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Shine - Collective Soul

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to look
Tell me will love be there
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go

Tell me will love be there

Peter: The Prodigal Stepson

1996, Queens

Carmen bounced her knees nervously, tucking her dark curly hair behind her ears as she twirled her fork, just picking at her food. Her big brown eyes were full of thoughts and her forehead creased with worry.

My stepdaughter Maria was telling us about her teacher animatedly. She loved school, and her first grade teacher was an angel, and so good with her. Maria was a social butterfly and would talk to a brick wall. She smiled with her front two teeth missing, looking absolutely adorable in her favorite pink frilly dress and matching hair bow.

I nodded with an answering smile every so often as Maria told me her story about recess, but watched Carmen watch the clock out of the corner of my eye.

He should've been home two hours ago.

She'd called the school and they'd said he had left right on time and to account for transit delays.

I knew the MTA was unreliable, but not that unreliable.

I sighed.

Carmen's son was fifteen and starting to rebel a little bit. Nothing too scary yet, but I felt like it was becoming more and more frequent that I scolded him for going to his room without making an effort to talk with us, staying out a little later after school, or not doing his chores.

When I scolded him, he stared defiantly back at me, not saying a word.

He knew that it made his mother and I angrier when he wouldn't respond than if he argued.

I remember being a fifteen-year-old boy, but I'd never parented one, especially not one that made it obvious that I wasn't his real father. The more I tried to connect with him, the more he would withdraw.

I sympathized with him and tried not to push too hard, but I was desperate for him to make an effort. More than all this though was that it was absolutely killing me the way his behavior broke his mom's heart.

She talked about what a happy kid he used to be, but I don't think I'd ever even seen him smile or heard him laugh.

It had been a full year since I'd married Carmen and we all moved to Queens. Carmen cited that as around the time of change for him and I couldn't help but feel guilty.

He'd even had friends in the South Bronx, but the move was necessary. They didn't live in even a remotely safe neighborhood for children and we needed more space to live as a family.

I'd grown up in the Bronx too so I knew his connection to the borough wasn't misplaced, but I found a great neighborhood with great schools here. A lot of my police force buddies had families here; so did a lot of firemen. It seemed safe and affordable, and it seemed to make everyone happy but him.

We lived in a small house, but it was still a house and he had his own room, which I thought he would like now that he was a teenager, but the longer we lived here the more reclusive he got so I couldn't help but feel guilty for uprooting him after he'd just started trying to put down roots in America.

"Should I…?" Carmen worriedly twisted her hands together, looking toward the phone, but as if on cue, the front door opened.

It opened with a swing, rushed and careless like it was going to swing off the hinges.

His head was down and he hurriedly shut the door behind him, dashing down the hallway and toward his room without a word.

"Hey! You're late." I called after him, but he didn't turn around.

Carmen started calling after him in swift and angry Spanish, ignoring her own rule about practicing English at home, but he still didn't respond.

"Your mother was worried about you." I got up from the table, following him around the corner, but he still didn't turn around.

"Sorry." He mumbled, swinging open his bedroom door just enough to slip inside.

I caught it on the edge before he could slam it behind him.

"You know she took off work so we could all have dinner together tonight after your first day at your new school. What were you getting yourself into that made you two hours late?" I entered his room, and he turned his back to me.

He retreated into the corner of his room, seeming to only want to make sure his back was to me. He'd become increasingly defiant, and this was the final straw.

I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shook me off.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

He still didn't respond, and this time I grabbed his arm, turning him around so he'd have to look at me.

When I saw his face and how he flinched away from me, I jerked my hand back.

There was blood under his nose; his lip was busted and fresh blood was still running down his chin and out of his mouth; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and I noticed the gashes on his palms like they'd been caught on concrete. His eye was freshly black and there was bright red staining the front of his white Metallica shirt that he'd asked for on his birthday.

He looked bad.

"Oh my God." I gasped, and he turned his face away from me, ashamed.

"I … didn't do any things wrong." He mumbled, his accent and odd grammar making his words almost unintelligible.

I swallowed the lump in my throat as I shut the door behind us.

"What happened?" I asked, my heart starting to race.

