Crying. Lyra had been crying non-stop for an hour. John sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twined in the short strands of his re-growing hair.
"I don't know what you want!" he said. "You've eaten. You have a fresh diaper. You've just had a bath. What else could it be?"
He looked over at the bassinet, at the little fists waving in the air. I don't know what to do.
It was becoming clear that babies were not his forte. Tin-Tin had reassured him that babies were creatures of simple desires.
"They want food, sleep and love," she said with a chuckle. "And that's about it!"
He snorted. The child wasn't sleepy, nor hungry, and he had held her while she took her bottle.
"I've ticked all your boxes," John said, pulling his hands from his head. "What more do you want?"
And still she cried.
Frustration welled up inside him and John felt his breathing become shallow. Claws of despair started to sink into him, their tips dipped in a poison of inadequacy. He had been home for a week now and nearly free for two.
Free. He snorted. He would never be truly free again. John felt as though his life had been turned on its side; nothing made sense any more. Nothing felt right. Sure, he was home. Sure, he was among his family. But it was like wearing a jumper had had shrunk. Life looked the same but it didn't fit any more.
Being on the island was uncomfortable. Meeting anyone's gaze was a nightmare. The rational side of his brain told him that there was no way they would judge him, would scorn him. And yet, the irrational side came in with a chorus of paranoia. They're judging you. They're looking down on you. They know that you're not worth a dime any more… No matter how many times he tried to banish those thoughts, they just kept coming back.
And through it all, the baby continue to shriek.
John jammed his fingers in his ears. He couldn't do this. There was no way. I'm not ready for this. I'm not good enough to do this. What the hell do I know about babies? I haven't got the first clue. His breath started to come in sharp gasps and he gripped the edge of the bed. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this!
Lyra wailed anew.
John was suddenly on his feet; he didn't remember getting up. His fists were balled and jammed at his sides. Sweat poured from his forehead. Sounds came at him in waves, too loud to comprehend, too much to understand. Everything was pressing down on him, crushing him, compressing his lungs, stopping his very breath. It was too much. Too much!
"SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!"
For a moment, everything stopped. It allowed him the chance to take in what had happened. And he realised what he had done. He had screamed. At his own daughter. A baby.
The clocks started ticking again and John backed away from his bed, from the bassinet.
"What am I doing?" he asked, bringing one hand up to claw at his neck.
He bumped into something cold and turned around. The patio doors. They led out onto his small balcony that contained a patio table and two metal chairs. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the humidity. A storm was coming. He could smell it on the air.
From inside, the child was still wailing. John squeezed his eyes shut, jamming the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. I can't do this, he thought.
He slid the door closed again. Then he looked up. He dragged a chair over to the wall.
He climbed.
~oOo~
The air had that tell-tale metallic tang. The clouds were low and grey, heavy with anticipation. Scott slipped his thumbs through his belt loops and watched the encroaching storm. Within minutes, the deluge arrived.
The rain hammered against the bedroom window in heavy bursts; a flash lit up the clouds. Scott counted: One, two, three, four, five… Thunder rolled in the distance.
He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, then exhaled slowly. Today had been a tough one. International Rescue had been called in to save a plane full of passengers from crash landing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Thunder boomed again; it sounded closer this time. They had only just made it in time. A few minutes later and all those people would have been interned in a watery grave. However, IR had saved the day once again. It's better not to dwell on the 'what-might-have-been' and focus more on the now, Scott thought.
Another sluice of rain sliced the window. Scott turned to leave. I wonder if Grandma has anything delicious left after dinner…
He strode out of his room and turned in the direction of the kitchen but he paused outside the next door up. John's room. I haven't seen him today. I wonder if he's in there?
Scott knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again. No answer. He jiggled the door handle; it turned.
As soon as the door opened, a wall of sound hit him. Lyra was wailing, her cries coming in rapid bursts. Scott looked around. Where is he? The bed was made. The sofa was empty. Unless he's hiding in the closet, he's not here.
Before doing anything else, Scott knew he had to attend to the baby. As gently as he could, he scooped the squalling child out of the bassinet and into his arms. Her tiny fists were clenched in little red balls and her face was puce.
"My, my, my, little lady. What's wrong? Tell Uncle Scotty all about it."
He cradled the child close to his chest, the same way he had done with Adam a few months before.
"That's it," he cooed. "There's my little warrior."
The child nuzzled herself against his chest. Her mouth was moving, her lips curled as if searching for something. Lightbulb moment.
"You're hungry, little miss," he said. He rocked her as she cried out her hunger. "Now, where is your daddy? Oh Daddy, where are you?"
There was a pause. Then.
"It's been a long time since you've called me that, son."
Scott spun around – not too abruptly – and grinned. Jeff was standing in the doorway.
"What's wrong with my Lyra?" he asked. He glanced around. "Where's your brother?"
Scott's smile slipped into a frown. The child wailed anew.
"I don't know, Dad," he said. "I happened to call in and Lyra was here, crying her eyes out, but I can't see John anywhere. She needs to be fed."
Jeff's frown mirrored his son's.
"And you're sure he's not here," he said, glancing around as his son had done.
"I don't think he is, Dad," Scott said. "But he wouldn't have left the baby. Would he?"
There was something about the look on Jeff's face that made Scott nervous. "I thought he was doing okay, considering the circumstances."
