See Part 1 for disclaimer

Author's Notes: Okay, I'm really sorry this took so long, but school has been nuts and now I'm sick. This is why I'm sending this out unbeta'd (?): I'm impatient for some feedback TLC! I am not intimately knowledgeable about psychology, aside from a bit of personal experience, so for those of you that are, please forgive me if this seems unrealistic. Thanks to all of you who sent replies to my shout-out for help a few weeks ago; this isn't the angsty bit I was talking about there- serious angst takes serious energy, which I must, unfortunately, devote to school. So that is still on the back burner, possibly to follow the happy bits I shall be sending out as soon as I can get them written down. 'Bout time for some happy bits, don't you think?

One Month Later

I squeeze Donna's hand. We're in Colorado, for our first on-site family session. Unable to sit still, I get up and pace around the waiting room.

Suddenly, behind me, the door squeaks open. I whirl around, expecting to see Sandy, but instead find myself facing Dr. Dan Larson, the director of MacGill. That's the name of this place, The MacGill Retreat. Catchy, huh?

"Mr. Lyman?"

I shake his outstretched hand, and watch as he greets Donna.

"How is he?" I ask abruptly.

"Progressing."

"Progressing? It's been a month and all you can say is 'progressing'? What the hell are we paying you for?"

"Josh."

I catch Donna's glance. "Yeah. Sorry, Doctor. Forgive me."

"It's all right, Mr. Lyman. As much as I hate to say it, your reaction is quite ordinary. Rather tame, in fact." He smiles. I like this guy. He's a mensch. Like Stanley. Doesn't hand out too much abstract shit.

"Dr. Larson," Donna says softly, "please, how's our boy?"

"As I said, and I'm sorry for being so vague, he's progressing. He made it through detox, as you know, and he's beginning to participate in programs of his own volition. He's keeping up with his academic work as well, and is generally cooperative. That said, though, he's holding back. He's still very much on the defensive; he rarely gives me straight answers. This isn't at all unusual, but Sandy's particularly guarded. He's also had trouble sleeping- nightmares. We've had to give him something. When he comes in, don't be surprised if he looks tired. Between the medication, therapy and programs, life here can be somewhat draining, especially at first."

"So, Doctor, what kind of a timetable are we looking at here?"

"Josh." Donna breaks in. "You know how long. A school year, or its equivalent."

"I know. I just...I want him home. I feel like I'm abandoning him here."

"Considering your situation, Mr. Lyman, it's really what's best. I'm sure it was difficult enough to get out here even for today."

I stare at my shoes, not wanting to admit that what he's saying is true. "And anyway, Mr. Lyman, the longer he stays in treatment now, the less likelihood he has of "relapsing." I can't tell you how many patients we have that were released from other programs after a mere three months, or even less, and then simply continued their old "habit." It's in his best interest. Yours, too."

"I just want him back. I want my son back."

"Mr. Lyman, he'll never be exactly the same as before. Surely you understand that."

"I may understand it," I mutter under my breath, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it. So, do we get to see him, or do we just get to hear your dire prophecies for the duration of our, ah, visit?"

"Joshua."

I don't apologize this time, I just set my lips in a stubborn line and turn away, thrusting my hands in my pockets.

"I'll just go get him. Sit tight a minute."

As the door closes, Donna speaks. "You're really not helping here, Joshua."

"Donna! I..."

"Just shut up and listen a minute, okay? If you can't find it in yourself to be civil when it's just the doctor, how are you going to refrain from losing it when we have Sandy in here, too? You flying off the handle won't solve anything, except maybe make Sandy retreat even farther into whatever shell he's spent the last year or so creating."

"Donna, I have no intention..."

"Please, Josh. Please. Please. Just listen to me for once without arguing."

Dammit. She's got that pleading, beseeching look in her eyes, the one that leaves me helpless. I go over and take her hand, pensively biting my lower lip. "Okay," I murmur softly.

The door swings open, and we're face to face with Sandy.

My poor baby.

I can feel my heart breaking, piece by excruciating piece. He's standing in a corner, head down, his arms crossed over his chest. When he finally glances up, his expression is both defiant and wounded. Inscrutable, really. I reach out to brush his hair back, and he flinches. I draw back, suppressing a gasp, and will the tears not to fall. My baby is afraid of me, his own mother.

He looks so tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his slouched posture doesn't seem to be so much from indifference as rather a deep weariness.

Sandy's always been special. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adore all of my children, but well, he's my only boy. More importantly, he's the one that reminds me most strongly of Josh. Yeah, I know, you thought Norah got the prize for that. And many would consider you correct: she's fiery, brilliant, passionate, and just a bit egotistical (I managed to temper that Lyman characteristic somewhat, thank goodness). No, Sandy reminds me of Josh at his sweetest, his most vulnerable, the "gooey center" part of him that Josh usually keeps hidden beneath his belligerent, smirking façade. Sandy, at least until recently, never had that sort of armor, a blessing for which I have never stopped being grateful. It makes it all the harder to see him now, though.

I'll never forget the day he was born. I know, I know, you wouldn't expect me to, but humor me, okay? Anyway, not surprisingly, Norah came out fighting and indignant when she was born, so we expected her little brother to do the same. But he practically slid out; he barely even cried. No, he just looked at us with those big brown eyes of his, Josh's eyes, quiet and content, and he had us, hook, line and sinker. Josh thought he was a marvel; I think he was amazed that any child of his could be so peaceful. He grew up into a gentle, thoughtful little boy, one who would spend hours watching a ladybug's plodding progress from a blade of grass to his finger, never hurrying, never being rough. Then he would bring it to me, his eyes shining with wonder, like Josh at his most endearing. Yup, Sandy was on the receiving end of many an unexpected hug till recently; being the sweet boy that he is, he accepted them with a bashful indulgence, even as a teenager.

