AN: Oh my goodness, the angst. A couple of you commented that this is a lot darker than the original "It's a Wonderful Life." That is completely intentional. Glee is to High School Musical, as It's A Wheelderful Life is to It's a Wonderful Life. One of my favorite things about Glee is that it is willing to go where other shows won't, and touch on those darker, taboo aspects of life that everyone else avoids. I want to do the same thing with this fic, and consquently this fic will get very dark and very angsty, and will touch on topics that normally even I avoid. That's why it's rated T. I am warning you all in advance, in case this is something that will bother you. I don't want to make you all uncomfortable, because I love your support. Just know that from here on out, things are about to take a turn for the dark side. I've written up through the seventh chapter, and if you think this is bad, you ain't seen nothin' yet.
On that note: Enjoy! XD
Chapter 3 – Seeking Home
"Kid, wouldja slow down?"
Patches is still puffing along behind me as I jog down Main Street, and deep down I know I should probably stop and wait for him. After all, he's the only person in this world who knows I exist, if what he's been telling me is true. But I can't make myself stop. Because I'm actually running.
Running. Something I've only dreamt about doing for over half of my life now. I used to run constantly as a kid; racing with my dad and brother, stealing bases in little league ball. More than standing or walking, I've missed the feeling of running. Legs pumping, wind in your face, moving so fast it feels like you could take off flying at any second. I can't help but laugh. This feels – euphoric.
"C'mon, kid, yeh don' wanna go an' do that," Patches calls out behind me. I imagine this must look funny to anyone watching; some kid dressed in pure white being chased down the street by a dirty, yelling homeless man. Wait, if I don't exactly exist, can other people even see me? I'll have to remember to ask Patches that when he catches up with me.
I turn onto my street and seeing my house makes my nerves flare. What will my parents look like in this world without me? They'll look younger, most likely, with less gray to their hair and fewer lines on their faces. Dad won't have that determinedly optimistic smile that's hiding the heartache he's really feeling. Mom won't have that haunted look in the corners of her eyes from every time she's thought about the accident.
As I get closer to the house, I notice it looks different. The shutters are blue instead of maroon. The concrete ramp beside the front door, built for my wheelchair, is gone. There's a huge tree in the yard that was never there before. In the driveway is a shiny SUV and a restored classic Corvette. My heart jumps at the sight of it; my dad always wanted a 'Vette. Had I been part of what stopped him from getting it?
I'm about three houses away when a group of kids come tearing out the front door of the house. Two little blonde boys and a girl, all of them laughing and cheering excitedly. My parents had more kids? I had never even considered the possibility that I might have stopped my parents from having more children. But wait, those children all have light hair. I understood enough in the genetics course of Biology to know that blonde hair is a recessive gene and both of my parents have dark hair.
Then the man comes out, a big hulking mammoth of a man with dusty brown hair. He's chasing the kids around the yard and finally they settle into a game of football with a bright purple nerf ball. That's definitely not my dad. Who are these people and where is my family?
I don't even realize I've stopped walking until I hear Patches come up behind me, panting heavily. "Jesus, kid, what'd yeh go and do that fer?" he gasps out, bending over to put his hands on his knees. "Damn near give me a heart attack chasin' after yeh."
"Where's my family?" I demand, turning away from the family of blondes to face him.
"Well they don' live 'ere, do they?" Patches says, glancing up to roll his eyes at me. "That's what I were tryin' to tell yeh."
Of course, my family wouldn't be living here. We'd moved into this house after the accident. The old house had two stories, stairs I definitely couldn't get up without a lot of hassle, and most of the hallways were too narrow for my chair. Dad had found this house while I was still in the hospital, a nice one-story with bigger halls and rooms. He'd poured the cement ramp to the front and back doors himself.
I look back at the house again, at the happy family playing in the yard. My family hadn't had to uproot themselves for me. The old house had been on the opposite end of town, and my older brother's best friend had lived next door. Mom and Dad had been friends with all the neighbors and there were constantly people coming round to chat. We'd been really happy there before the accident. Without me, my family would have been able to stay there.
