The Little Things that Matter
Summary: The lives of the littles are never easy, and the most difficult challenges are often those that come from family.
Growing Pains
Grandpa Little had never been an early riser. Not even in his high school days, though his football coach harped on the rewards of training in the early morning hours. The hours until the sun made an appearance just held no interest for him.
So when he found himself wide awake at 5:27 am for the fifth time that week, he knew it boded nothing good. He rose from his bed, drawing back the covers slowly as he listened for any sound. The home was still, though, save for the creaks of the floor above them. Even if the bigs were moving about this early they wouldn't have woken him. Even Tom's cries to be fed and Helen's shushing couldn't pull him out of a dead sleep.
But he hadn't slept that soundly for days now.
Just as it had before, his mind fixed on the extra bedroom he and Frank had cleaned out less than a month ago, and he donned his slippers and robe to head in that direction. The red and green Christmas lights hooked across the wall helped him stumble along his path in the otherwise pitch darkness. The door to the spare room was closed, but a quick jiggling of the round button handle proved that it wasn't bolted. He carefully opened the door a crack and peered in.
The room, newly whitewashed, only sported Helen's newly made rug and a dollhouse bed with a tin lampstand. It was all they'd been able to round up for the time being, though Frank had his heart set on baseball cards for posters. Eventually, it would be Tom's bedroom when he outgrew his bassinet, so there was time enough until then.
At the moment, the room served for their visitors; unexpected, Grandpa realized as he stepped inside in the room, in more ways than one. The Christmas lights didn't tread far enough inside; all he could make out was the bed itself with its headboard against the far wall, and what might have been blankets or a sleeping little, or both. As he moved closer softly, though, he could see that one side of the blankets had been stretched out in a messy attempt to remake the bed. The other side of the blankets were tucked around a small form, whose soft breathing met Grandpa's ears as he stood at the end of the bed.
Only the child. Grandpa rested his hand on the footboard and turned his head to blink in the darkness. But unless she had chosen to hide under the rug or behind the door, it was obvious that she wasn't in the room.
He took a shaky breath, fighting for control. Yes, that was exactly the nagging worry that had woken him and sent him to check this room every single time. The past four mornings he'd found her fast asleep, her son cuddled up next to her. The shadowy mass that normally rested at the foot of the bed also missing. Grandpa bent to feel about the floor, just to be sure. Sure enough, her duffle bag was gone.
"So," he whispered, feeling the pit in his stomach. "You've done it at last, have you? Couldn't have held out longer, could you?"
He gripped the footboard for a moment as his vision swam. A thousand different cries rose before his mind; none that he was ready to deal with. When he managed to right himself, he found he was looking down at the sleeping child.
"And here I thought…maybe…" Grandpa shook his head. He stretched out a hand to smooth the hair sticking up at all ends, and stopped when the faint sound of clinking caught his attention. He turned to the doorway, listening again.
Maybe he was wrong. Forgetting the boy, he hurried out of the room as fast as he dared. Maybe she hadn't after all…
He came to end of the hallway before he saw the faint candle light in the dining area of the family kitchen. A pot of coffee sat steaming on the table, and the cover removed from the tin of biscuits from last night's dinner.
Leaning against the counter, Maeva was quietly sipping from a mug. "Good morning."
If she was as surprised to see him as he was to see her, she certainly made no intention to show it. Her face was carefully guarded as always, from the somber look in her eyes to the stoic line of her mouth.
Nothing had changed there.
"You're up early," she said.
"Well, I…I…" Grandpa struggled for the right words-something flippant, perhaps-as he tied his robe snuggly. "…Early bird gets the worm and all."
"Hm." Maeva took another drink. "So, did you?"
"I haven't decided whether it's even worth it," he huffed, pouring his own coffee. Run-about conversations had never been his game, and he had just opened his mouth to demand why she was up so early when he finally spotted the duffel bag by the back tunnel of their home. On top of it was an old basket they'd used for picnics, and by the way the blue towel strained to cover the opening, the basket was packed full.
Grandpa looked back to Maeva, taking in her battered coat and the pilot's cap that fitted around her yellow hair, both of which served as the final pieces in dashing his hope.
Maeva's reserve didn't falter under his gaze. "I told you I didn't know how long I could stay, big brother."
"Would stay, you mean." Grandpa struggled to keep his voice down. Anger boiled itself inside. "Don't you 'big brother' me, you…you…"
"Oh, just call me whatever you want and get it over with." Maeva dropped her cup in the sink and crossed her arms. "You've been dying to call me names all week. Just make it something good this time, would you?"