He paused for a long time, obviously not wanting to talk about it.

"Hey, listen. You've got to tell me if someone's picking on you. I can help."

He was a skinny boy and had just gone through yet another growth spurt that left all his sleeves and pant hems just shy of long enough. Even now, his bony wrists showed under his jacket revealing his black and blue fingers and bloody palms.

His mother and I couldn't keep up with his growth spurts financially to keep buying him new clothes.

Of course he was getting picked on…

I ran a hand over my face, huffing. I blamed myself for not preparing him. This year, he moved to the high school and he was perfect bait for bored seniors.

What a first day welcome…

Unlike his little sister, Maria, I felt awkward and unsure of myself when parenting him. It came so naturally to feel valued by Maria and I felt like I instinctually knew how to be her parent. She had always been open to me, but he couldn't have been colder.

I don't know if this was because of her young age that they were on different timelines of accepting me into their family, but this moment of parenting him was perhaps the biggest insecurity I'd ever felt in my life.

I didn't know what to do.

I'd never had a child of my own, and I didn't know how he felt about me marrying his mom, especially as he was moving forward into his teenage years. I wanted him to accept, respect, and even love me one day, but it was still so early and he was so quiet so I couldn't ever get a good read on him.

I know I didn't have the slightest idea of what he'd gone through before he got to New York; it had only been three years since he'd moved to America, gotten a stepfather, changed homes, and had his entire life flipped upside down.

I'm sure that was a tough transition for anyone, let alone a young teenager.

"We can get whoever did this to you in a lot of trouble." I said, my blood beginning to boil. "It's better for you to talk to us about it so we can help you and so you can focus on your school work when you're at school. "

He stared at me intently with deep-amber brown eyes, still not saying anything.

"We'll get the school involved and we can press charges if you want and…" I noticed my heart was beating unusually fast.

I was hurting for him. It was making me sick to see him like this.

"Peter…" He started, furrowing his brow like he was deep in thought as he interrupted me.

I didn't respond, just waited for whatever he was thinking about.

"Will you talk slower?" He finally asked. "I…. don't understand."

My mouth hung open and my heart hurt as I looked at him sitting across from me so ashamed that he'd asked me that, and that he'd gotten beat up at school, and a million other reasons that floated in his brown eyes.

"I'm sorry." I said in a breath, a lump in my throat.

"My English… not as good as you think." He kept his eyes down in shame.

"It's okay." I swallowed, feeling a pit in my stomach.

"I'm stupid." He said matter-of-factly.

"No, you are not stupid." I argued.

"Everyone says so." He insisted, his black eye looking worse by the second.

He looked like he was on the wrong end of a Rocky movie.

I paused, letting him open up and take his time sorting his thoughts.

"The… teacher…. asked me to read out loud today." He finally said like this was the most mortifying thing he'd ever experienced and that he had chosen his words carefully. "Some people… followed…. me after school."

He seemed to be unsure if he'd picked the right words for me to understand and I realized why he got targeted and my heart sank. I also realized why he never argued back with me and why he was so quiet.

I sighed.

"Is that why they pick on you?" I asked, keeping my questions short.

He just nodded.

There was a light knock on the door and I knew it was Carmen.

He looked at me, panicked.

"Just a second." I said calmly.

"Is everything okay?" Carmen asked, her voice tainted with worry.

"Yes. Everything's fine." I responded.

She wasn't satisfied until she heard his voice, so he responded in Spanish halfway then seemed to stop mid sentence.

"Everything is okay. Peter is learning – teaching - me some school work I had difficulty from - with." He responded, correcting himself.

"Okay." Carmen sighed, still not satisfied. "Why don't you grab some dinner first?"

"In a moment." He called.

I heard her retreat nonetheless.

He sighed, sitting down next to me on the edge of his unmade bed. My skin burned and I just wanted to hug onto him and protect him, but I just sat next to him looking over his bruised and battered face. He'd grown up so much in just a year, but he was still just a kid.

He was just a kid…

"Do you want to get cleaned up and I'll deal with your mom?"

He paused, sorting my words.

"I'll talk to your mom." I rephrased and he understood. "I'll bring your dinner in here tonight and I'll help you on your homework."