And this house went to this family. They look like they're all really happy. Had my family buying this house pushed out the offer from these people? I hate to think that because of me, this family might not have been able to have this house where they all look so happy. Further proof that my not existing is making people happier.
"Where are they?" I ask Patches without turning around.
"Well yeh gotta give me a bit to get meself back toget'er, kiddo," Patches says and he sits down heavily on the sidewalk, pulling his scotch bottle out of an inner pocket of his coat. I want to kick him and get him moving, but I contain myself. Pissing off the only person who has any idea what's going on here doesn't exactly sound like the brightest idea.
Taking a steadying breath, I sit down in the middle of the walk too. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I wrap my arms loosely around them and rest my chin on my knees. The fact that I'm in a different world is actually starting to sink in a little now. I didn't realize how much I'd been expecting to show up at home and see my parents, smiling and happy. But of course, if I'd given it any thought before taking off I would have known they wouldn't be here.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'd been hoping to see them, and they'd see me and know who I was. Honestly, I want to be able to live in this world where I'm not the geek with the glasses, or the cripple in the wheelchair. I want to be that son my parents can be proud of, who can be an ace on the sports teams and actually be liked at school. That guy who can walk down the hallways at school with Tina on his arm, and not her standing behind his chair.
Sighing, I tilt my head down and press my forehead against my knees. It still feels really unnatural to be able to feel that. I may want all those things, but more than anything, I'd rather not have any of it and see everyone else happy. My parents can have Jack, who is every bit the perfect son, and he can follow all his dreams without any guilt. And Tina can have a best friend who she's not teased for being around, someone whole who can give her all the things I can't. Someone she can have feelings for without being slushied for it.
Something nudges my leg and I look up. Patches has an almost sensitive expression on his face and he's holding out the scotch bottle curiously. I grimace and shake my head. He just shrugs and takes another swallow.
"Alright, let's get a move on," Patches says. He huffs and puffs as he gets to his feet, and I once again stand up smoothly, disoriented by just how easy it is. "Follow me," Patches says as he's stowing his bottle away again, and then he sets off back the direction we'd come.
I walk along silently behind him as we go, my mind still racing with all the possibilities that my family and friends will have for good things now that they don't have to deal with me. Patches leads me across to the other side of Main, and my forehead wrinkles in confusion. My family's old house was way West of here. Had they moved again, maybe into an even nicer house?
The district he's leading me into is comprised almost completely of cheap condominiums and shabby apartment buildings. Who could I know who's living here? There's no way my family would give up their house to come live in one of these places. Maybe he's leading me to the outskirts of town beyond this place, where there's a whole bunch of big lots with really nice houses on them.
We round the corner of another apartment block and Patches stops on the walk leading to the building. "3A," he says, pointing up the stairs.
"They live here?" I ask, not wanting to believe it. It's not like it's a bad apartment building. As far as the buildings on this street go, it's probably one of the nicer ones really. It's just that it's clearly made up of very small apartments and I can't imagine my parents ever living in an apartment. They have always been very much 'house and home' people.
"Hey kid, be careful what yeh say to 'em, alright?" Patches advises. "People don' take kind to hearin' people say they're from 'nother worlds. Trust me."
"Who lives here?" I ask. "There's no way my parents are living here. Is it Jack?"
"3A," Patches repeats, pointing again.
I suck in a steadying breath and then nod. My legs all of a sudden feel like lead as I cross the sidewalk, which is cracked in a few places and has drying grass pushing up through the cracks. The metal stairs rattle noisily as I climb them, all the way to the third floor. The door on my right has a slightly rusted 'A' tacked to its front, and all I can do is stand and stare at it.
Knock, Artie. I swallow hard. Why am I so nervous? My family is better off without me. Besides, this can't be my family. This is just that stupid hobo trying to freak me out. And none of this is real anyway, right?
