Author's Note: Hi, everyone. Hope you're all well, and you're looking forward to reading this first chapter. I'm in this one for the long-haul. Expect this to be much longer than any of my more recent stories. I've wanted to write about Arthur and his family for quite some time now, and I think I finally know how I want it to look and where I want it to go. I've set the rating to T for some strong language and a few darker themes.
If you enjoy this chapter and want to see more, please leave a review, even if it's just one sentence! I appreciate all feedback, and I welcome criticism, so if you don't like the chapter, I want to hear your thoughts as well!
Stay wonderful!
-Mandelene
In room 302, there is a seventy-seven-year-old man recovering from heart surgery—a coronary bypass, to be more specific. He has never smoked a day in his life and doesn't drink. He loves baseball—has been a Red Sox fan since he was a little boy—and goes to church every Sunday. He plays piano even though his hands are stiff with arthritis and is an avid reader of fantasy novels.
He lost his wife to lung cancer five years ago. He was diagnosed with Coronary Artery Disease after a bout of severe chest pain last year. He has a bubbly and charismatic thirty-six-year-old daughter with auburn hair and bright blue eyes who teaches second-grade math and science.
When Arthur comes in to examine him, the sun is still coming up and the winter sky is glowing with pinks and lavenders. The patient's daughter is sitting by his bedside, one hand on top of his, and all is well. They both seem to be in good spirits.
"The kids can't wait to see you, Dad. Emily can't stop talking about—" the daughter pauses as she notices Arthur's presence and quickly flashes him a welcoming smile. "Oh, good morning, Dr. Kirkland."
"Good morning," Arthur says back, consulting his patient's chart for a brief moment—BP was a little low last time it was checked, apparently—before returning his gaze to them. "How are we feeling today?"
"Weak," his patient complains, rubbing at his chest with his fist.
"Any chest pain?"
"A little. Not as bad as before."
"All right, let's have a listen," Arthur suggests, putting the buds of his stethoscope in his ears and placing the diaphragm over the man's heart.
"He was feeling better yesterday evening—started getting some of his strength back and even wanted to have something to eat," the daughter explains, worriedly looking on. "We watched the Red Sox game together on TV."
Arthur helps the man carefully sit up a bit so he can put his stethoscope on his back, but as he's supporting him by the shoulder, the man suddenly loses consciousness, body flopping over. His chest stills, his eyes roll back into his head, and there he is—totally rigid and cradled in Arthur's hold.
There's no way to explain how it feels to hold a dead man—to have had him in your arms as he took his final breath.
"Dad? Dad!" the daughter shouts, paralyzed with fear. "What's wrong with him?"
Code blue. Cardiac arrest. Arthur hits the code button on the wall and starts prepping everything for when backup arrives. He has several seconds before chaos really sets in.
Get the daughter out.
"I'm going to need you to step outside for a moment, darling," he says, impeccably calm, and, thankfully, she doesn't argue with him. She heads for the door in silent horror just as the rapid response team comes pouring in.
Chest compressions. Pushing epinephrine. The patient's frail ribs fracture and make an awful noise like splintering wood. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. But they keep trying. They try until a lung gets punctured, and Arthur has to put in a chest tube that is unlikely to revive him anyway. He makes a careful incision and does everything by the books, but still, they fail.
"Call it," the other doctor in the room murmurs to him softly twenty-two minutes later, and Arthur stares down at his bloodied gloves, still feeling the weight of the man's body in his arms. The heaviness of it all is so intense he can barely breathe.
He clears his throat and says, "Time of death, seven thirty-four A.M."
And that's it.
It's not the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last, but that doesn't make it hurt any less, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he's accustomed to the feeling.
He peels off his gloves, throws them away, and washes his hands thoroughly in a nearby sink. He has danced to this song before. The faces and names change, but really, they're all the same in the end, and that's the depressing part. Now, he must tell a woman that her father is dead. Just several minutes ago, everything was fine.