"So did I, Scott," Jeff said, "but perhaps the pressure of the baby on top of everything else is too much. I'm not certain that I could cope with it."
He held out his arms for the baby; Scott acquiesced.
"I think she's hungry," Scott said.
"I'll take care of her," Jeff replied. Then his expression changed and he squinted as though he had seen something. "Son, is that patio door open?"
Scott crossed to the door, then turned to nod. There was a small space where the door hadn't closed properly; rain was invading.
"Yeah," he said.
"Is he out there?" Jeff asked, placing the baby against his shoulder to rub her back.
Scott pulled the door aside and looked out, his face beaten by a barrage of raindrops.
"No, he's not," he called.
Then he looked to the left. He frowned. John was particular about the way he liked things and he always left chairs tucked neatly under tables. Scott saw that one of the metal chairs had been pulled across to the wall. He looked up, rain battering his face. The roof. Of course.
Scott ducked his head back inside.
"I think I know where he is, Dad," he said. "Take care of Lyra. I'll take care of John."
"The roof?" Jeff asked. His eyes were hard. His mouth was tight.
"Yeah." Scott gave his father a tiny nod. "I'll bring him down."
He stepped back into the rain and climbed.
The first time John had been found on a roof was when he was still very young, not long after their mother had died. The child had climbed out of the sky light in his bedroom on the Kansas farmstead. Scott had found him lying on the roof slates, staring up at the sky.
"It makes me feel closer to Mom," John had said.
Since then, the roof had become a place of solitude, of escape. Scott felt a twinge of dread. It was, however, not the safest place for someone to be if they were feeling not quite right. And Johnny is definitely not quite right.
The pouring rain made his hands slip but Scott managed to pull himself up onto the villa's flat roof. And, sure enough, there was his brother, a little way off, sitting cross-legged – and far too close to the edge for Scott's liking.
Thunder crashed overhead as Scott made his way across the roof, careful of his footing. Flat surface or not, it was still dangerous in the rain.
"Johnny?" he called.
John did not turn around. As Scott approached, he could see that his brother was soaked through. His short hair was plastered to his skull and his clothes were stuck to his thin frame, making him look even more emaciated. Scott tried again.
"Johnny?"
There were a few moments of nothing more than rainfall another clap of thunder.
Then.
"Scott?"
Taking that as permission, Scott dropped down onto his knees beside his brother, his clothes rapidly becoming waterlogged in the deluge.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked.
John looked at him then. Scott managed to stop himself from recoiling.
If desolation had a face, that face would have been John's in that moment. Soaked to the skin, a bewildered look in his wide eyes, John looked as though someone had ripped his soul out. Scott did the only thing he could think of. He pulled his brother into a hug.
John stiffened, tried to pull away, but Scott only tightened his hold. He could feel his brother's bones sliding underneath his skin, and every sharp edge that jutted out. The sky continued to fall down on them and eventually, John relented and leaned into the embrace.
"I… I can't do this," John said into Scott's shoulder. "I can't. Nothing feels right. It's like there's a whole part of me that's missing, or like I've been shattered and then put back together in the wrong way."
He drew in a deep breath, clearly trying hard to keep a lid on his volatile emotions.
"I can barely look after myself, never mind a child," he continued. "I mean, I screamed at her earlier. Screamed. She's two weeks old for Christ's sake. She can't help it!"
He pulled away, standing abruptly. Scott was on his feet in under a second.
"Careful, Johnny," he said.
John barked out a laugh and took a step back – towards the edge. Scott held out a hand.
"I'm not good enough for her, Scott," John said.
A flash of lightning; thunder within a heartbeat. The storm was right on top of them.
"Yes you are, John," Scott said. "You're just not yourself at the moment. Give it time."
Another barking laugh. John stepped back again. His heel was right at the edge of the roof now.
"What if this is myself, now?" he asked. "Because that's what it feels like. It feels like nothing is ever going to get better, that I'll always be half the person I used to be, because there's a huge chunk of me that's been ripped out!"
Scott took the tiniest step forward, keeping his hand held out. That's a two storey drop, he thought.
"C'mon, Johnny. It'll be all right -"
"How do you know that, Scott?" John asked. Rain ran in rivulets down his pale face. "How do you know that everything will be all right? There's no guarantee! I might be fucked up for the rest of my life!"
John's heel edged out a little. That's it!
In a swift movement, Scott reached out and grabbed John's arm, wrenching him backwards. Another sheet of lightning split the sky. Scott felt his feet slip from under him and the two brothers collapsed onto the roof, Scott pinning John down.
"Look!" he yelled against the noise of the storm. "I don't know what's going to happen. I don't have a crystal ball. But what I do have is faith. Faith in you to pull through this. Faith in our family to help you heal." He could feel his temper rising, though it was more frustration than anger. "Maybe you'll never be the same person again. Maybe you'll be better. Maybe you'll be stronger. I don't know. But you need to stick around so we can find out!"
John had closed his eyes during Scott's tirade, his face taut, but he opened them now. Scott sat back and held out a hand. Slowly, John reached for it. Scott pulled them both to their feet.
"C'mon," he said.
"O-okay, Scott," John said, dropping his chin to his chest.
Scott planted a hand on his younger brother's shoulder and guided him towards the roof above John's balcony again.
The rain continued to pour but the thunder seemed further away.