Title: So It Goes
Author: ZombieJazz
Fandom: Chicago PD
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.
Summary: Hank Voight and his family try to cope with their struggles at home and work — and the dynamics those conflicting circumstances creat for their blended family in a time of transition. The series focuses on Voight, his sick and disabled son — and what's left of his family and their strained relationships, particularly that with Erin Lindsay and Jay Halstead as they work at establishing their own lives as a young couple.
This is a collection of one-shots/scenes using the characters as represented in the AU established in Interesting Dynamics. The chapters currently represent scenes happening in approximately S04 of the series or early 2017.
As I continue to update, they'll just provide one-shot snap shots into the characters' lives and likely some recasts of scenes from the show.
This is not a linear narrative with a beginning-middle-end. It's just scenes. It is generally set so it begins around the mid-point of Season 4 (or about January/February 2017) and may occasionally draw reference to (and have SPOILERS) from the series.
A notification is provided at the beginning of each chapter about where it happens in relation to the other chapters, if they are out of sequence. Chapters will be re-ordered semi-regularly (i.e. if you're reading this weeks or months after the chapter was originally posted, it's likely now in the right place, so just ignore the notification).
SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes and Aftermath. This series also contains SPOILERS related to the finale of Season 3 of Chicago PD and will have occasionally spoilers from Season 4 of the show.
Erin leaned against the door jam to Ethan's room, staring in at him, as he lay on his side – facing the wall and slowly stroking at Bear who'd cuddled up next to him. Keeping watch. Bear might not be much of a watch dog for the house but he was a pretty good watch dog for Ethan – and very attuned to him mentally, emotionally and physically too. The dog had picked up just as much as anyone else that something was wrong.
"It was kind of rude you didn't come down to see Olive," Erin put to him flatly.
"I didn't want to hear about her stupid exam," Ethan mumbled.
It just proved that he had been awake up here and that he'd been listening to them downstairs. And as much as he didn't care – he must've cared enough – because he easily could've gotten up and closed the door and turned on his music or put on his headphones. But he hadn't. That either screamed he was hurting too much physically to move. Or he was hurting too much emotionally to motivate himself to adjust a situation he didn't much like or care about.
"And putting it that way is really rude," Erin said.
Because it was. Not that her family excelled at being polite for the sake of being polite. But it was different when it was family. You tried with family. You showed a certain level of interest and respect and caring with family. And Olive – she was family. In their significantly less than perfect and rather mish-mashed family. So she didn't need anyone to be ruder to her than maybe they already were in a way that made her feel anymore awkward and out-of-place than she already did.
And Erin tried. More than tried. Even though she didn't care too much about Olive's exam either. Other than hoping she passed. But she sat and listened to her in the front room for a bit while the other woman vented and tried to unwind from the written part of her test. It sounded like it didn't go as well as Olive might've hoped. But it also didn't sound awful. Erin thought it was more that Olive just needed to talk for a bit. And she was likely grateful – though a little surprised - that it'd been her there when she was picking up Henry and not Hank.
She wouldn't have talked to Hank. For Olive who'd tried so hard when she was pregnant and could motor almost as well as Ethan when she was nervous – she was now very cautious and measured in what she said and how she interacted with any of them. Though, Erin knew she was the most open with her. But even that was done carefully and cautiously. Like she was watching everything she said and she was scared she was going to say or do something wrong.
And Erin could understand where she was coming from. She'd been there herself. And even though Olive's situation was very different – she could appreciate the apprehension. Because Erin knew that if things went south again – if Olive ran and left them and hurt them again – it'd be hard to let her back into the fold. To trust her again. There's second-chances and then there's fool-me-twice situations. Though, Erin knew that if it did happen – if Olive did leave again without involving them in the discussion or at least alerting them of the decision more than when she was running out the door – they'd all still try anyway. Maybe not for Olive but to have some kind of relationship with Henry. To have a piece of Justin still in their lives.
"When's Dad getting home?" was all Ethan muttered at her again, though.
She shrugged against the doorframe. "When the game's over," she said.
Because that was obvious. Also obvious that they'd then have to navigate the crowds to get out of the arena and back to whatever they parked. And then sit in a traffic jam to get out of the parking spot and toward home. Even those two and a half miles between home and the Blackhawks' home ice could be long-going on a slow stretch on a game night – especially a playoff game night. So it'd likely be a while even after the buzzer went.
"It's taking long 'nuff," he mumbled, stroking at Bear.
"It went into overtime," she allowed.
It made her smile a little to herself. Because she knew that they were both likely enjoying the game. Because she knew that Jay would be thrilled if the Hawks pulled through to play another night. So he could rub it in her face. Not that she believed that had much of a chance of losing the gap and making it into the next round of the quest for the Cup. But at least they might lace up their skates one more time before the off-season. Or maybe not. OT could go off the rails pretty quick. and she could see the way his hand as hopping.