Sometimes, he very truly and deeply loathes his job.
He steps out into the waiting area outside of the double doors of the unit, finds the daughter, and immediately wishes he could turn back.
"I'm so sorry…"
He doesn't have to say anything else. She already knows.
She throws herself into his arms, making the weight even heavier.
Arthur remembers the first time he thought he would die.
It's 1979. He is seven-years-old.
His mother is in the living room, dusting the bookcases. Patrick, Alistair, and Dylan are all watching the football match on television—it's the FA Cup final, and Manchester United is playing Arsenal. All three of his brothers are Manchester fans, but Arthur prefers Arsenal. Arsenal is closer to home—their stadium is just a fifteen-minute walk away, entrenched in north London's working-class.
But there won't be any playful talk of football for him today. Unlike his siblings, Arthur isn't glued to the screen. Instead, he's standing in his father's study, right in front of his desk. He's in trouble for using profanity—he called Alistair a cunt for saying Pat Jennings is a bad goalkeeper. He's not sure what a cunt is, but he's heard his father use that term before after coming home from the pub, and he knows it's supposed to be offensive.
"Arthur's getting a strapping!" Alistair had cheered when Arthur first was caught uttering the forbidden word.
And now, here he is, hands clasped behind his back and heart thumping hard against his chest as he waits to see what his father will do. The man's breath smells of Irish whiskey, and it makes Arthur want to curl up his nose in disgust. He could run, but he wouldn't make it very far, and where would he go?
It doesn't take long for him to realize he's going to have to endure more than just a lecture. The moment he catches a glimpse of his father's belt, he starts to wail with remorse, hoping his tears will be enough to make the man reconsider. But James Kirkland does not pride himself in being a forgiving man. He believes in strict, swift discipline.
"What do you have to say?" he asks as Arthur numbly stands there with puffy cheeks and eyes.
"I'm s-sorry, sir. I won't say that word again."
What follows is a bit of a blur. James Kirkland is even less forgiving when he has a drink or two in his system, and there is nothing Arthur fears more than that look of detachment in his eyes—how he doesn't even seem to care that he is his son and a child. A child who used a word he inherited from the very same person whom he is now being punished by.
He screams when his brain registers the blazing pain. It goes on for what feels like an eternity. Dread fills his stomach when he thinks that maybe his father will never stop. Maybe he'll go on forever and ever until he collapses.
Fortunately, his mother comes in before that can happen.
"Enough. James, that's enough."
"You spoil him, Eileen."
In his father's view, this is discipline. If one does not suffer, then one does not learn their lesson.
And, for a very long time, Arthur believes this to be true. After all, his father is always right. For two weeks, welts the size of two-pound coins near his tailbone pain him every time he sits or leans against something. He gets sent to bed without dinner that night.
Arsenal wins the match.
It's raining–just a drizzle.
He doesn't open up his umbrella. In a way, he feels he deserves this. Tonight, he needs to be rained on. He wishes it would start pouring—wants the water to seep into his clothes and pool in his shoes. He wants to feel himself being dragged down. Down, down, down, until he forgets and is absolved of his guilt.
He doesn't want anyone to see him in this state, but he's already missed dinner and he can't walk any slower toward the house. He's in the driveway now. There's no turning back.
He steadies himself with a deep breath and lets the rain wash over his head and face. It doesn't rinse away how disgusting he feels beneath his skin, but it'll have to do.
He fits his key into the lock of the front door, hears the welcoming click invite him inside, and creeps into the foyer. He hears the sound of his own heavy breathing and it occurs to him that his hands are clammy and shaking.
Pull it together, he tells himself.
"Arthur? You're home."
He lifts his gaze and sees Francis at the base of the steps, one hand clutching the banister. He's frowning, and his brows are drawn down in what seems to be concern as he pulls his silky robe around himself more tightly–he must have been getting ready for bed.
What time is it anyway?