Raising a hand, I knock on the door. For a moment there's nothing but silence, and then I hear footsteps pounding toward the door. They sound heavy, staggered like the person isn't walking very steadily. There's the scrape of a lock, and then another, and then the door opens just a crack. Above the rusty chain stopping the door from opening all the way, I can see half of a man's face.
The man's faintly bloodshot blue eye narrows as he stares at me, and there are wrinkles all around it and shadows lay heavy beneath. His graying brown hair is disheveled, like he's just rolled out of bed, and there's a frown on his face. "I'm not buying," he says and goes to close the door.
"I'm not selling," I say, putting my hand out against the door quickly to stop him. He hesitates and glares at me again. I can't believe what I'm looking at. This can't really be – "Mr. Abrams?" I ask cautiously.
The way his eyes spark at the mention of the name gives me my answer and my heart falls into my stomach. Dad. What's happened to him? He looks – worn. "Who are you?" he asks suspiciously.
"I'm a friend," I say, because it's the first thing that comes to mind.
Dad snorts. "You're one of those damned church boys, aren't you, coming to try and lead your little stray sheep back to the herd," he says and his disdain is clear in his voice. This surprises me, because out of everyone in my family, my dad was always the one who was most devoted to his faith. "Well you'll have to take your business elsewhere. I'm not interested."
"I'm not from the church," I say, keeping my hand firmly against the door. My mind is whirring. What to say, what can I say to make him talk to me? "I'm a friend of your son's," I blurt out. Dad's eyes narrow again. "Jack's. I'm a friend of Jack's."
"Jackie hasn't had a friend come around in years," Dad says, and there's still something suspicious in his voice. "How'd you find me?"
My mind races for a plausible answer. "Phonebook." Oh dear God, please let him actually be listed in the phonebook…
Dad grunts and nods. Then in one mighty push he's closed the door in my face. My chest is aching at the dismissal. My dad, my own father, doesn't know who I am. He thinks I'm some sort of religious, door-to-door salesman. There wasn't the slightest bit of recognition as he looked at me. Like I'd never existed to him.
There's a loud scraping and then the door opens again, fully this time. Dad is framed in the doorway, his height filling it almost completely. It's even more of a shock to see him like this; dressed in jeans with worn knees and a limp looking teeshirt. He folds his arms over his chest and stares me down.
"What do you want?" he asks and there's an edge of bitterness in his tone. "Jack's friends know not to come here anymore."
Why not? I ignore the question in my brain as I spin out another lie. "We were really good friends a lot time ago, but I moved," I say quickly. "I've just moved back and I wanted to get in contact with him again."
To my surprise, my dad lets out a really sarcastic laugh. "You must have been gone a long time to think you're gonna get in contact with him again," he says but beneath the off-handedness there is something darker, colder. "He doesn't get much contact with anyone anymore, not even me."
"Please, just, do you know where he is?" I ask. Dad chews on his bottom lip for a minute and then he grabs a slip of paper off the table by the door, scrawls out an address on it, and hands it to me.
"Good luck getting him to talk to you though," Dad says as I tuck it into my pocket.
"Why?" I ask but Dad just shrugs and shakes his head. Figuring he's not going to tell me anything more about my brother, I decide to change topics. There's still one more person he can tell me about. "So – how's your wife? Judy?"
The change on Dad's face is so fast it's scary. Instantly he looks angry, his eyes narrowed, his frown tight, and he straightens up so he's towering over me. I've never seen him look so furious. I've also never seen the pain that's in his eyes now. "I think it's time you go, kid," he says and it's less like a suggestion and more like a threat.
"I'm sorry," I say, instinctively shrinking back.
Dad puts one hand on the doorknob to close the door and then fixes his eyes on me. "And next time you blow back into a town, I'd advise you stop trying to dig up the past," he says, his tone menacing. "It'll lead you places you don't wanna go, and every time you do it you're dragging all the rest of us with you." Without another word, he slams the door so hard the letter on the door falls off at my feet.