"So it's going to be a while," she clarified.
She wasn't sure how up Eth was on hockey. Though, he watched some games with his dad. He took a causal interest in it because of Justin. He'd seemed sort of interested in sledge hockey for a bit too. But she supposed it just wasn't him. Eth wasn't really the modern gladiator type. And him on skates didn't work that well these days – not without accommodations that made him stick out like a sore thumb. And going to a game – or even just a rink to skate around in circles for a while – just ultimately ended up leaving him freezing and shaking more than he was in that moment.
She let out a little sigh at the sight of it and glanced over to his dresser to see his weighed gloves there. She went and retrieved them, going and sitting on the edge of his bed. But he still ignored her.
"C'mon," she pressed at him, giving his leg under the blankets a bit of a shake but he jerked it away. She stared a bit harder at him. "Sit up," she told him more sternly. "We're going to put these on."
"I don't want them," he mumbled again.
"It's not about what you want," she said. "It's what you need."
"I don't need them," he hissed out.
She stared at him. For a long beat. Deciding how big sister meanie she should get on him. How much tone he needed. How much she really needed to play disciplinarian that night.
But she also knew whatever was going on in that head of his, it wasn't the disciplinarian he needed that night. It was his big sister. Even if it was his adult big sister who had been having to learn how to navigate what being a big sister and a guardian and some sort of unstated surrogate mom meant. But whatever it did mean, it meant that she was pretty sure he didn't need to be told off that night – even if that's what he sort of needed.
So instead she reached and drew up the weighted-blanket folded at the foot of Ethan's bed. The one that for all the things that Olive's Aunt Crazy wasn't good-for – mainly being a reliable source of babysitting or support for Olive and Henry – she was pretty good at the whole arts and crafts thing. Even if she usually stuck to the whole weird wiccan crunchy-granola slightly-fried former hippy realm.
But when a weighted-blanket had been suggested for Ethan - to help calm his tremors and his twitching and his spasticity in his legs and maybe just generally calm him under its weight - and Hank had researched how much the fucking things actually cost, the crazy aunt had proven sort of useful. As had Olive getting herself educated in physical and rehabilitative therapy. Because she'd been able to get access to instructions and patterns and explain to Crazy what was needed – and she'd been able to put it together and sew it up and fashion something that was useable.
Or unusable – tonight - because Eth just kicked his feet a bit as she realized what she was doing and whined at her, "Don't. Bear doesn't like it."
"I'm not putting it over him," she said, still pulling the blanket up and over top of him, working at tucking it around his tremoring body. "If Bear doesn't like it, he can move."
But the dog only glanced up at her at the statement of his name – lifting his head briefly to see what she wanted. He realized it was nothing – or at least nothing to do with him - and just flopped his head right back down next to Eth. Completely undisturbed by the blanket being put into place. But Eth still decided to pull his arm out from under it – defeating its purpose – and push the blanket partway down his chest.
"Ethan," she sighed at him. "You aren't going to be able to sleep with how much you're tremoring."
He again ignored her and went back to stroking at Bear. As best he could with the way he was shaking. So the poor dog was likely getting more of a jiu jitsu massage than a petting. But maybe he liked that. Or maybe not.
Bear dog eyed her. Like he was telling her to do something. To make it stop.
So she reached and put her hand over Eth's. It wasn't just tremoring – it was a complete ice block. She sighed at him harder and put her other hand over his, gripping it between her palms even as he tried to pull away. She just tugged gently – until his shoulder rocked and she could actually catch sight of his eyes.
"Are your feet this cold too?" she nodded at him. Because she knew they would be. His feet were always cold and if his hands were this cold – it was a given that his feet were likely even colder.
He tried to pull away again. "No," he spat.
But she didn't believe him. She gave his hand another little tug. "Eth," she said firmly, "you're going to sit up and we're going to get your gloves and some warmer socks on."
She reached and tugged down the blanket a little bit more. He was still in his Iggy's uniform.
She shook her head at him. She should've known. He hadn't come down for dinner and any time she'd checked on him, he'd just been laying in his bed in a complete sulk. Working at sending her anxiety through the roof about what was going on. And testing her patience and frustration levels when she was already pretty mentally and emotionally tapped all on her own.
Normally, she would've at least partially played the game with him. She would've been worried about him. She would've tried to be the adult. She would've given him a chance to open up to her and for them to try to talk it out. She would've tried to be patient. She tried that a whole fucking lot with Ethan. It tested her limits sometimes. In a way that … she wasn't sure she would tolerate out of anyone else. But in another way that she knew if she could manage to be that patient with Ethan – then she would be okay when she got around to having kids too. Really, if Hank could manage to set the example of being as patient with Ethan as he was … and really as impatiently patient he was with her and Justin … she could manage.
