Jeff

…

/// "Don't you dare turn your back on me, young man!"

He swings around, fearful, but his mouth set, no hint of conciliation.

"I mean it, Scott. You're not going. You're sixteen years of age. When you're eighteen, you can do what you like. But you don't bring it into this house, and you don't ever talk to your brothers about it."

"It's what Mom would have wanted."

"Don't throw that at me. I'm here, she isn't. And this isn't what I want. How the hell do you think this would look if it got out? Scott, damn it, you know I've made a public stand on this."

"And that's all that matters to you, isn't it?"

He reaches for his jacket.

"Damn you, Scott – you go and I swear you're not coming back."

"Fine," he mutters.

"Think about it," I threaten. "You walk out of that door and you're on your own. You won't see your brothers again."

The shock registers, and I watch the color drain from his face. His shoulders slump and he replaces the jacket.

At one level I'm ashamed of myself for being so manipulative. Fleetingly, contradictorily, I shoot out a thought to a woman I refuse to acknowledge exists except in my memory, asking her to forgive me. But he'll thank me for it eventually. Damn it, it took me years to claw my way through the fear and the uncertainty and the superstition to get myself to where I am now. I don't want any of the boys to be that hung up. Ever ///

…

I look in on each of my boys in turn.

It's something I used to do at night when they were small, but it's become a habit again after a difficult rescue. It's partly a psychological prop. I need to convince myself I've got them all back safely. But there's a practical element too. They're none of them complainers, and more than one of them has come back needing medical attention and said nothing. I like to make sure they're basically in one piece. And I count the bruises and remind myself what it is I'm asking of them every day.

I start with Gordon, poke my head into his room, the light from the hallway casting a shaft across the space. I love Gordon's room. It sure is untidy, but there's a sort of order to the chaos. Gordon's a hoarder, a collector. Anything of interest that washes up on the beach usually finds its way up here sooner or later.

It's a hot evening and he's lying on top of the sheets, buck naked as the day he was born. Most of the others will be in the same state of undress. Comes of being brought up in a family without many women-folk, I guess. Gordon, in particular, has never been one for modesty, and he's happy in his own skin. When Tin-Tin or mother is on the island he usually remembers to make the effort not to wander around the house like this. The rest of the time he doesn't give a damn.

Sure enough, a nasty graze on his forearm is already blackening. It's clean enough but there's obvious swelling. I back out, only to find Kyrano standing by with an ice-pack. I swear that man knows me better than I know myself. He smiles quietly at my expression, evidently amused.

Gordon chunters a little as I strap the pack into place around the wound, then suddenly opens his eyes wide and beams at me.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey yourself, son."

I'm not fooled. He's sound asleep. The point is proven by his next comment.

"I'm headed down to Sunny Cove. Surfing's great down there."

"Sure, son."

There's no Sunny Cove, and no surfing to be had anywhere on the island.

He prattles happily to me for a few more moments, most of it nonsense, then shuts his eyes again. He won't remember this when he wakes.

I lean over, kiss his forehead. "Sleep well, son."

Virgil next. I poke my head rather dubiously around his door. I used to think he was meticulously neat and tidy, but when Scott left home it became quickly obvious how wrong I was. How Scott – who borders on the obsessive compulsive - tolerated sharing a room with him for so long is beyond me. He must have been picking up after his brother for years. For someone who makes such an effort with his personal appearance, Virgil lives like a sloven. I pick my way gingerly through piles of artist's materials, books, dirty linen, oil-covered rags; name it, it's there on the floor, gathering dust.

He's the only one of my boys who doesn't look younger when he's asleep. He always sleeps with that faint frown, as though there's some business he's forgotten to take care of while awake. I lay a hand on his shoulder and tug gently. He sleeps like the dead, always has; it'll take a lot more to wake him, but he rolls over obligingly, grunting a little. Despite his close shave when the building collapsed, I can't see any evidence of serious physical injury. The emotional trauma he's been through today will take some healing, though. I'm uncomfortable when he's out of sorts, particularly when his anger is directed at Scott. It'll settle, but it may be an awkward few days.

I hesitate by Scott's door, bypass it for now. I've kept him up longer than the others, and he may not be asleep yet.

John, next door, is flat out.

It never ceases to surprise me that of all of them, John is the most child-like in sleep. The layers of sophistication and intellectual detachment that have built up over the years just peel right away. The long fair hair and somewhat androgynous good looks are belied by his aggressive pursuit of women when he's awake. I brush back a stray lock that has fallen across his face. He doesn't stir. I guess he must be truly exhausted. He's hyper-acusive, and usually wakes at the slightest noise; one of the reasons I eventually caved in to him when he was a child and moved Virgil out of his room and in with Scott.

He, too, looks injury-free, bar some minor bruising. I never intended for John to get involved with the physical work. It seems to me to be a travesty to risk his particular set of skills by putting him in harm's way. But he seems to be coping well enough with the world into which he has been unexpectedly thrown.

I steel myself for Scott and am relieved to find him asleep, too, lying face to the ceiling. Again, bruising on the forearms and hands, but I can't see any other sign of injury. However, he's the only one who's bothered to cover up, and I can't be certain. There's a light sheen of sweat on his face, but it's a hot evening. I'd like to reach out, check that he isn't running a fever. But I hesitate. He's physically close with his brothers. Never with me. And there's the practical consideration; sometimes when he's roused he'll come up fighting tooth and claw, no idea where he is or what's going on. With his training that's a potentially lethal state of affairs. We've all learned to keep our distance.

I watch him for a few moments. I wish he felt settled here, that this is home. Maybe I need to do some more thinking about mother, at least. Perhaps we could leave it a year or so, just give him a little more time to get used to the idea. She could visit more often; give them both some time to come to terms with living with one another again. Maybe I'll bring her over during the winter months, see how it goes from there. But the other issues…well, he isn't going to like it. Tomorrow. I'll get Virj to tell him tomorrow…hell, no. I'd best wait till they are back on better terms. Next week, maybe.

"Scott?" I query softly.

He moans softly in response. His sleep is fitful. He's twitchy, like a cat, his eyes moving in REM sleep. Dreaming, but somehow I don't think the dream is a pleasant one.

I sit awkwardly on the edge of his bed and steel myself to take a risk, for the first time in years.

I reach forward and touch his forehead gently, stroking his hair back.

He feels cool enough to the touch. He shifts position, then settles again with a murmur. And seems to relax, his breathing easing to a slow rhythm.

I watch him for a long while, my hand resting on his brow. And I swear that for the first time in the longest time he actually looks at peace.

"Sleep easy, son," I say softly.

…