And now he won't even let me touch him.

The kid looks like crap. I want to hug him more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life, but I recognize the defensive body language, so I let him be. Especially after the response Donna got. I know it's less to do with us than with the whole, well, thing, but still, I don't need rejection on my mind, too. I start to chatter inanely about the rest of the kids, about how Dusty misses him, about Sam's latest attack of clumsiness, which, if you can believe it, actually involved a banana peel. Through the whole thing he just stands there, impassive. Donna's eyes are shining with tears, and the doctor is in the back of the room, being as unobtrusive as possible.

The panic is rising in me, and though I fight to shove it down, it's too strong, and all of my questions come pouring out: "Sandy, what did we do? How can we...Why didn't you just say...Please, help me understand. What did we do?"

He's staring at me, lips curled in a smirk, but his shaking voice betrays his emotion. "Do? What do you mean, 'What did you do'?" You didn't do anything, that's what you did. Jeez, Dad...I..." He stares hard at the floor, fists clenched, getting himself under control. He glances quickly at the doctor. "Please, can I go? I just, I can't...please."

At the doctor's nod, he bolts from the room as if his very life depended on it. I slam my fist into the wall. "Dammit!" Breathing heavily, I look towards the doctor.

"Now we just might get somewhere," he says quietly.

I find refuge in the horse barn. It's a good place to think, a horse barn, and the horses just let you be.

I stay in there for what seems like forever, stroking Buster's velvety nose (I've been riding him a bit recently), when Brent comes in.

Brent's the guy that picked me up from the airport. He used to be a "recreational user" too, until he kicked the habit. Now he's a counselor and tech here, in the whole "I know what you're going through" vein. Patronizing shit like that makes me want to puke, but he's a good guy. Knows when to leave well enough alone. Except now.

"Your parents left, you know. They had to go back to DC."

Figures. "Yeah, well, duty calls."

"They waited for a few hours."

"Why didn't they come find me, then?" I ask hotly.

"Because Dr. Larson told them not to." He chuckles. "They practically had to tie your father down. He kept waving his credentials around. I think he would have called the President for an executive order, if your mother hadn't been there to stop him."

"Sam wouldn't have given him one, anyway."

"Well, you would know, I guess. So, you been having a good conversation, there?"

"At least they don't talk at you," I mutter.

"Why do I think that the use of that preposition was intentional?"

"It wasn't. I'm just stupid, didn't you know?"

"That's a load of crap, man. They tell me you test practically off the charts, when you're not numbing your brain with drugs. And I just met your parents. Nobody can be around them for so long and turn out anything but smart as hell. You'd have to. Self-defense." He grins.

"I guess."

"You're darn right I guess. Man, it must be hard being around them sometimes."

"What do you know about it?" I'm actually genuinely curious, but I don't want to give Brent that satisfaction.

"Oh, just a feeling I get, is all. They're just both so successful, and powerful. It must be hard to measure up."

Even though this sounds suspiciously like psychobabble, I can't help but answer: "They never expect us to be like them, they just want us all to be happy, they always..."

"Oh, come on," he interrupts. "You're telling me that they don't expect you to do something phenomenal and noteworthy with your life?"

"No, they just..."

"I don't believe that for a second, hotshot. You just think about it, then. Better think fast, though. The doc wants to see you after dinner."

Well hallelujah.

"So, you seemed a bit upset this afternoon, Sandy."

Oh yeah? I'd never of guessed. "Nah. I cry when I'm happy, ya know. I'm very in touch with my feelings. I'm just a feelings kind of guy."

"Huh. Funny then, that you needed pills to drown them out. Or was that not what you were doing?"

"Nope."

He smiles slightly. "Care to elaborate for me?"

"Honestly? No."

"Okay, well, let's try a different tack then, shall we?"

"Whatever you want, Doc. I'm here to oblige."

"How magnanimous of you," he comments dryly.

"That's me."

"Your parents were rather upset at what happened today. How do you feel about it?"

"It's fine. Don't you always say that I'm not responsible for other people's reactions to my actions?"

"That's true. But I didn't ask about that. I asked how you felt about it."

"Look, what does it matter? It doesn't matter, okay? They don't need my petty shit anyways. They've got other things to worry about."

"What petty shit would you be talking about?"

"THIS!!!"

"You would describe a drug addiction as petty? I'd wager they sure don't."

"In the scheme of things that they deal with on a daily basis, yes, this is petty. Besides, I didn't mean just that, I meant..."

"Yes?"

"Before."

"Before what? Before your addiction? Before your brother moved in with you? Before your sister got sick?"

"I don't know what ..."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No... Look, I..."

"Stop. Just stop. I need you to stop holding out on me. You've been doing it for a month, consistently, every session. That's long enough. It needs to end, you understand?"

"But..."

"Nothing's going to happen, Sandy. Nothing you say will hurt me, I promise you. But as long as you don't tell me, as long as you hide, it will hurt someone. You. And you've hurt for so long, too long. You don't have to fight it anymore."

"What..."

"You don't need to fight anymore. You don't have to be strong. Not for your father, your mother, your sisters, or your brother. Or even the President. Just give yourself a break, and rest."

Fine. "Before, during, practically everything, okay? Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Sure. Listen, don't sweat it. Everyone's fallible, kid, and denying it never helped anyone."

Though it feels as though my very soul is clogged with tears, I manage a small, shaky grin. "That's what my dad says."

"Well, he's a smart man. Good thing too, or I'd probably pack my bags and move to Sri Lanka."

"Well, I could tell you some things that would make you want to leave tonight. There was this one time..."

The doc smiles slightly, and then, slowly, so do I.