuddered at the thought. And now the enemy had stripped away my husband's freedom, and mine as well. I nearly retched as I recalled the taste of the kandrona, and the horrific dread as I slowly lost control of my body. They would take me again soon, and use me as a hostage against Jake. If they captured him too…
“Mom?” the quiet, parched voice whispered through my thoughts, and I looked up so fast I pulled a muscle in my neck. My heart beat wildly in my chest.
Tom looked worse than I had ever seen him. He had dark circles under his eyes, and they were sunken in, like he hadn't slept in a month. His face was badly cut, still bleeding freshly in some places. His voice sounded damaged, like he hadn't used it in years. (He probably hadn't, I realized.) He'd lost weight, too, his clothes looked looser on him then they should. But I knew without a doubt that it was really him.
I sprung up and grabbed my baby tightly, still sobbing uncontrollably. He reached up and wrapped his arms around me weakly, sounding like he was trying to cry but couldn't remember how. All that was coming out were these pathetic whimpering noises. I buried my face in his shoulder, and we held each other for a long moment, knowing we didn't have much time, but not willing to let go.
Finally, I managed to calm down enough to push words out, and pull back enough to look Tom in the eyes. I ran my hand softly over the scars on his forehead, and he flinched.
“I am so sorry, baby,” the words came out choked. “I am so sorry. This is all my fault, I should have realized that…”
“Shut up, Mom,” he said weakly. “Shut up, it's okay. I should've fought harder to stop him.” Every word sounded painful. He closed his eyes and started shaking wildly. His voice broke and he hunched over to bury his face in my shoulder. “He's gonna kill Jake,” he whispered. “He's gonna make me do it.” He started whimpering again.
I tightened my arms around him, unsure of how to comfort Tom. The horrible truth was, that could very well happen, and there wasn't a damn thing any of us could do about it.
“He's not going to kill Jake,” I said tightly, rubbing his back. “Jake's perfectly capable of defending himself.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. It was true, but I didn't particularly want to think about the implications.
Tom looked up at me. “Gosh, I hope he does,” he whispered harshly.
I wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about now, but I went along with it. “He's going to save us, sweetheart. It's not too late.”
Tom pulled out of my embrace. His gaze was so blazingly intense that I flinched. “No,” he said. “No. What if we were wrong all those years?” His voice quivered. He took a slow breath in, and his next words were in a parched, intense whisper. “What if saving the world is more important?”
We stand there for another hour, accepting condolences from our closest friends and family members, and Steve and I only cry, oh, seven or eight more times. People embrace us, give us flowers, congratulate Jake on saving the world,(or dessimite him for committing war crimes.), share their fondest memories about Tom, ask if there's anything they can do to show us love during this difficult time, ask how we're dealing with the fratricide. It goes on forever, and I begin to wish that the crowds would just leave us alone and let us grieve in peace.
Eventually, Dan, of all people, manages to herd us away from the people with good intentions and out to the privacy of our station wagon. He embraces his brother, shakes my hand, and promises to stop by tonight with dinner. Then he's gone. I remember how it was Dan who had managed to pull Jake out of his head when the war had first ended, when Jake had told us what he had done to Tom and Rachel, and then locked himself in a cabin and refused to so much as look us in the eyes for days. Dan had said something comforting to Jake, and whatever it was, it was enough to get him moving on his own. As much as we all resented Dan for being a deadbeat father, I would never forget that.
We climb into the car to check on Jake. He's curled up in the backseat, staring at nothing. He'd cried hard enough to burst a blood vessel in one eye,(nothing that couldn't be fixed with morphing), he'd thrown up on himself, and he was still shaking uncontrollably. Steve's voice shakes as he uncomfortably states, “We're going to head home, kiddo, and then you can just curl up in bed and sleep for as long as you need to. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” Jake croaks, his voice weak and starchy. I so badly want to hold him tightly and tell him that he's going to be alright. But that may well be a lie. Jake has experienced pain I will never begin to comprehend, and he has mental and emotional scars that cut deeper than anyone realizes. I love him more than he will ever know, but with that comes a slew of complex emotions. I loved Tom, too, and whether or not I want to admit it, my son is gone because of Jake.
Jake hadn't uttered a word to us- or anyone else, as far as we could tell- since he confessed to assassinating his brother, using his cousin as the gun. He'd locked himself in Marco's cabin at the free Hork-Bajir camp, and refused to listen to our pleas to just talk to him.
I hated myself for it, but I was furious. I spent long hours alternating between ranting to Steve about Jake -about how surely he could've done something to save Tom, about how I barely recognized my baby, about who he had become right before our eyes- and sobbing into his shoulder. If I could maybe just speak to Jake, maybe I could get some closure about this.
