Hand Me Downs

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sixteen Years AgoThe ride home through the nearly empty streets of Glasgow seemed eternal. John’s mother’s Mini was sized for her much smaller frame, not for the two large men crowded into the front seats. The interior smelled faintly of her strong morning tea and her rose-scented perfume.

Not two men, not really. A messed up seventeen-year-old kid and his understandably pissed off father, certainly. But right then, staring out the window as the orange lights of the motorway gave way to the towering blond sandstone buildings close to home, John couldn’t even imagine himself as a good person.

Himself as a good man like his father felt firmly out of reach.

He’d finally stopped trying to think of ways out of this whole mess before his dad picked him up from the police station. Maybe because it finally was too late. But that left him desperate to talk and terrified to open his mouth.

John had been in free-fall since the first fight months ago, and he wasn’t sure where he’d landed yet.

Neither of them spoke until they were parked in the crowded but neat garage behind their house. Generations of men in his family had collected tools in the converted horse stable until the lovingly maintained space looked more like a museum than a working garage. Hooks and shelves full of wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers lined every surface that wasn’t covered with cabinets.

The only other car on the aged concrete inside was the Morgan he and his father were restoring together—the deep, rich Connaught green peeking through years of neglect. The long, vented hood waited alongside the spoked wheels off to the side. But the curving chrome grill gleamed from in front of the spotless motor, and the muscular lines of the fenders crouched on either side like a wildcat’s haunches.

John’s mind had a hard time matching the emerging classic sports car with the dusty heap of parts they’d hauled back from Edinburgh.

For the last several months, working on that car had been the only thing he and either of his parents could do together without shouting.

His father turned off the small car’s motor, then lowered his head and sighed.

“Dad?” John said, his voice rough from screaming and puking and crying.

“John?”

“Thank you for coming to get me.”

After several heartbeats that seemed to take years, John’s father looked up. His warm brown eyes were almost invisible behind his glasses, but tense lines above his nose and around his mouth were clear in the dash light. He shook his head once.

“Let’s go in. Your mother is worried sick,” his father said, opening the door. “So am I.”

His mother met them at the kitchen door, her scrubbed face and pulled back hair making her seem younger than she was. John’s rapid growth over the past few years promised he’d be tall and slender like his father, but he’d inherited his mother’s thick black hair, pale skin, and fiery green eyes.

She hugged John hard, then stepped back to look at him.

Her eyes were swollen and red, much like his own. John had hardly ever seen her cry. He despised himself for being responsible for it.

“What on earth’s happened, John? I’ve just gotten off the phone with William’s mother, he’s in hospital?”

Before John could respond, her entire demeanor changed. She grabbed his shoulders and squeezed, shaking him. Her fingers digging into his flesh hurt. She’d been angry at him plenty of times, but she’d never hurt him.

The fact that she had to reach up didn’t make her the tiniest bit less frightening.

“What the hell have you been getting into?” she shouted. “I’ve been scared half to death!”

Her furious voice and flashing eyes were bad enough, certainly combined with the surprising strength of her grip. What really undid John was the blast of emotion, the first time in weeks he’d felt anything from her.

Her fury was nearly drowned by a desperate, bottomless fear, more vast than he’d ever imagined. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t manage.

Her painful grip eased, and she hugged him hard again. John’s father rescued him.

“Yes, William is in hospital, and another young man. We have a lot to talk about, Maggie. John’s going to tell us all of it right now, and he’s going to see Andy in the morning.”

His mother stepped back and looked at John, watching to see if he was telling the truth. He looked back at her without flinching and nodded. She finally turned away and hugged his father.

John watched the two of them walk into the bright kitchen, still confused and a bit stunned by his mother’s reaction, and grateful for his father’s.

“Sit down,” his father said. “I’ll get coffee started.”

John joined his mother at the dark wood table. The remains of their tense supper had long since been cleared, leaving only plain brass salt and pepper shakers and a stack of blue fabric napkins.

“What happened to your hand?” She touched his fingers outside the metal splint wrapped in gauze and bandages, holding his fingers and right hand immobile.

“I managed to break two bones. I have to go tomorrow to see if I need surgery or not.”

“Your left hand doesn’t look much better,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

“I got into a fight and William tried to pull me off. I don’t know…” John’s already rough voice broke. “Yes, I do know. I turned on William, and I knew exactly what I was doing. That’s why he’s in hospital. That’s how I hurt my hands.”

His mother frowned. “William? Why would you do that? Why would you get into a fight to begin with? I thought this stopped years ago, after that horrible business when you were thirteen.”

“It’s been going on since the end of last term,” John said. “All summer. The first fight was kind of an accident, but it helped me sleep, kept the nightmares away. The first time I felt better for a few weeks, but then less and less.”

“And tonight you got arrested?”