But she hadn't really tried that night. Not until now with Olive having picked up Henry. Because her attention was focused on him. She finished dinner. She got him ready for bed. She did bath and storytime and the fussing to get him to shut his eyes and sleep when he wasn't home and wanted to wait for his mom and when she knew that he'd be awake again as soon as Olive came in the door – and she'd likely just have to be doing the whole bedtime thing again when she got him into the car and back to the condo. But she'd done it. And she'd cleaned up the kitchen and packed up the leftovers and earmarked items for Olive and for her and Jay and for Hank's freezer. And she'd acted like the grown-up she was – and a member of the family she was in – when that night what she'd really wanted was alone time.
When what she'd really wanted was for Will not to flake out on Jay. For them to drop Ethan off. For her to have a little talk with Hank. And then to go home and have the townhouse to herself for a few hours while she tried to figure out how she felt about … everything. And about nothing. To maybe try to let herself go into some sort of oblivion for a while. At least mentally with some sort of mindfulness technique that she was supposed to be practicing but that she really wasn't very good at. Because she couldn't let things for. She made things personal. And lately … so much … too much … it felt personal.
So maybe it was better being there with Ethan and Henry. Not that she'd seen much fo Eth that night. And spending time with Henry was just … weird. It made her think about and feel all sorts of other things she didn't want to think about and feel. The strange reflection of how much of Justin she saw in the little boy. And how the toddler made her think of Ethan and Hank too. The near flashbacks she was having to changing Eth's diapers and helping with bathtime and bedtime and babysitting with him when he was that age. Because that was part of the deal. For her to stay in the house. To stay at home. To not be in school full-time. To only be working part-time. And to still be working at keeping getting her head on straight. To grow up and keep on the right path.
And Ethan had really helped her do that. Even though she'd been less than enthused about being what she'd sort of thought was being sold to her as like some sort of au pair service at the time. In her eighteen and nineteen year old mind that fought against the proposition that Hank and Camille had put in front of her. But it wasn't. She was just being his big sister. They'd always just treated her like his big sister. But an older sister – with time on her hands – to be a contributing member to the responsibilities that came with being part of that family. And that meant helping take care of her brothers. Her little brothers. Her new baby brother.
That's always how it'd been framed. And even though she'd always tried to see herself that way she wasn't sure that it was until Camille was gone that she … appreciated how much of a role she'd had. How she'd been encouraged and pushed and ordered to be that in Justin and Ethan's lives. Because she had relationships with them. She loved them. And the two of them … in their own ways … they both gave her a purpose and a foundation and a stability that when beyond the roof over her head and food on the table and adults telling her what to do in trying to look out for her that Hank and Camille provided.
Sometimes – maybe more now than every before – she missed when Eth was that little. The normalcy of their family when it was abnormal even then. And it hurt that Justin was missing it all with Henry. And it hurt more realizing that this time last year she would've been pregnant. She might not have known yet. But she would've been. And in some sort of alternate universe her and Jay would've had a little five-month-old that they would've been doing bathtime and bedtime and trying to figure it all out themselves too.
And this strange realization that … she'd be okay at it. That her and Jay … they'd be okay. That they might even be good at it. Because they were good with Henry. They were good with Ethan. That they sacrificed and were kind and cared. And they gave up a lot to make sure these two … little humans were going to be okay too.
And the stranger still realization that Camille had laid the groundwork for that. That Hank had played a role in it too. That being the big sister had done that. A real one. Not the kind that she'd had to be when Teddy was little – and she was still little too. That having an actual … more "normal" … ish … sibling relationship with Justin. That being that bigger, older sister with Ethan. Having a little baby brother put into her arms when she was seventeen and being told – reaffirmed daily – that she was part of the family and she was his and he was hers. And that came with rights and responsibilities and roles and sacrifices. That maybe she didn't want all that but Ethan had so made her want it too. Because he'd stolen her heart as a baby. Because she'd bonded with him among those dirty diapers and piles of laundry and spit-up and bottles and those first few months that he had everyone up at all hours getting him adjusted to life. In those toddler years and tantrums and storytime and Cheerios and family traditions and dinners and first birthdays. In sandboxes and at the park and on the front room floor with dinosaurs. And seeing Camille as a mom – of a baby. And Hank as a dad in a different way. Him with a baby and a toddler. Him as a daddy and not just "dad" or "Hank". And Camille as a "mommy".
That having that experience. It was another thing Camille had given her. That Hank had too. That the caring and caring for her little baby brother as she finished her teens and entered her twenties and tried to figure out how she fit not just into the family but into life and the world and Chicago. That they'd shown her that she wasn't her mother. That she wouldn't be her mother. That she'd be better than her mother. That she knew how to be kind and caring and sacrificing. That she understood how to give up things she wanted to do and to make judgments on where her time was needed. To be unselfish in her time and herself. To be able to make someone else important than you. To see that. To recognize it. And to act on it – even on the days or hours you didn't particularly want to.