Then Dan exited the little house, and shut the door behind him. He turned to the rest of us- Steve, Naomi, Jordan, Sara, Eva, Peter, Toby and I- anxiously gathered to hear how his attempt to revive Jake had gone.
“Well?” Steve asked, his voice breaking.
“Well, he spoke to me,” Dan replied. He straightened his posture. “He told me he was ready to see you, if you come in one at a time.”
I exchanged a shocked glance with Eva. This was a miracle. None of us really expected him to ever pull out of this comatose state.
“I'll go in first,” I volunteered, swallowing the lump in my throat. “The boy needs his mom.”
Eva glanced at me side-eyed, as if she knew that was only half of the reason I wanted to see Jake first, and that the other half was far more selfish. But she didn't speak up.
Steve hugged me tightly, and we kissed. He pulled back first, looking extremely worried.
“Are you sure you don't want me to go in first?” my wonderful husband whispered, so the others couldn't overhear. I nodded, determined.
“It'll be alright. He's so alone, and just needs a shoulder to cry on right now.”
Sara stopped me and embraced me as well, for good luck, she said. Then I stopped before the cabin door, gathered every ounce of courage I possessed, and slowly turned the handle and walked up to my traumatized child.
He was sitting up in bed, staring at the wall. He jumped at the noise, then fell silent as his eyes landed on me. He quickly glanced away, looking anywhere but at his mother.
I stopped and stared at him for a long while. He looked horrible. His eyes were horrifically bloodshot, and dark circles formed underneath them. His hair was disheveled and matted in clumps. He was paler than usual, and his breaths were quick and heavy, like he was trying not to break down sobbing in front of me.
I stared at him. The sixteen year old kid in front of me looked far older, and yet far younger at the same time, like a little kid who desperately needed comfort and refused to take it out of pride. Hard to believe he was a mass murderer and a ruthless war criminal, who didn't think twice about snuffing out the people closest to him the second they were inconvenient to his plans. I felt bile rising up my throat, as a thousand warring emotions battled for control. Rage, grief, hope, fear, disappointment, horror, pride, pity, love, guilt, shock.
Jake continued to avoid my gaze as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Hey, Mom.” His voice wavered, and he was still fighting to keep away sobs.
That little waver in his voice, that's what did it. I broke. I rushed to him and threw my arms around my baby forcefully. He buried his face in my shoulder and the floodgates broke. Heartbroken, gut-wrenching sobs racked his body. He gasped for breath in between. His arms squeezed my torso so hard it was painful. I let him cry, and I broke down and let the tears out as well. We stayed that way for a while, rocking back and forth slightly. I tried to think of something to say to him, but every comment that came to mind seemed inadequate or disingenuous. What does one say to a child who murdered not only his own brother, but countless others as well? And for what? I finally choked out the only comforting sentence I could think of that wouldn't be a blatant lie right then.
“I love you”
He jerked back as if I'd slapped him. Then he laughed bitterly, raising his hands to wipe tears off his face. “Please don't lie to me,” he managed. “I can't handle this right now.” The worst part was, he looked like he believed those words.
We drive home in silence, except for occasional bouts of tears from Steve or I. Jake doesn't cry any more. I doubt he has any energy left in him. He just closes his eyes and tries to block out the world again. Good timing, too, because that's when we pass the section of the city that was reduced to bombed out rubble. Homes and businesses were completely destroyed, people's lives ruined. Another casualty of the war. Jake doesn't need to be reminded of that right now.
We pull into the garage, and Steve turns off the car. We have a silent conversation about deciding who's going to take care of Jake right now, and we decide that I'll handle it while Steve continues to search for Homer's corpse. We're fairly certain he's dead, but we haven't found the body yet. Second family member this month.
I revive Jake, and place an arm around his shoulder to drag his exhausted body upstairs. When we reach his room, he collapses before he makes it to the bed and curls up on the floor, lacking the strength to drag himself three more feet over. I resist the urge to roll my eyes when my baby is this upset, and walk off to go find a washcloth to wipe the vomit off his clothes. By the time I come back, he's already fallen into an uneasy slumber.
I quietly get him cleaned up, and then pick him up and tuck him into bed just like I did when he was a toddler, before he was destroyed by war.
I sit beside him for a while and stroke his hair back from his forehead, enjoying the quiet and pretending, just for a moment, that this is all normal, that Jake is six again and has the flu, that he requested me to sit beside him while he slept and comfort him.
Then I notice a crumpled piece of paper poking out of his jacket pocket. Frowning, I carefully retrieve and unfruel it.
It's the program for the funeral.
Thomas Steve Berenson April 30th,1981- May 1st, 2000 Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend.
Only Jake has crossed out the year 2000 and written 1996 over it.
I clutch the program to my chest as tears drip down my face again. I don't believe that's true for a second, and I doubt Jake does either, but if that's what he needs to tell himself to cope, so be it.
I begin to sob again.