"Hi," Arthur manages to murmur, slipping out of his coat. He can feel Francis's intense eyes on his back as he tries to get settled in, and this only serves to make him feel even heavier and more tired. The weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to crumple to the ground.
"Long day?"
"Quite. Where are the girls?"
"Asleep," Francis says softly, still watching him very closely. "Did something happen?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"You're crying."
Arthur touches his damp cheek and draws his fingers back in surprise when they make contact with warm tears. He thought it was the rain that was making his face wet. "Oh."
"What happened, mon amour?"
Yes, what happened?
"Arthur?"
"It's nothing. I just—I lost a patient today. It was unfortunate," Arthur sighs, trying to brush it off quickly. This is the last thing he needed…After everything else that's been going on this was just…too much.
Francis wraps his arms around his shoulders and frowns. "I'm sorry."
He's not in the mood. Not tonight. He doesn't want to be touched.
He pulls away, takes a breath, and decides he needs a shower and some sleep. Then, he'll be able to approach everything with a clearer mind, hopefully.
Francis takes the hint that he wants to be left alone and doesn't continue smothering him. Instead, he murmurs, "There are some leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry."
"I'm not hungry, but thank you for the offer."
"You should eat—you're getting too thin. You don't eat enough at work, and you've stopped eating when you're at home, too."
"I'm fine. I know how much I should be eating," Arthur says a little gruffly. He's tired enough as is, and now he has to be interrogated about his dietary habits, too?
Francis stares at him for a long time in that inquisitive way of his, and it makes Arthur incredibly uncomfortable and slightly annoyed. He needs some space. Everything will be resolved in due time. He's working on it. Everything is fine. If everyone would just take a step back and let him handle what needs to be handled, everything would go swimmingly.
Time to change subjects.
"How is Madeline feeling?"
"She was fine today and said she felt okay at school. You were right—it was probably just allergies since she felt better after you gave her that antihistamine last night," Francis whispers, expression a little more sorrowful. "I worry though—she catches everything these days."
This is true. Arthur isn't sure what's been causing Madeline to become increasingly prone to colds and other viruses, but he suspects it's just a developmental phase, as there doesn't seem to be anything else medically wrong with her. Puberty has worsened her allergies and weakened her immune system, or maybe it's just the stress of being in high school. Either way, she has already had to miss a few days of school this year—not that this matters very much. Madeline still somehow manages to excel in her classes anyway. There's no need to worry about her grades slipping. In fact, Arthur and Francis suppose she can afford an occasional sick day—she worries about school far too much at times and has earned some days off every now and then.
Winter is just a few weeks away, and that's bound to bring a few more viruses into their household, so Arthur plans to start Madeline on a multivitamin and a probiotic to help boost her immunity. Short of embarrassing her by making her wear a medical mask to school (and while the idea is tempting, both Francis and Madeline herself wouldn't allow for that), there's not much else to do.
"I'm glad she's feeling better," he finally sighs. "I'm going to shower. You should go to sleep."
"I'll wait for you."
"You don't have to. As you can see, I'm not pleasant company tonight."
Francis smiles warmly. "Believe it or not, I've grown used to it."
Arthur's not sure whether he's supposed to feel insulted by that or not. He doesn't have the energy to care, so he goes into the bathroom, gets under the showerhead, and lets water pour over his skin again—just like the cold rain—and hopes that this time he'll feel a little cleaner—purer.
Anguished shouts of "Dad!" reverberate through his ears over and over again. He turns off the water, presses his face into a towel, and then leans over the toilet to be sick. He makes sure to start the water again—this time in the bathroom sink—so that his retching is muffled by the noise. This is the third time he's vomited this week.
It's getting worse.
1979, London
Being the youngest means always having to keep up with everyone else.