When you were tired or distracted or hurting. When you were coming home from a long day of work or a longer shift having dealt with God knows what. When you just wanted alone time. Or to bury yourself in television or alcohol or a book. Or to look yourself away in your room and to just try to sleep it all off – even when you knew you wouldn't sleep. That you didn't. You put it aside. To make the dinner and do the laundry and tidy the house and work on the homework and to read stories and to play dinosaurs and to watch some fucking ridiculous show on TV and to help with bathtime and teeth brushing and getting into pajamas and tucking the kids in and doing lights-out.
Because that was the fundamentals of parenting – being there. Being present. Being available. Even on the days you didn't want to be or thought you couldn't be. And somehow – being there … even when it was hard and you had to push through … it usually made things better. In some ways. These little people … family … they gave a different kind of purpose and reason. That did make it all worth sacrificing for.
But Erin hadn't known – hadn't been able to see – that that was some lesson they were trying to teach her then. Maybe they weren't. Maybe they were just exposing her to the necessary reality of the family they'd created. And she was just a cog in it. But whatever it was … she had learned lessons. It was just she hadn't fully realized she'd learned them until years later. Until now.
And as much as she knew … her and Jay weren't ready for the pregnancy they had a year ago. That if they'd still been pregnant that summer and that fall … it would've added more stress to a situation that was already … disastrously stressful. That it wouldn't have been good for her and it wouldn't have been good for the baby. And she couldn't even begin to wrap her head around how she would've felt about or coped or reconciled with Hank or dealt with Ethan or tried to reason with Olive and kept the family she had from falling apart if she was pregnant. That pregnant then. She wasn't sure she could. Or she would've. Or how she would've managed. And what implications that would've had for the family she did have. Or was a part of.
So she knew … the miscarriage. It happened for a reason. It wasn't the right time. But still … with Henry … with Ethan … with twelve months later … she felt herself wondering more. Feeling about it more. Wanting to explore it more. Because Jay did too. And Henry babbling at her and talking to her and being a cranky, busy, smiling, bubbly, silly, bright almost Terrible Two – gazing at her with Olive's eyes but with Justin's ears and Camille's complexion and Hank's jaw and so much of the little attributes and personality quirks that she remembered in Eth as a baby … she couldn't help but think about that five-month-old baby that wasn't there and never would be. And what he might look like with Jay's eyes and her dimples and if Jay's hope that their kid's wouldn't end up gingers would play out even though she thought a little gingered boy would be pretty cute and that he'd likely darken up like his dad with time and age – not like his Uncle Will. And just who's ears and nose and complexion he'd get. And how she knew that Hank would tell her right away who's ears the baby had – because he'd hold them and do that stroking on the ears and the bridge of the nose that he was convinced was the sure fire way to calm any kid in his family. And just how nature versus nurture would work. If he'd be a Voight. And Hank would be right. His methods would work. Or a Halstead. Or a Lindsay … Fletcher.
But that wasn't the reality they lived in. The reality they had was … fractured. And it included caring for her little nephew and trying to figure out what the hell her once cute baby brother needed from her – now that he wasn't a baby anymore. And now that maybe she didn't know how to take care of or help or save kids his age. Not really.
"And you're going to put on your pajamas," she instructed. "It's almost lights-out."
"You aren't my mom," he grumbled. "Stop acting like it."
She shook her head at him harder – her annoyance and impatience rearing - and tugged the blanket down a bit more firmly. "You're right," she told him. "I'm not. And, you know what, Eth? Most days I'd really like it if I could just be your big sister. But I'm not just that either, am I?"
"I don't know what you are," Ethan said flatly. She couldn't decide if it was tone in there or if it was complete defeat.
"I'm an adult in your life," she told him. "I take responsibility in helping take care of you. And I love you."
"No you don't," Ethan sulked even more.
"Don't get stupid on me, Ethan," she put firmly.
She wanted to be there for him. But she just … was not in the headspace to do the teen-aged games things. She didn't have the patience. She was thinking about a little more pressing things when it came to teenagers. Like the ones in Harvey. The ones in gangs. The ones in foster homes. The ones going off to juvie – or worse. The ones who had hits on their heads – and their brains blown-out against walls in some foreclosed dump. The ones with no where to go and no one to love them. And the ones that got mixed up in all the wrong business – even if the had moms who loved them. And the moms who got left behind without their little boy – because some cop had shot him dead in the street. And he'd bled out on the ground – alone – with a bullet in his throat.
But her brother gave her a little glance – a cautious one, maybe a hurt one. "Well, you never say it," he said.
"Say what?" she sighed at him in complete exasperation. Maybe she should've gone to the game.