"You would do that?" He asked, looking down at his lap, wiping his mouth again from fresh blood.

"I want to protect you." I put my hand on his back feeling his protruding spine against my palm even through his jacket.

"I love you, kid." I said before I could give too much thought to it.

This was the first time I'd told him I loved him.

He noticed and looked up at me before darting his eyes away.

My throat felt tight with the rejection of the sentiment, but I understood his hesitation.

"Now, go on and get cleaned up." I encouraged standing from where we sat and making my way to the door.

He nodded, trudging to the door to the bathroom that connected his room to Maria's.

I closed the door behind me, Carmen's worried look meeting me instantly as I emerged into the hallway.

She didn't even have to speak.

"He got beat up after school by a group of boys from his class." I said, my voice low so he and Maria wouldn't hear.

"What?!" She shrieked, her hands coming to her mouth.

I hushed her lightly and put my hands on her shoulders.

"He's going to be fine." I whispered walking with her into our bedroom and trying to stay quiet as we talked.

She sniffed, her bottom lip trembling as she began to cry. Her big brown eyes dropped, and it broke my heart.

"He looks pretty bad, Carmen… But, he's more embarrassed than anything. His nose isn't broken or anything, but… it's going to kill you to look at him like that."

Carmen cried, covering her face. My heart started to race and I took a deep breath.

"Carmen, I don't care what I have to do, I'm getting that boy the best English tutor in this state." I felt my blood boiling as I thought about it. "And for God's sake, a jacket that fits and a pair of pants that covers his ankles."

I cleared my throat, determined.

"I feel like a failure." Carmen sat down on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes.

"Don't say that. Kids are dumb and they just targeted him because they could." I grumbled. "And… His teacher made him read aloud today."

She huffed, obviously upset, and her brow furrowed.

"I'll have to talk to his teacher. Who does she think she is, singling him out like that?" Carmen was redirecting, and she started to really break down and cry.

She wrung her hands and I kissed her hair.

"He's in ninth grade, Carmen." I said in gentle protest. "He's just… got some catching up to do."

Carmen's lips were pressed into a hard line and her nostrils flared as she exhaled, accepting what I was saying.

"I know it's very important to him that he remembers where he came from." Carmen swallowed, her eyes on fire.

"I know that." I responded softly. "That's important to me too."

I knew she was saying he wanted to remember his culture, his home, and his real father.

There was no room for me to be humanly hurt by my own selfish desire to claim him as my son.

How could I ever find a place in this kid's heart that had closed off to me so recognizably?

"But… It breaks my heart that he's so different from the other kids here." She had a catch in her throat, wiping her eyes.

He didn't look out of place here – he just had very dark hair and brown eyes, but I hadn't come across any other families that spoke Spanish, or any other language that wasn't some occasional German or Russian for that matter.

I knew what she was trying to say.

I took a deep breath, feeling guilty that I'd moved him to a place he hated and that his mother so obviously felt displaced in. I didn't know how to fix this…

I felt helpless.

"We've got to get him an English tutor." Carmen sighed.

"I will make absolutely sure of it." I took her hands.

I heard the shower stop running in the bathroom so he'd hear us talking.

"I'm going to let him eat dinner in his room." I said, exiting the room and making my way to the kitchen to collect his dinner plate.

Carmen followed me, and put her hand on my arm as I made his plate with extra food on it. I knew he was so skinny because he was getting so tall, but still.

"I love you for loving him." She breathed, her eyes meeting mine fiercely.

I just smiled.

"He's a good kid, Carmen." I kissed her cheek. "You did a great job with him."

She exhaled, tittering in the kitchen and fiddling needlessly, but before I turned out of the room she took my arm almost urgently.

"Don't give up on him," She whispered. "He just needs some time."

I knew she was referring to my weariness about him retreating from me so obviously no matter how hard I tried to connect with him. I just nodded.

I knocked on his door lightly.

"You can entrance - come in." He said quietly.

He didn't look quite as gruesome now that he'd washed the blood off, but his black eye was just getting worse as time passed. I noticed his teeth were a little blood stained even as he drank the glass of water I handed him.