While Arthur is just beginning to learn how to multiply, Patrick is already fifteen and has sprouted up into a charming young man. He is, in many ways, the man of the house when their father is at work or out late at the pub. Tawny-haired, broad-shouldered, and green-eyed—he is the spitting image of their father. Everyone always points out the resemblance between them, but Patrick seems to become agitated whenever the similarities between them are brought up rather than being proud of carrying his father's traits.
In those days, Patrick is, in Arthur's eyes, a mean elder brother who bosses him around and tries to be a surrogate parent. Years later, Arthur will understand and come to appreciate the pressure on him to be an adult—to take charge and care for the rest of them.
But appreciation is the last thing he feels whenever Patrick forces him and Dylan into their pajamas and makes them go to bed at nine o'clock. Why does Alistair get to stay up until ten? Because he's older. You're too young, Arthur. You're too small. You don't understand. You never understand anything. Just grow up already and keep your nose out of trouble.
Trouble has a knack for coming to him, however.
He comes down with a fever during the first week of November. His mother keeps him home from school, and he spends most of the day reading A Bear Called Paddington and playing with Lego bricks. The silence in the house is odd. He shares his room with Dylan, and not having his brother lying above him in their bunkbed feels strange.
Around mid-afternoon, when he grows bored of the Legos and he's too tired to read, he sits near the window and watches people as they come and go. He leans his hot forehead on the cool glass and wonders if he'll be able to convince his mother to let him ride his bike in the park tomorrow if he's feeling better—they can't just let Saturday go to waste without doing anything.
He nearly falls asleep right then and there while daydreaming, but then, a familiar face catches his attention.
Is that Alistair with a girl?
Arthur sits up straighter and squints his eyes as much as he can. There's no mistaking it—that's his second eldest brother, and he's with Victoria Wright, a girl with jet black hair, blue eyes, and a nose piercing. She's the same age as Alistair—twelve. Her father served in the navy, and she has two brothers and two sisters. The Wrights are a big family, just like theirs. Mrs. Wright doesn't work, and Arthur has heard his mother complain about how she never cleans up after the dog.
And then, the moment finally comes…Alistair kisses Victoria.
Arthur gags and quickly screws his eyes shut. Gross! What should he do? He can't keep this a secret. He can't let Alistair get away with what has just transpired before his very eyes.
He watches the lovebirds separate and go in opposite directions…Alistair is coming up to the house now.
Arthur sprints out of his room and barrels down the stairs, adrenaline running up and down his arms. Finally, he has some valuable information that his other brothers don't have. For once, he is in the loop. He can't let this moment go to waste. He must tell everyone. The whole world has to know about Alistair Kirkland and Victoria Wright.
He races to the foyer and catches Alistair just as he's coming in through the front door.
"I saw you and Victoria snogging!" he proclaims proudly, elated when he sees his brother's cheeks flush scarlet and his face fill with shame. "ALISTAIR AND VICTORIA WERE—!"
"Shut up!" Alistair hisses, slamming his hand down on Arthur's mouth and holding it there firmly. "Yer such a brat. Ye didn't see anything, do ye understand me? Or else."
Arthur tries to break free, but Alistair pins him against the wall and is much, much stronger.
"Alistair and—mphhm—and—!"
"I said to shut up, or I'll tell everyone in yer class how ye pissed on yerself last year."
That was one time.
Alistair's usual threats don't scare him. This is too good. He can just imagine the look on Patrick's face when he finds out.
"Let—mphm—go!"
"I'll give ye five pounds to keep quiet."
Pft. He's going to have to do better than that.
"What's going on here? Arthur, why are you out of bed?" their mother suddenly asks, appearing from the living room. "Alistair, what are you doing? He's ill—this is no time to be wrestling."
Alistair releases him reluctantly, and Arthur lets out a string of coughs, a little worn out from the excitement.
"Back to bed," his mother orders, pressing a hand to his forehead and clicking her tongue at him when she feels that he's still much too warm for her liking.
"But Alistair—!"
"Bed, Arthur. Now. And Alistair, take those shoes off. I've just cleaned the floor."