"That you love me," Eth said.
She glared at him but let it often into a stare. Briefly. Because … maybe she didn't say it enough? Maybe she didn't say it at all? Maybe she expected him to just … know? That they weren't an overtly gushy family. That they showed affection and love in different ways. That that word 'love' it got used prudently. But she knew that … since Justin … Hank had been making a habit of saying it to Ethan more. She actually thought that he was likely saying it to his son every day. Like it would somehow fix things. Or at least … Ethan would know? If something happened?
But Erin knew she didn't say it to Ethan daily. She wasn't. And maybe she should say it more? Because maybe hearing it – over and over and over again – was enough to stop what happened the other day? Even though she knew that was wishful thinking. It wasn't how it worked. It wasn't reality.
"Ethan, I don't do the things I do for you just because," she said. "I do them because I care about you. Because I love you. So, do us both a favor – acknowledge that reality we live in, and listen when I'm telling you to do something that's for your own good."
"Stop that too," Ethan demanded – his temper and tone rising again on whatever rollercoaster it was he was trying to force them both to ride that night - and jerked away again. She let him that time. But let the stare harden back to a glare. "Don't treat me like a little kid."
"Then stop acting like one," she ordered. "You're almost fourteen. You know the basics of managing your tremor. You know you don't sleep in your clothes. Your uniform. And you know what time lights-out is. So get up – and start taking care of those things."
"So I'm supposed to be going to bed but you want me to get up," he muttered.
"Don't be a smart-ass," she warned.
He rocked his shoulder more – trying to hide from her. She let out some annoyance at him, shaking her head and staring at the opposite wall in his room. Scanning it. Taking in what had changed in there and what hadn't. The room that Eth had worked on claiming as his own since he'd been home and his brother had officially flown the next had spent the past ten months working at turning back into some sort of museum to Justin.
While Hank was trying to make the house less of a shrine to Camille, Ethan was working at turning at least the bedroom into a shrine to Justin. So many of Justin's little knick-knacks had found their way back into the room – taking up space on the walls and the bookshelves. And she hated it. It reminded her of her brother from long ago – before Ethan was even born.
It took away from the person Ethan was. And she was sure it did nothing for Hank having to walk into that space every day or night to rouse his son. And it likely only added to why Olive was still reluctant to spend time in the house and pretty much did everything within her power to avoid having to go upstairs and walk passed that open door to get to the bathroom.
Hank should start letting that door be closed. For all their sakes.
"Ethan," she allowed – forcing herself to not get too short with him just yet, forcing herself to try again to rest her hand against his leg to offer him some sort of comfort, and forcing herself to give him another moment to compose himself too while she stared at the shelf that was collecting junk that didn't bear any resemblance to her baby brother, "I know something is bothering you. I know that you're upset with me – or you're taking whatever you're upset about out on me. But unless you talk to me, we aren't going to resolve either of those things."
"I'm mad because you're treating me like a little kid. You still are. Even now," he mumbled.
She turned slightly and gazed at his back. "I don't know what I'm doing today that is any different from any other day. I try to treat you your age, but yes, I do treat you like my little brother."
"Then you should let me do things my age," he hissed.
She shrugged at him. "Okay," she allowed. "I still don't know what I did today that wasn't treating you your age."
"Lego. Star Wars," he put flatly – and like she was the one being incredibly stupid and completely unreasonable.
But instead she drilled more holes into him. "Ethan, seriously?" she pressed. That shoulder got tucked up higher – he clearly knew he'd just said something ridiculous. "Ethan, I would've gladly not wasted my time, gas or money driving over to Michigan Ave on a weeknight. You know why I did? Why Jay did? Because YOU have been talking about Star Wars Day and the build at the Lego store for weeks. That was us trying to be nice – and trying to accommodate your interests and something YOU wanted to do."
"Well, then maybe you be the big sister and not let me do things that are for grade schoolers," he mumbled. "For little kids. Babies."
She made and amused noise and shook her head. And then she reached and yanked the blanket farther down from him and grabbed his bicep to turn him to face her.
"Okay," she nodded at him. "Then Ethan, stop acting like a baby. Get up. Get changed. Put on your gloves and socks. And then get back under that blanket and turn off your lights."
"How can I turn off the lights if I'm under the blanket?" he snarked at her.
She kept his eyes. "Do not be a smart-ass," she warned again. That time it was much firmer. Because if Hank thought Henry had been cruisin' earlier that night – Ethan was really lucky his dad was at the game. Because Eth was more than just cruisin' – he was trying to find the acceleration button to punch at to get them both there a whole lot faster. Make them a whole lot madder at each other when she didn't even know what they were mad about. But she had a pretty good idea why she was going to be slightly pissed soon.
"Lights-out is when Dad gets home. He'll turn them out," Ethan said – just a touch more cautiously.