“He turned himself in,” John’s father said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Strong, rich coffee aroma filled the air. “He’s not being charged with anything yet, but he still could be.”

His mom covered her mouth, eyes wide.

“I know how it sounds,” John said. “It sounds the same way to me. I knew fighting was wrong from the beginning. Once it started, I couldn’t find a way to stop. I turned myself in so this would have to stop. The only other thing besides fighting that helped was...being with Abby. Or Marie.”

“Marie?” his mother said. “When were you seeing her again?”

“Last weekend,” John said in a low voice. “Just one time.”

“After you went to visit Abby that last time,” his father said. “Last Saturday, right?”

“That’s right. Abby dumped me that afternoon and I, ah, I called Marie right after.”

“Marie’s father called me that same evening before you got home,” his dad said. “He made it quite clear you’re not welcome there anymore. He told me to ask you why, but I’m afraid I can guess.”

Even with everything else he’d said and done, John still didn’t want to talk about how he’d treated Marie. So deliberate and cold, nothing like the passion of getting into a fight. He closed his eyes and held his breath until his head pounded.

He had to tell them everything while the blackness inside of him was held at bay enough to get the words out. He was too exhausted from the fights, internal and external, to keep anything else inside.

“No, don’t guess. I asked her out, and we ended up having s*x,” John said in a rush. “And that was the end of it.”

“Oh John. The same thing?” his mother said, her eyebrows drawing together. “To help you sleep?”

“That and to get back at Abby, I guess.”

His mother closed her eyes. “Do you have any idea how awful that made them both feel?”

“I know.”

John’s father sat down with cups for all three of them. “I hate to ask the obvious and rather indelicate question, but did you think to try taking care of that yourself?”

“I tried plenty. It doesn’t work. I mean, it doesn’t stop the nightmares.” John knew his face was burning red, adding to his horrible discomfort of talking about this with his dad, much less his mom. “Lately only being with someone else does that. But that stopped working, and even fighting doesn’t work now. I’m f****d up. Broken. Nothing works. I don’t know what else to do.”

John took a long drink and concentrated on the cuts and scrapes outside the white gauze and tape on his hand. The too-hot coffee traced a line through his middle to match the heat in his face. He was terrified to see his parents’ eyes. He could certainly go into a lot more detail about the s*x and the fighting, but none of them wanted that.

What he’d said so far drained the life out of him.

His mom finally reached out and touched his arm.

“But why, John? Why are you doing these things? What do you think is causing these awful dreams to begin with?”

John wanted to run, to get away as far and as fast as he possibly could. He’d promised his father he’d tell them everything. He’d promised his father and himself. As awful as he’d been to everyone, and as awful as he’d been to live with lately, he still kept his promises.

But that fury that drove him was so close now, writhing just under the surface. It hadn’t left him for one second since he’d walked into the hospital that was treating his best friend, since he’d walked up to the constable to turn himself in. If he really got started talking about why, he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep any kind of control.

“Listen to me, son,” his mother said, squeezing his arm. “No matter what it is, I’m going to love you. We both will. If you tell us what’s wrong, what’s making you do these things, maybe we can help.”

“Or we’ll find someone who can,” John’s father said.

“I’m not… It should have been…”

John struggled with a choking feeling, invisible hands trying to stop him from saying any more. He couldn’t give up now. He might never get started again. He called up a mental and physical push from deep within, forcing his voice into a shout.

The fact that he managed to speak didn’t surprise him as much as the words did.

“It should have been me instead of James! I don’t deserve the one life between us.”

John stared at his hands, not surprised to see they were shaking but dismayed at how badly. His mind and his heart and his guts felt torn loose, drifting uncontrolled inside, his body burning and freezing with that internal tide.

His father sighed, then spoke slowly and deliberately.

“The only thing you can do, that any of us can do, is live our own lives as best we can. None of us can live for someone else, someone who’s not here.”

That sounded reasonable enough, but felt fundamentally untrue. John didn’t realize he was shaking his head until his mother spoke.

“Why would you ever think we want you to be anyone else but you?” She lifted his chin, waiting until he met her gaze. “We’re all sad about James sometimes. Even with everything going on right now, we’ve never felt anything but thrilled and so lucky to have you.”

John forced himself to keep looking into her eyes, even when tears fell from his own. His father nodded, agreeing with her. How could they want him, be glad to have him, when he’d been so horrible?

“You’re not the only one who struggles with this, love,” she said. “You’re seventeen and confused and needing help, certainly, but you’re not alone. You’re not broken. No more than I have been.”

John’s father reached forward, but his mother shrugged away.

“Maggie, you’re not–”

“No, Jack, let me talk to him. I’ve been pushing this away for months, since he started to have so much trouble this year, and it’s not doing either of us any good. He needs to know. It’s not just me fighting this anymore.”