If even one of his teeth was even slightly chipped, I would make those little punks pay the dentist's bill. He'd just gotten his braces off this summer.

"Before you eat dinner, let me make sure they didn't knock your teeth out." I insisted, closing the door behind me and setting his plate on an end table by the door that held a Darth Vader action figure and a stack of CDs that he had no CD player for.

Alice in Chains was on the top.

The youth these days…

"They didn't." He made a face, obviously not happy that I'd said that.

As he stood in front of me, I noticed I was looking directly into his eyes. He was as tall as me now.

I took a deep breath before I told him to open his mouth. He groaned in protest, but ultimately listened. I took his chin in my hand, turning his face slightly.

The blood from his mouth was just a little gash on the inside of his left cheek that would eventually heal itself. No missing teeth. Thank God.

As I held onto his chin, I studied his face. His nose really wasn't broken. There was a small cut on his head near his eyebrow that had stopped bleeding, but other than that and a black eye, he seemed okay.

The thing hurt the most was his confidence. Fifteen-year-old boys don't take very well to being the one on the underside of a fight, even if he was sucker-punched and outnumbered.

His eyes met mine for the briefest of moments before he recoiled, looking away and down as he took the plate from the table.

"Thanks." He mumbled, sitting down in the chair by his desk.

"Sure." I said, starting to make up his bed for him.

"You don't… have to do." He was caught off guard, pausing with the fork in his left hand.

I just shrugged.

"My dad always said that the path to success starts with making your bed." I remembered.

He took a bite, looking down.

"My dad was a Marine. You know, like the U.S. military." I explained.

He nodded, his muscles not as tensed so I knew he was relaxing.

"He died of lung cancer when I was 22." I said, trying to relate to him unsuccessfully.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly, stopping to look up at me for a short second.

I didn't know where else to go, so I continued making his bed, searching for words to say.

"I still think about him, very often." I suggested.

He didn't say anything, and I tried not to look at him in anticipation.

I put one of the last pillows on his bed, knowing I'd have to turn around and say something else or sit in awkward silence.

I took a deep breath, finally deciding on what to say.

"It's okay to miss your dad. I'm not trying to take his place, but I do want to have my own place one day." I finally said, fully expecting him to shut me out like he did every other time.

"Okay." He said, his voice breathy and odd but he didn't look at me. I couldn't read him.

"When you're ready." I tried to clarify and not push him too much.

He ducked his head for a moment before putting his finished plate down on the desk behind him.

It was silent, but I tried not to pressure him. I picked up his backpack off the floor and sat it on the edge of his bed so he could get his homework out.

"What do you want to work on first?" I asked awkwardly.

He didn't respond and I wondered if he'd understood, but he eventually stood from his desk chair, keeping his eyes down as he came over to my side.

In a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, he looked from his feet and into my eyes before wrapping his long, gangly arms around my shoulders.

He hugged me tight, showing no sign of letting go as he squeezed. I realized I had to hug him back and I put my hands on his back tenderly and in total shock.

I heard him breathe, but he didn't have to say anything. I reveled in the sound of his inhale and exhale and I could not have loved him more if my blood was pumping through his veins.

This was the very first moment he let himself be my son and I wanted to bottle it up and keep it forever.

"Now let's get to work. What are you reading in English class?" If I didn't redirect now, I'd surely cry.

"To Kill a Mockingbird." He responded with a groan as I let him go.

He regarded the exchange we'd had as natural and that warmed my heart.

"Oh, now that's a pretty good book." I widened my eyes.

It was actually the only book I'd ever really finished.

"It's very interesting." I expanded.

"Not if you can't read English." He raised an eyebrow almost comically.

"Well, we can fix that." I responded, keeping it lighthearted as he produced a copy of Harper Lee's masterpiece from deep in his tattered backpack. "Why don't you read it to me, and we'll talk about anything you don't understand?"

He furrowed his brow, unhappy with this suggestion, but ultimately complied, opening the book to the beginning.

With a deep breath, he started reading To Kill a Mockingbird.

His voice was unsure and awkward at first, but as the days progressed, he began to sit up straighter, speak a little louder, and read a little more enthusiastically.