Erin shook her head at him – keeping his eyes. "No," she said. "He will not. Because he's out. We don't know when he'll get home. And it's almost lights-out. And it's pretty clear you need your rest."
"He didn't even come up and say he was going," Eth muttered and rolled away more, going back to staring at the wall and petting his dog. "He didn't even come talk to me when we got home."
"And you didn't go talk to him," she pressed at him. "And you know how he feels about you coming and going from the house without checking in."
"You went and talked to him," Ethan muttered. "He knew we were home."
"He did," she acknowledged. "And you could've – you should've - walked into the kitchen and said 'hi' and told him about your day and maybe explain to him why we didn't go do what we had planned."
"So he didn't come say 'bye' because he was mad …," Ethan concluded.
"No," Erin said. "He could tell you were in a mood. I told him you were in a mood—"
"I'm not in a mood …," was provided in weak protest.
"Could've fooled me," Erin said. "Pout-Pout Fish."
"It's not funny when Dad says it and it's even lamer when you say it," he grumbled.
She shrugged. "Well, Eth, it's what you look like tonight. And, some days none of us really feel like dealing with you when you're like this. Some days we all have had long, rough days too and have a lot on our minds – and coming home and trying to guess what is wrong with you or what happened that day that has you upset, isn't exactly how we want to spend our evening."
"So he just left," Eth said.
"He didn't just leave," she pressed back at him. "I told you. Jay had tickets to the hockey game. They had to leave right away to get there for the puck drop."
"He could've said so himself," Eth said.
Erin shrugged. "He could've. Maybe he should've. But he didn't. Just like you didn't go in and say 'hi' to him when we got home."
"So he was mad …" Ethan concluded again.
"No," Erin said more firmly and reached to tug at his shoulder and make him look at her. "He was distracted – with Henry and dinner and the kind of week we've had a work. And Jay told him about the tickets last minute. He wanted to get going. He didn't want to miss the window of opportunity."
Ethan squirreled a bit in the bed. "But it was supposed to be a special night …" he said.
"What's so special about it, Ethan?"
"It's May the Fourth …," he offered weakly.
"And you bailed out of the May the Fourth plans you had with me and Jay. And just told me that Star Wars is for grade schoolers and babies," she put back to him.
"It is …," he mumbled but stared straight ahead. His arms crossing over his chest – as well as he could. His whole left arm was just bouncing. It was hard for her to look at.
When he was tremoring like that it scared her. It felt like a flare was on the way. New lesions in his brain or spine. That the medial trial wasn't working. That the M.S. was progressing again. And if it wasn't a flare, than his stress and anxiety were through the roof and it was having physical manifestations. But whatever it was – it was clear that his tremor medication wasn't calming it at all that night.
"Then you really aren't making much sense, Ethan," she said.
He cast her a look. Or at least some side-eye. "We were supposed to watch Star Wars tonight," he said.
She shrugged. "Okay. You're talking in circles. But I would've been happy to watch Star Wars with you. But you decided to sulk up here all night. So, you missed your window of opportunity."
"Me and Dad," he said. "Not you."
But Erin just shrugged at him again. "Well, it's me who's here tonight. Your dad gets to do things and have special nights that don't include you. Believe it or not, Ethan, you aren't the center of the universe."
Eth stared at the ceiling. "Why didn't Jay take me?"
He clearly hadn't heard, hadn't listened or just didn't believe that all things didn't lead back to him. That maybe they put him a little bit too much at the center of their lives and maybe he'd come to expect too much out of that. Or maybe he was just being a teenaged brat. He was upset and hurting, and he was lashing out with nonsense rather than trying to express anything that held any sort of weight or made any sort of logical sense. It was all just verbal diarrhea at this point.
"Because you don't really like hockey—"
"Yes, I do," Eth interrupted.
She reached and nudged his chin toward her – so she could see his eyes and she shook her head at him. "No you don't," she said. "Not like your dad. Not like Jay. And you flaked on our plans for the evening. You said you weren't feeling well. And maybe Jay didn't really feel like playing the teen-aged moodiness mind games in trying to figure out what's wrong either. He didn't have time for that and to get to go to the game – which is something he wanted to do."
"But it would've been a cool thing to do for May the Fourth …" Ethan said. "To tell people I did. Not like Lego."
She let out a slow breath – somewhere between relief and annoyance - and stared at him. She gave him a little nod, presenting her hypothesis, that she suspected was more than that. A deduction of what was triggering this … whatever … tween tantrum. "You told someone we were going to the Star Wars build at the Lego store? And they made fun of you?"
He just gave a little shrug.
She shook her head at him. "Ethan …," she sighed. "You've got to stop caring what other kids think so much."
"Stuff they say matters," he said. "They say it and then other people say it and then everyone says it."
