Tears Long Withheld
Disclaimer: I do not own Gertrude Chandler Warner's characters or places and I do not make a profit off of this
Henry Alden lay in bed as he tried to stop the flood of tears from dripping down his face. He unsuccessfully buried his face in his pillow and tried not to cry. It couldn't be a year already; things had gone by too quickly. It felt that it was only yesterday that his mother, his beautiful, kind mother, had died grasping his hand. His father, a bright man who thought his children were the most precious things the world could ever produce, had died shortly after his mother in a freak accident. It felt as though they had become orphans only yesterday. And yet he barely remembered that a year had passed.
The stars did not give Henry the time he needed to grieve, or any of the children for that matter. But Henry was affected the most, yet he had to be strong for his younger siblings. He only cried when they first died, and that hadn't been enough. It took all his strength to hold his tears in and be strong as he held his youngest sister, Violet, in his arms as she cried. He would hold her and see Jessie hugging Benny tightly to her as they both shed their tears. But Henry needed to be strong. After that, he put on a brave face and focused on caring for his family and being strong for them.
Running away from a man he thought would be cruel kept the small family busy until they found the boxcar. Even then, the children spent the day helping twelve-year-old Jessie while Henry worked for Dr. Moore. At night, Henry and Jessie soothed nightmares and sobs that would awaken them late into the night and would be undiscussed in the mornings.
While Henry tried his hardest to be strong (and he succeeded far better than most would), he was still only fourteen. He wasn't an adult, yet he couldn't seek the comfort of someone who was older. The kind doctor he worked for would have helped him, Henry was sure of that, but he couldn't tell the man anything about his past for fear of revealing his true identity to the man. He knew his grandfather had been searching for them; he saw the signs.
The second time Henry allowed himself to break down was when Violet became ill. He sat by her bed one night and cried; the thought of losing her scared him. No one knew though, after all, Henry had to care for his younger siblings and get them through Violet's sickness. After that, his grandfather eventually found them and helped them transition into a new life of adventure and mystery. Henry began school again, and everything was good. He made friends, volunteered, and traveled with his grandfather and siblings. In high school, he tried out for football and made the team, thus filling his nights with touchdowns, homework, and his new girlfriend.
Yet a year later, Henry buried his face in his pillow as his success in hiding his tears failed for the first time since Violet became ill. He was tired of the pain and bitterness he felt whenever he thought of his parents' deaths. He wanted his mother to hold him again, and for his father to comfort him with his presence. All he wanted was someone to be there for him, just once, just as he was there for his siblings. He pushed his head into his pillow, willing the tears to stop. Yet they just couldn't.
Mrs. McGregor, the housekeeper, heard what could only be a child's cries as she left the bathroom. They were deep sobs, unlike Benny's or Violet's. She peered into their rooms anyways and saw that they both slept peacefully. She checked on Jessie as well, and smiled as she saw the girl's dog Watch snoozing peacefully at the foot of her bed.
She was surprised when she opened Henry's door though. He'd never had trouble in the night, being a teenage boy. If he did, he hid it well. Her heart broke as she saw his long frame sprawled across the bed, his face hidden from sight. His body shuddered as he let out desperate cries into his pillow. He didn't protest when she reached out to stoke his hair and then lift him so that his torso laid on her lap. He was normally a strong boy, and who loved to be independent and follow his own mind. She kissed his short, dark hair as he wrapped his arms around her to gain the comfort she offered. He looked just like his father, dark brown hair, lean, and dark brown eyes that always seemed lit with life. Then she remembered James, the boy's grandfather's, of his tears when he learned of his son's death, and even of the death of his son's wife. It had been one year. She was sure that Henry hadn't had the chance to cry for the loss of his parents; he would have wanted to be strong for his siblings. He would never forget though. He shifted in her arms, and she felt the warm wetness of his tears as he finally let himself go. That night, Henry wasn't the emotionally strong, mature boy he presented himself as. He was just a boy, a boy lost in his own pity and sorrow who desperately wanted the sorrow to end, shaking and crying into her arms. Yet he still tried to pull himself together. She shushed him and felt him sink deeper into her arms.
She looked up to see James standing in the doorway, clad only in his nightclothes. She let Henry go as his grandfather held him, giving his eldest grandson the comfort and reassurance that he so craved to have, and that he craved to give.