This one shot is the product of my own night suffering insomnia-I apologize ahead of time for the whiplash due to flashback you are about to receive…

IN THE HARSH LIGHT OF THE BATHROOM

My mother places me carefully into the bathtub, my skin sprouts pleasured goosebumps when the warm water engulfs me, and I lean back into its cradling, lapping waves. But a pungent smell makes my nose crinkle, and my eyelids flutter as they work themselves open and I realize I'm not in the tub, but in the middle of a soggy bed. My hand reaches down to find our rumpled sheets soaked, and when I breathe in the unmistakable smell of urine, I bolt upright realizing what's happened. "Mom!" I call out to the darkened hallway, while I shove Soda's dead weight off of me and roll out of the bed, furious.

Within seconds, the lights flip on and Mom floats across our bedroom, her nightgown catching in the breeze and she's already helping a sleepy Soda out from under the blankets he's twisted in. "Mom," I'm whining loudly while she's working him like a rag doll out of his pajamas, the ones with the little cowboys all over them. "I can't sleep with him no more. Who still wets the bed when they're four?" I ask bitterly, holding my cold Little League shirt away from my skin.

Soda is slowly becoming aware of the situation when Mom says sweetly to him, "We'll have it all cleaned up in no time," and then sharply to me, "That's enough outta you Darry. He can't help it."

From behind her back I glare at Soda, and his eyes begin to water and his face is already setting up for the bawling that's sure to come. More than annoyed, I add "I can't sleep with no baby," for good measure and that's enough to send him sailing into hysterics. Satisfied, I accept the evil eye from Mom as she attempts to console Soda and when I head for the door, wouldn't you know Ponyboy has started up with his crying shrieks from down the hallway, and it's just fuel to the fire for me.

I see Mom's at her wits' end when she hears the baby's been disturbed by a howling Soda, and she stands upright with her hands on her hips, blows off the stray hair that's escaped and fallen onto her exhausted face, and proceeds to put the blame all on me. "Young man, if I hear one more word out of that smart mouth," and just like always she's failed to finish the threat.

And I don't know what's gotten into me, the fact I was woken up in such a manner, or the fact I'm sick and tired of two little brothers getting their dirty hands all over my stuff, trailing me everywhere I go, constantly getting me in trouble. I guess my mind just up and left, cause I find myself doing exactly what my mom told me not to. I open up my smart mouth and speak the truth. "There's way too many people in this family," I boldly say and I try and think of the worst thing I can to top it off. "And it smells like piss." I don't wait for her reaction and march to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

As I stomp down the hall I catch a glimpse of Ponyboy's tear streaked face through the crack of the nursery door, standing up in his crib with a sagging diaper. He's crying for Mama over and over like a siren at the top of his lungs, but when he spots me, he reaches out an arm and opens and shuts his baby hand repeatedly, his way to beg for me to come get him, sobbing pitifully. When l keep on walking, I can only shake my head at the volume his wails have soared to.

I turn on the shower, peel off my shirt, and I'm muttering under my breath about how I must be the only boy in the world who has to take a shower at such a cold, cruel hour. I finally notice my father's appearance in the doorway with a freshly diapered, calmed Ponyboy in his arms, and though he looks to be bone tired, his eyes still hold all their power and I stand to attention, knowing my mother has told on me.

"When you're done cleanin' off, I want you to come see me," is all he says. My anger has immediately turned to dread, finally realizing my lashing out was pretty stupid. And I'm so worn out I just stand there, staring right back up at him. He shifts Pony to his opposite side and waits patiently in the silence until I remember to say, "Yes sir." Then he turns to leave and now I can see Pony's green eyes, his face resting peacefully on Dad's shoulder, his thumb plugging his mouth and his other hand tangling up the back of Dad's hair, rubbing it between two tiny fingers. "And bring the soap," Dad calls behind him.

Looking back, I can picture Dad so clearly, and now I recognize how young he really was standing in that harsh bathroom light, just trying to keep his family afloat, raising three wild boys the best he knew how, and I'm sure in that moment, he was simply just trying to survive the night, probably wanting nothing more than sleep. I smile remembering how it all played out. I can still taste those soap suds and how it felt to stand before Mom and give my mandatory, yet heartfelt apology. I could've sworn Soda was always the hellion, but maybe I was no angel. There's way too many people in this family. I certainly don't fault that little boy for saying it; I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. But those words weigh so heavy tonight, as I toss and turn, searching for that elusive sleep, who tonight is playing the tease and fickly passes me by.

It's in these long nights that I search for him, looking around my bedroom, his bedroom. All four corners dance with the shadowed tree limbs that reflect through moonlit windows, but he doesn't sit in that chair anymore tying his shoes. He no longer stands at that dresser fastening his watch. I still hold out hope for maybe even his ghost, or some kind of sign, anything to feel that connection I miss.

I think back to the bedtimes of our youth, can still hear his laughing voice from behind us, "Don't let them ghosts getcha boys" as we would wildly scramble down the hall to leap for our turned down, cozy bed, Dad reaching out to catch us and our giggles, Soda squealing the entire way.

And I feel abandoned now that his spirit chooses not to visit, my tie to him now severed completely, and everyday I'm a little more lost. Some guidance would be nice, a touch that could steer me in the right direction, letting me know I'm taking over his role in a way that he'd approve of. I know I'm being childish, looking for something that isn't there and never will be, but alone in this bedroom, I allow myself to drop my tough exterior and simply be the boy who's left behind.