"And that doesn't make what their saying any less of the bullshit it is, Ethan," she pressed at him.
His body language slouched in on itself again. Him trying not to acknowledge what she was saying when he knew what she was saying was absolutely true. But no one is allowed to be right when you're thirteen … fourteen. No one knows shit when you're that age.
"Look at when we've gone to the Star Wars movies," she said. "I've seen a lot of kids your age. And older. At Disney – it was all different age groups, right? Eva. Her brothers. They like it. Jay still likes to watch Star Wars. He still likes going to the Lego store with you."
"Because he has to. Because of you," Ethan muttered.
She shook her head. "Ethan, don't start tossing around your own bullshit. You know that's not true. And you saying that just … devalues everything he's done for you. All the time he puts in with you. Not me. Or for me. With you – and for you. Because he cares about you. And he looks forward to building those stupid sets with you. He's in his thirties. There is not some requirement that he spend time with my little brother. And there is not some age expiration date on Star Wars or Lego. Just … do what makes you happy."
"People crapping on me does not make me happy," he said with a small flicker in his eyes. That palpable sadness that she hated seeing in him.
"Then you've got to learn how to rank these people in order of importance in terms of what they think and why you should even care, Ethan," she said. "And I'm telling you – most of these people at Iggy's are not going to matter in your life. Don't waste your energy caring about what they think or what they say."
"Easy for you to say …" he muttered under his breath.
"No, Ethan," she pressed at him. "It's not. But I know – from experience - that after you get through high school you're never going to have to deal with most of these people ever again. So stop giving a shit about what they say. It's not worth it."
"It's not that easy. And you aren't the one who has to go there," he muttered at her and diverted his eyes again. "Every day."
"But I did. And I survived it, Ethan, and so can you."
She was still working – actively – to convince herself of that. Because she wasn't sure – she knew – it wasn't going to be as cut and dry for Ethan as it was for her. Because it never is. It hadn't been then. And it wouldn't be now. It'd been a slog for her. It'd been a slog for Justin. And there'd been a whole lot of rough patches and loneliness for both of them.
She acknowledged that both in her and Justin, it'd ultimately resulted in some acting out and poor choices in their own ways. They'd tested Hank and Camille – and their patience and their abilities as parents. Academically, socially, mentally and emotionally. They'd both made sure that they had their hands full – when their hands were just getting fuller with more kids on the scene. And with bigger kids – bigger problems.
But her and Justin survived. They'd pulled through despite the bullshit of the school and the bullshit they created for themselves. And she was just going to have to be committed to making sure that the same played true for Eth. It was the only acceptable outcome.
"It's not the same …," he muttered.
And she'd give him that. It wasn't. At all. Society had changed. The way kids interacted and treated each other – and how – had changed. Iggy's had changed. Chicago had changed. Their family had changed. And Ethan wasn't her and he wasn't Justin. And he wasn't going to be like his Dad either. He was his own person. Going through his own experience. And needing to find his own way in life with the hand he'd been handed. But focusing on the shit hand was not the way they could look at it. It wasn't how they'd manage to pull through it.
"Okay, Ethan," she managed after a long beat. "It's not. But here's another reality check … maybe you aren't going to have friends at Iggy's."
His eyes did meet hers at that. There was a near shock in them that she'd actually said that – been upfront with him about that reality that she'd come to accept, even if maybe Hank or Ethan hadn't yet. But the momentary shock faded in the sad acknowledgement that he knew that was true. That he likely had since his first week at St. Ignatius.
"I know you want friends. I know your dad wants you to have friends there. But it's a hard school to make friends at," she tried to lessen the blow. "Because – yes, our family is from different economic circumstances than a lot of the kids there. And, yes, you've got a visible disability and your IEP is going to make your experience even more challenging than what me or your brother went through."
"This is not a very good pep talk …," he squinted at her.
She just raised her eyebrow at that. "So you've got to keep up with the things outside of school that interest you," she told him.
It was as peppy as she could get in trying to find a solution to anything her brother was going through. It was the reality she'd managed to accept for him. It was where she was going to be a cheerleader for him. Because cheering him on at Ignatius was just going to be a waste of all their breathes. And none of them had the time or energy for that. It was what she decided. They needed to spend their time and energy when it came to Ignatius on other things – like getting him through academically and trying to protect him from at least the brunt of the assholes at the school. That was going to be hard enough without finding him a "place" in that school or a friend group or social group. They were going to have to help him find that other places. Nurture it in other places that made more sense for him. For their family. For their circumstances. For Ethan's interests and personalities and life experiences. For all of theirs.
"You've got RIC. You've got baseball. You've got Museum Club. Dinosaurs, biology, geography, geology, space, astronomy, robots, circuitry, programming. You're good at all that. You're so smart about it. You like it. And you've got to keep doing things where you're going to meet other people who have similar interests and life experiences as you."