"How about irresponsible mother?" Grandpa shot back. "Is that good enough for you?"
"Well, it's not one of your best, but it beats 'airhead', so I guess-"
"Maeva, why?" Grandpa Little fisted his hands to keep from reaching out and throttling her. "Why would you do this to him? How could you do this to him?"
"This isn't about him."
"This is every bit about him!" He couldn't believe that she could stand there looking so serene. "How can you come all this way just to leave him with relatives he's never met?"
"He's met you all now. And he likes you, too." A wry smile crossed Maeva's face. "He's been happier here for the last week than he's ever been in his life."
"That's no reason to abandon a six-year-old!"
"No, there are better reasons." The smile vanished. "And I've got a million of them, if I only had the time."
"You spent plenty of time dodging everyone's questions."
"Because my problems are mine, and none of your business."
"None of my business, huh?" Grandpa, suddenly weary, dropped into the nearest chair. He pulled the cup of coffee towards him, though he only stared at the contents. "Your life is none of my business. Well, where have I heard that before? Let me think-"
"Eleven years ago," Maeva snapped, her coolness suddenly ruffled. "March 19, exactly. Four days after Thomas Little died. I remember when I left, and I remember what I said. It's as true now as it was back then."
Grandpa ran a hand over his face; the better to hide back the pain. "He always wanted you to call him Dad, Maeva."
"He wasn't my Father." No pause. No excuse. No inclination that she was feeling the same hurt he felt.
"He tried to be," Grandpa protested.
"Trying isn't being. He wasn't my Father."
"Maeva…"
"He wasn't my Father. Jenna Little wasn't my mother, and you aren't my brother. You all tried-"
"And we failed." Grandpa slapped the hand on the table. "So you still think that? That we failed at being your family somehow?"
"No."
"You think Mother and Father didn't care about you? After everything they did for you? You think I never cared about you?" His heart was bursting now with everything he had wanted to say; not just in the past week, but during those years that she had been gone. He'd never been able to talk to her, not since mother had brought her to live with them, not in the entire time they'd spent growing up together.
And not now. Though he could see her hands shaking, her eyes had turned stony and determined. "I think you cared too much."
"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" He put a hand to his head to stop the pounding.
"I couldn't breathe here. I couldn't feel here. I couldn't go anywhere. You wanted me safe and guarded and here at all times. I couldn't do that anymore. I told you all that before I left!"
"Yes, you did," Grandpa agreed, roughly. The memory passed his mind- standing at a different tunnel, watching a much younger Maeva swing that same duffel bag over her shoulder and listening to her explain why she was leaving…that yellow-haired little who had never been quite family, and yet was the only sister he would ever have. He'd fought over and over to take care of her and keep her safe, and it still hadn't mattered one ounce. He'd had to keep thinking of Sally and young Helen, still fast asleep in their beds, and remind himself as he trudged back home that he still had a family left…All those years, he'd tried to trick himself into believing that it was all for the best.
And then Maeva's letter, the first in eleven years had come:
Stopping by. See you then.
She'd shown up in that rickety plane of hers immediately after, with nothing except that old duffle bag, and that bright-eyed little boy. Not a word about where she'd been or how she'd been; not an apology for not writing before. Not even an explanation about her son, except to push him in Grandpa's direction and exclaim, "Say hello to your nephew," before she even bothered with a hello to him herself.
And yet, he'd still hoped she had come back to stay. He'd still hoped that maybe something had changed during that time-maybe she'd found what she wanted-and he could have his family back, whole and loving.
"But, it was never your plan, was it?" he finished the thought aloud, his disappointment threatening tears. "You never intended to come back to stay."
Finally, a genuine look of regret passed over Maeva's face. "I never intended to come back at all."
Yes, so he had guessed. And the answer to why she had bothered to return at all was sleeping in the guest bedroom.
Grandpa Little understood that now, at least.
He hunched against the table, putting both hands around his cup. "And what do you expect me to tell him when he wakes up? Huh? Should I tell him you'll be back around sometime before he's eighteen, or are you hoping he won't notice?"
Maeva shook her head; in agreement or disapproval, he couldn't tell. "He's happier here," she repeated her words from earlier, "and that's all that matters," she added, as if to herself.
"And late at night, when he's missing you and crying in his sleep, what should I tell him then?"
Maeva straightened up and headed for the tunnel.
"When he wants to know where you went, what do I tell him?"
Maeva fastened the cap's under her chin before bending down for the bag's and basket.
"When he asks about his father, what do I tell him?"