That's okay. He can still use this as blackmail in the future. Not all hope is lost.
The fever worsens.
He wakes at one o'clock in the morning, burning up and unable to get comfortable. Dylan is in Alistair and Patrick's room for the night, and so, he is all alone in the darkness, miserable and shivering. He does what any child would do—he cries. Cries and cries until his mother rouses and ambles over to him. She brushes his hair back and tries to hush him, and he wants nothing more but to be held and told it will be all right—that this will pass, and he'll feel better soon. He wants his mother's kiss on his brow. Wants her attention. Wants to be rocked in her arms. Wants to be the center of her attention for just this moment.
"Shh, Arthur. Please…"
Her words do not bring him comfort. He is only made to feel as though he is being a burden. He is keeping her up. She is tired. He is a nuisance.
He hears the door downstairs creak open. His father is home. Probably drunk…Definitely drunk.
"Shh, shh. Go back to sleep, Arthur," she begs him, and then, she leaves his bedside to tend to his father, and for a good moment, Arthur is too disappointed and upset to shed any more tears. He just listens as his father clumsily comes up the stairs and makes a racket.
And then, when things become quiet again, he begins sobbing once more, feeling forgotten. He wants his mother to come back. Wants her to sit with him. Why isn't she here?
His weeping attracts the opposite kind of attention he craves.
"For fuck's sake…Shut him up, Eileen. I've told you you've made him soft. Kirklands don't cry," his father grunts, coming into his bedroom. "It's about time you learnt that, Arthur."
"He's unwell," his mother begins to explain, but none of this seems to placate his father.
"I had better give him something to cry about."
"Come back to the bedroom, James. Leave him. He'll tire himself out."
Arthur isn't sure how his lungs manage it, but he cries even louder, increasingly distraught. He closes his eyes and wishes he could be anywhere but here. If he thinks about it really hard, maybe it'll come true—like magic.
He feels a hand clamp down on his upper arm—hard enough to bruise.
He whimpers in pain, and out of the corner of his tear-filled eyes, he sees his mother grab his father by the shoulder and try to yank him away. James responds by spinning around and hitting her in the face.
It is a sharp, piercing slap. This is not the first time his father has laid a hand on his mother, but it is the first time Arthur has witnessed it.
She isn't shocked in the slightest. She just stands there and loses all of the emotion in her gaze—an empty woman.
"Stop!" a new voice shouts, and Arthur feels like he could go to sleep right now and never wake up.
Patrick comes storming in, shoots their father a venomous look, and guides their mother out of the room while saying hurriedly, "Go to your room, Mum."
It sounds strange to hear Patrick telling adults what to do. It makes Arthur's head spin even more.
"Go back downstairs, Dad."
"Who do you think you are?"
"I've called the police. Go downstairs…We can talk downstairs. Not in front of Arthur."
His father strikes at Patrick next, landing a hit to his jaw. "This is my house."
Patrick quickly recovers and pulls himself together, standing up straight and tall. "You've terrorized Mum long enough."
Sirens. They echo in Arthur's skull and make everything hurt more.
Patrick retreats from the room and down the hall, and their father follows after him, presumably to continue fighting. The front door groans again as it gets pushed open. Arthur hears the police officers come in but never sees them. He's much too weak and stunned to crawl out of bed. He just sniffles to himself and blinks fever-glazed eyes at the ceiling. None of this would have happened if he hadn't cried and upset his father. This is his fault.
He will spend the rest of the night alone. He will wake up in the late morning when the fever breaks, covered in his own drool and sweat.
His father will be arrested for forty-eight hours and then released. Their mother will not press charges. She will ask for things to go back to normal between them—will want to retain some semblance of family. He will pack his things and leave. She will plead with him to stay. Will fall to her knees by the door and sob. Don't leave me. What about the boys?
This is Arthur's first lesson in realizing that the only person he can count on is himself.