All characters, for what it's worth, are property of Brenda and the WB; this story itself was copyrighted by Ishafel on October 13, 2002.
PerfectHe did what he could. What he could to make Eric proud, or what would have made him proud while he still lived. He did his best to help his mother, though in truth Annie seemed to have a strength none of them had dreamed she possessed. He did what he could to be a perfect son to the father he had betrayed, but he had a sinking feeling that nothing he did was enough—that it could never be enough.
Some of it was easy. Simple enough to give up trying to be popular, because he had never been successful anyway. Simple enough, to give up his friends; they didn't know what to say to him anymore and having him around made them uncomfortable. Cecilia was harder: she was persistent, so persistent. She kept calling him, and he didn't know what to say to her. He didn't want to hurt her (if in fact there was anything he could say to her that would hurt her, if she wasn't just playing some kind of game with him.) But Cecilia gave up, eventually.
One by one he gave up the things that had once made him happy, and he found that it was almost too easy because they no longer brought him pleasure. No more driving aimlessly around GlenOak, blinded by tears he was embarrassed to share. No more movies, no more parties he had to beg to attend. No more Saturdays at the mall. No more begging his mother for the garage apartment; he had found he no longer liked to be alone. In the end he gave up having his own room, asked Robbie to move in with him so Ruthie could have her space back.
Some of it was harder. Now when he had all the time in the world to study it was crushingly difficult to concentrate. Once he had done his homework so quickly, and now he struggled. But he was making straight A's, still, though it took him twice as long to the work. Hard not to attract his teachers' notice; they kept asking him was anything wrong, did he want to talk, and he did not want them to ask his mother, did not want her worried. It was worrying that had killed his father.
Hard to be polite to his father's former parishioners, the council by whose grace they were allowed to stay in the house. Hard to smile when they poked and prodded at him, saying how proud his father would have been. Hard to be civil, when they asked him in for coffee cake, and remarked on how thin he'd gotten, did his mother need more money, how was she managing, seven children, really, imagine having a family like that in today's world. Hard to laugh when they called him an anachronism.
Harder still to be quiet and respectful at home, to be supportive of his elder siblings, obedient to their wishes, and kind to the younger children. Hard to do his part to hold his family and world together, and still stay out of everyone's way. He tried to do what he could but he was miserably aware that he was often more of a hindrance than help. All of his much-vaunted intelligence seemed to have deserted him; the simplest things—laundry, loading the dishwasher, seemed to get away from him.
In the end he asked Annie if he could get another after school job, help to make ends meet if he could not help elsewhere. And was crushingly ashamed when she told him that he was doing such a good job at home that she couldn't spare him. Her eyes filled with tears at his offer, and she chokingly explained that school was his job, that there was no chance now of sending him to any college at all unless he could earn a scholarship, that his father would have wanted him to go, and he must have every possible chance. He knew what she was really saying: that he was worthless, cold and cruel, and she wanted him away and gone as soon as he could be sent. And then of course he hated himself for thinking such a thing about his mother, who loved him even knowing what he was, and whom he had made cry.
Hardest of all, that final and intensely private task he had set himself—to learn to pray, to love God, to have faith. Often he took the twins after school to the park, and let them play on the swingset while he sat on the bench, and read the books his father had loved so much: St. Augustine, Thomas More, Julian of Norwich. God help him, but none of them made any sense to him. None of them moved him. At night he read the Bible with a flashlight under the blankets so Robbie could sleep. There was no peace for him in any of it.
He knew that to truly honor Eric's memory he must find a way to dedicate his life to God, but it was all proving unimaginably hard. He was beginning to wonder if he was capable of that sincere, quiet belief that had been his father's hallmark. Perhaps he had already crossed one to many lines to receive God's grace. Perhaps his part in the divine plan was that of a failure.
Regardless, there was nothing more to be done tonight. Wearily, Simon packed his schoolbooks back into his bag. After ten, in a Friday night, and here he was half asleep at the kitchen table, no one but Happy for company. When he leaned down to pat her, she thumped her tail and sighed in her sleep. Once he would have been horrified to have nothing left to do but go up to bed and read until Robbie got back from his date and he could finally fall asleep. Now he merely felt guilty he couldn't manage something more productive.
Happy's tail thumped his leg, and he blinked down at her, eyes filled with tears. He hadn't been able to cry for his father, but he could still manage them for his dog. He had offered to give Happy away; she was too expensive, really, to keep, and he had hardly earned such an indulgence. But Annie had insisted that she was family, had said that she could never ask him to give her up. And Simon hadn't insisted. One more small guilt, among so many large ones.
The screen door slammed and he looked up, startled. Kevin, in uniform, back from his shift. "Hey," Simon said softly, and Kevin gave him a preoccupied grunt. He was thinking about Lucy, which meant at least, Simon wasn't in trouble. It was a funny feeling, not to have done anything ostensibly wrong, but to always be waiting for a lecture that never came. He swung his bag onto his shoulder, suddenly too tired to even climb the stairs to his room. Maybe he could lie on the couch for a while.
As he turned to go, Kevin said, "Simon, wait." Simon turned. It was an effort not to groan, but he managed it. He knew that Kevin meant well, that he was trying to play both brother and father as sensitively and considerately as possible. "Sit down," Kevin continued. "You want a sandwich or something?" And when Simon shook his head, "You don't mind if I make one."
Simon put his head on his arms and watched as Kevin put together a mass of coldcuts and pickles, lettuce, and tomato on bread. The mayonnaise smell was making him feel sick. Finally Kevin turned and sat down across from him. "How's it going, Simon?"
Simon looked down at the scarred wooden tabletop. "Good," he said. It beat what he wanted to say—which would sound more like, leave me the fuck alone, Kevin.
"We haven't had a chance to talk lately," Kevin prodded.
"I know," Simon answered. "But we've both been really busy, Kevin, you know how it is. How is everything going for you on the force?" Be polite. It wasn't so hard as all that. Kevin was only doing his best. It was good that he felt like one of the family, Eric would have liked that. Eric had liked and respected Kevin.
"It's good, you know, really good. I really feel like I'm fitting in."
(Don't breathe through your nose, Simon thought. If you breathe through your nose you'll definitely throw up.) "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"
"How's school?" Kevin repeated. "Simon, are you all right?" His fingers closed around Simon's wrist, and Simon just managed not to pull away.
"Sorry, Kev. I'm just really tired. School's fine."
"Yeah," Kevin said doubtfully. "Well, get some sleep, kid, we'll talk later."
"Right." Grateful, Simon stood up, shouldering his bag again. "Night, Kevin." Seven steps to the couch, maybe eight. He'd gotten three when he realized he wasn't going to make it. He turned to say something to Kevin, not help, exactly, but pretty close, when his legs went out from under him. The counter slowed his fall, a little, and he never felt the floor come up to hit him.