He thought he heard her grunt, "That he's better off," as she swung the duffel bag to her shoulder, but he couldn't be sure.
"Maeva." He stood up, ready to run after her, ready to yank that filthy bag from her shoulder and throw it as far away as he could. She wasn't running off again. She couldn't do that to him. She was his sister. Blood or not, she had always been his sister. That mattered to him.
Maeva stood fast in the doorway as though waiting for him to speak, but there was that resentful glare in her eyes; that same look that had marred her since she was a small child. She'd carried it through her life, despite his best efforts.
Grandpa Little was suddenly too worn and too old. Mother and Father were gone, and so was Sally this time, but there was Frank and Helen and Tom…and…and…
Slowly, he took his seat again and picked up his coffee. "I...I hope you find what it is you want this time." He took a drink, and painfully swallowed the lukewarm mess, avoiding her eyes. "Send a letter if you change your mind. You'll always know where to find me. But, if you can't find the time to write…" He hesitated, staring intently at the lines in his hand as his resolve faltered.
Think of the boy. "…If you can't take the time to write, then you might as well just stay away. There's no point to you coming and going out of his life. He…he deserves better."
Silence followed as he kept his eyes fixed on his hand. He fought not to fill it. He'd said his piece. It was Maeva's turn.
Her reply was clear. He heard the rustle of the duffle bag against her coat, and the tapping of her footsteps as she headed down the tunnel.
The sun was already streaming through the vents from the rooms of the bigs; its rising had gone unnoticed during their fight. Grandpa pushed his cup aside and laid his head on his arms, hearing the echo of Maeva's steps even long after they had faded away.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, listening to the stirring of the bigs in their morning routine. The soft sound of a yawn roused him at last, he craned his neck over his shoulder to view the visitor.
Maeva's little boy stumbled out of the dark hallway into the dining room, rubbing an eye with his fist. The white shirt Frank had offered as a nightshirt dwarfed him, puddling around his feet, though he didn't seem to notice as he walked on the hem to reach Grandpa.
"Hello." The sleepy voice spoke of dreams and a goodnight's sleep. "G' morning."
"Good morning, Dinky Little," he replied, cautiously watching him. The boy was a bundle of energy, darting from one place to place, sticking his nose into every business, and finding trouble where there shouldn't have been any; all the while chirping in an awed voice, "What's this do? What's this do?"
There was no telling what he would do next.
At the moment, though, it wasn't the child's recklessness that concerned Grandpa. He wondered if Dinky had noticed the missing duffle bag.
"Did you...did you sleep well?" he asked, as Dinky leaned against his leg.
"Yeah. I'm hungry."
"Is that so?" Grandpa couldn't help but tousle the yellow hair. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"Hm. Pie." The little face broke out into a smile, and the child began to climb up in Grandpa's lap. The child's trusting nature, so much the opposite of Maeva's self-guarding ways, still startled him more than his energy. The little boy had all but bounded into his arms during that first meeting, after all, exclaiming, "You're so old! Are you my Grandpa?"
Grandpa snorted as he swept Dinky up with one arm, and busied himself untangling the hem of the shirt from around the boy's feet.
"No, I don't think we'll have pie this morning. That's not a good breakfast." He quickly pushed the cup of coffee out of hand's reach before the boy could dip his fingers in it.
"But I like it." Dinky's protest was a murmur as he laid his head against Grandpa's shoulder.
Grandpa couldn't help a chuckle. "Oh, you do, huh? Well, we'll remember that for some other time, won't we?"
"Mm hm." The little arms wrapped around his neck. Grandpa held him, feeling the warmth of the little body as he wrapped his own arms around him, enjoying the peace of the moment.
"Where's my Mum?" Dinky asked, his voice a whisper as he dozed against Grandpa's shoulder.
And there it was. Questions already. Grandpa took a breath, preparing himself. "She's...she's gone away, Dinky."
"Where?"
"...I don't know." Abruptly, Grandpa kissed Dinky's cheek and watched the blue eyes blink at him. "But I'm here, and that will count for something. Eventually," he promised, as fervently to the boy as he did to the empty tunnel.
Dinky's answer was a little sigh as he closed his eyes again. Whether or not he understood didn't matter to Grandpa. What mattered was that the horrible pain that had been twisting inside of him, turning from anger to disappointment and back again, eased. Perhaps it wasn't gone entirely, just like Maeva would never be gone entirely, but at least it resolved itself in a way that Grandpa Little could contain. One family was gone, but he still had another that wanted him and needed him.
Helen, and Tom, and Frank…and Dinky.
"Welcome home," he whispered.