I try for a new position, pulling my covers back to expose my legs and lie back with a heavy sigh, hoping the cool air on my feet will be the answer to my sleeplessness. In my head I start another tactic, naming off all the World Series champions starting with this year and going backwards…

My face is on fire and the tears add more sting, while I lean over the sink as my dad runs his rough hand under the cold water. He's wringing out the wash cloth and puts it gently on my face, the back of my neck, my cheek. With my good eye, the one that's not swollen, I look up at him, trying not to sniff, trying not to show him I hurt like hell and I just want to cry, cause I'm still so pissed at that asshole Charlie Cooper for what he said. "I'm sorry Dad," I tell him, "for gettin' sent home and all."

Mom was undone when I showed up in the middle of the day. She gave me a bag of frozen peas and told me to go lie down. She was too mad at my suspension, "from fifth grade no less," to offer much comfort, to understand why I'd done it. It was only when Dad came home that I felt someone sympathized.

He patched me up that night in the bathroom, gave me some good advice about choosing your battles, that as long as you felt the ground you stood on was solid and worth it, fight like hell, but never ever let your eyes off your target and "For God's sake Darry, always lean in on every punch." I didn't miss the twinkle in his eyes when he patted my shoulder after he'd finished with my face, and then he went out to tell Mom from now on he'd be handling these types of situations.

I miss him. I know Soda and Pony miss him too, but for them, it's Mom's absence that has turned their worlds upside down, while my life is left with the hole where Dad used to stand, a cavernous hole that will never be filled, and I'm aching for the man who I shadowed since I could walk. I wonder where he is now, does he see me, us? And I find my eyes have gravitated to Mom's old crucifix.

"Where do you think we go when we die?" Pony is asking us while we work on the truck's engine not long after the accident. I'm knee deep in the fan belt and in my own season of spiritual struggles, not quite sure how to answer, since I don't know myself. He's swinging his legs off the side of the porch, watching us, taking mental note of our every move, noticing all our subtle behaviors. "I mean, do y'all believe in life after death?" he asks in blunt, Ponyboy fashion. I'm lucky Soda's here. He's carefully attaching his last screw and sets his wrench down.

"Without a doubt," he tells Pony firmly and with confidence. Pony isn't going to breathe easy though till he hears it from me. I busy myself, but feel his eyes penetrating the back of my head.

"What do you think Darry? Do you think people live on?" I stand up and wipe the grease on my jeans and squint up at the sun as I sort out my thoughts. I'm able to answer him honestly.

"I don't know, Pony, but I sure am banking on it." Pony and Soda both nod their heads, satisfied with my answer.

But, I wasn't satisfied. I've always believed in God, but my faith has been shaken by my parents' end, and the fact that in this house, only their old belongings remain, none of their spirit. And that's what's left me spooked.

Just then I hear the flush of the toilet. And my ears perk up as I wait for footsteps returning to bed. I can't relax unless I'm sure both boys are where they should be. But another flush follows and there's no sign of life in the hallway yet. Something's not right and I fling off the covers to check things out.

I knock lightly on the bathroom door and hear only whimpers. I push it open slowly to find Sodapop on his knees, head bent over the toilet, a string of bile slowly descending from a mouth too tired to spit it away. It's set free by his hand that's wiping his face and he looks at me with pleading eyes. "It's gonna be okay," I assure him and head for the towel closet. The whole house has now come to life and Pony's shown up, green eyes peering around the doorframe, biting his thumbnail, afraid to come closer, since he's been known to throw up when he sees someone else do it; a self-proclaimed sympathetic vomiter. "Go on back to bed, Pony. I got this." And he's more than happy to leave the scene.

I've already dealt with Pony being sick twice, post accident. This is the first time I've dealt with Soda though, and even though he's older, I know how hard it is to get sick without a mother's touch. I wet the rag and put it on the back of his neck, and sit down next to him on the edge of the tub. I rub his back, noticing his tan line where his sweats have slipped down, a signature of his summer refusal to wear shirts, the light skin below now a sharp contrast next to his darkened skin above. He suddenly bats my hand off of him, and starts rocking back and forth, mouth shut tight and breathing through his nose, shaking his head in a panic. He doesn't want to vomit again but the nausea is winning. "Just let it out, you'll feel better," I coach him softly. His arms are hugging his stomach and his face is pained when another round hits him.

I return to the sink to soak the washcloth again, my rough hands under the running faucet, wringing it out. I drop the cloth and look at the water pouring over my calloused fingers, the split knuckles of a roofer's hand, and I'm reminded of something. I catch myself in the mirror, in the harsh light of this bathroom in the middle of the night, and I'm looking exactly like another young man who stood here many times, doing the same exact thing, right down to the kicked back hair and the fact we're raising wild boys the only way we know how.

My breathing hitches when I realize I'm staring right at my father's reflection, and everything else around me ceases to exist. I study my eyes, my hands, desperate to know if I'm really feeling him right now. Even the air molecules are aware of this divine moment as they seem to shift for the arrival. My chest is somehow warmed from within, from the floods of all that has gone before and all that God has prepared ahead. And I silently start laughing and crying all at once, cause my soul has just filled up to capacity. I shiver at the electricity that's brought my hairs on end, and I know without doubt Dad's found me tonight, in this unexpected moment of taking care of Soda, of just trying to do my best.

And he's really never been that far away. It only took a year and five months, but suddenly I see he's everywhere now, in this house, in his sons, in Soda's laugh and Pony's walk, and most definitely inside of me. I'm grinning through blinding tears when I go back to Soda and soothe him, who has no clue of the shift in my universe. I've found peace in the strangest place you could ever find peace, and I'm somehow renewed, saved, knowing that as I clean up Soda and keep him comforted, tonight there are three of us in this tiny bathroom.

A/N: The Outsiders by SE Hinton