I was exhausted, picking up an extra job doing handiwork for an apartment complex, so I could pay for an English tutor that he saw after school every day and every Saturday, but I returned to hear him read every single night before he went to sleep.

In just six months time, he came home with a note from school that invited us to an end of school year awards presentation.

He'd smiled - the first time I'd ever seen him do it - telling us sheepishly that he wanted us to come and asked his mom if they could go shopping for dress clothes.

On the night of the event, we still had no idea what was going on, but I came in a suit that was 20 years old and a little too small to sit in a full auditorium of board members, educators, council members and politicians.

His mother found a dress on sale and Maria had beautiful braids in her curly black hair.

He sat front row in a full auditorium, bouncing his knees excitedly in black dress pants that were long enough for his gangly legs, a series of papers in his hand.

I looked down at the paper program in my own hands, seeing that we were at the New York Public School's Student Showcase for Academic Excellence.

He was brilliant.

I saw a number of public schools listed with a student's name beneath, a subject, and a topic.

That's when my eyes found his school. Below it said –

Emmett McCarty

Literature and Public Policy

To Kill a Mockingbird and Atticus Finch's Assertion of Legal Empathy

That was my name.

That was my name on my son.

As they called this new name, he stood, his mother already crying silent tears and holding tight to a clapping little girl in her lap.

I put my arm around her and she smiled a wide, beautiful smile.

I was overwhelmed. He hadn't said a word and I looked at him prouder of him than I'd been of anything in my life.

He began his presentation as the student chosen out of his entire school to represent them, and his command of the English language was not just functional.

It was exceptional.

More than that though, he spoke confidently, easily, and charismatically.

He spoke like he was enjoying himself, like he loved what he was talking about, and like he was self-assured.

Everyone listened intently, and not because they were trying to make sense of what he was saying through an accent. They listened because he was brilliant.

He was the final student to speak and as he bounded off the stage and the audience was dismissed, his eyes caught mine first as he snaked through the crowd of people that stopped him every so often to shake his hand or compliment him.

I saw the mayor of New York City, Giuliani, clap him on the back proudly and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

But still he looked my way.

Carmen sat Maria down as he approached, skittering over to him and throwing her arms around his waist because she couldn't reach his shoulders.

Again, he was getting taller.

She stood on her tiptoes and practically hopped to kiss him on the cheek with her red lipstick, and he laughed a perfect, soul-filling laugh as he half-heartedly protested and wiped his cheek off.

"I'm so proud of you, baby." She squealed hugging him tight again. "My sweet baby."

"Mom, stop. I can't breathe." He smiled as he said this, pulling away slightly.

His eyes met mine and I clenched my jaw, fighting everything in me that just wanted to cry.

"What did you think?" He asked me, his big brown eyes even wider than usual.

"I couldn't be prouder of you, kid." I wrapped my arm around the back of his neck, and he ducked his head to lower into my shoulder affectionately.

"My green card got approved so I… Mom went with me to change my name. I hope that's okay."

As I patted him on the back, I felt a tear race down my face.

"That's okay." I cleared my throat, holding him tight.

"Good." He exhaled happily.

"Look, I want you to hear what I'm saying because it's important and I mean every word." I put my palm on the back of his head familiarly, feeling his raven black curls in my fingers as I squeezed him close.

"One day…" I started, speaking slow to sort my own thoughts and to make sure he heard and processed every word. "One day - like they did today - you will talk and everyone will always listen. You will be the smartest man in the room and everyone will know it."

I pulled back to look at him, but kept one hand on the back of his head and one on his shoulder so he'd look straight into my eyes.

The corner of his mouth turned up, revealing a dimple on his cheek that made him look youthful.

"There will be days you'll have to crawl on your belly and days you'll be able to run, but you're a fighter, and you'll work hard for everything in your life." I continued. "Everything you will achieve, you will have worked hard for, and because of that, everyone will respect you."

His deep brown eyes searched my face as I felt a tear slip down my cheek so I gave him a small smile.

"Thanks Dad." Emmett said, a full, million-watt smile spreading on his face that was just contagious.