"And just be the loner that everyone is always shitting on at school …," Ethan said.
"Maybe," she acknowledged. "But there's going to be more clubs and activities you can join in high school. You aren't going to be the youngest person on Robotics anymore—"
"I'm not doing Robotics anymore," Ethan interjected harshly. "I don't need to be the loser who is also the Robo Nerd. They already call me that."
"Then maybe you shouldn't care so much if they are already calling you that," she presented. Because he was good at that stuff. She didn't understand it all but she knew he was good at it. And if Ignatius wasn't going to nurture that – or Ethan was gong to cut himself off from it – they were going to have to find another way to keep him engaged and interested. To keep that door open. Because with Eth they needed to keep as many doors open as possible.
You needed to with all kids. You had to. You had to try. Because when the doors started closing. When they started to feel hopeless and trapped – that's when they started turning to other options. Shittier options. Things that were only going to make their lives and their situations worse. Eventually. When it caught up to them. And for all of them it was only going to be a matter of time.
It'd happened to her. It'd happened to Teddy. It happened to Justin. It happened to Olive.
It happened to the boys running those errands. The ones robbing banks. The ones dead. That were off to juvie. That she'd shot. And arrested. And spun their lives out even more than save them. Because they hadn't had someone help them. And she hadn't gotten to them in time. To protect them and turn their lives around. And to try to help them understand there were other – better – options for them. No one had done that for them.
But someone – the all were – doing that for Ethan. Because as fucked as they were – he was from a good family. And he had a future. And all the doors possible that they could keep wedged open – were going to be held open waiting for him to decide which one to take. He wasn't going to be some kid dead in the street or alone in a flop house or in a bathtub with his wrists slit open or in a trunk of a car with a bullet in his skull. Ethan had more – a better life – to look forward to than that.
But he just sighed at her harder and flopped away, but she again tugged at his shoulder to get his eyes. "Eth, you've got to look at high school this way - as only four years of your life."
"Exactly!" he spat at her. "FOUR YEARS! And it's four years plus now. Four years plus last year and four years plus boarding school. And four years plus always!"
That hurt. It hurt to know that he was hurting so much right now that he felt like it had always hurt. That it always would hurt. And it made her again wonder how different things would've been if Camille was there. If he'd just gone to elementary school in the neighborhood. And had his mom. And his brother. And what his life – their family – would've looked like if things had happened differently. But that wasn't something they were ever going to know. Not ever. And there was nothing she could do about that now. Beyond keep on trying to deal with the present. Keep on trying for him. For Camille. Because Camille had tried for her. Had sacrificed for her. Had been loving and caring and giving – even in moments and situations she didn't want to be. Even in a family she hadn't expected. And Erin reminded herself to do the same. That out of all she owed the Voights – owed Camille – she owed that much. That Ethan wasn't going to be another sad story for the family. He wasn't going to be another loss.
"I know that sounds like a long time right now," she said. "But it's not. And it's going to be over faster than you think."
"No it's not," he told her.
"It is, Ethan," she assured.
Because she had to. Because she knew how long high school — and childhood and teens — could feel. How long life at Iggy's could feel.
Because she knew how watching that fucking Netflix series — even when she did the adult thing and weighed Hollywood depictions and what sold to advertisers and viewers against actual reality — was reminding her over and over again just how long high school could feel. How hopeless it could feel. How hurtful and alone it could seem. And just how easy it was to feel like you didn't have support. And like it was never going to be over — what you were going through. And like it wasn't going to get better. That you'd never fit in. Not in that life. And you were always going to get crapped on. Because did it ever really get better? Or did it only actually get different?
But even high school … at Iggy's … it was better than running the streets. Than being dead in the streets. And that could've been her. That was four boys not much older than Ethan that week. Just four that her unit had dealt with. She was sure if she called up ComStat she'd get a more harrowing figure of just how many teenaged kids had died in the streets of Chicago that week. From drugs, from dungs, from gangs. From neglect and abuse and piss poor parenting and just bad families.
But they weren't a bad family. They weren't.
And they wouldn't be some story like from that fucking series where they let kids be assholes and acted like it was just kids being kids. They wouldn't be that blind. And they wouldn't let Ethan just carry the weight of school and life and his challenges and his past history all on his own. Until it was too late.
Because he was better than the outcome of that fucking show. He had more to look forward to. No matter what he thought.
And because high school was … only … four … long … years.
She added: "I really want you to know – to remember that high school is different than middle school. Iggy's hands out a lot more scholarships and bursaries and subsidies for its high school program than it does for middle school. Okay?"
He just shrugged at her.
"Eth, you know that's true. Look at Eva."
"Whadda 'bout her?" he muttered.
And there was a lot about her. Because she had her own baggage. She came from her own challenges. And Iggy's wasn't going to be easy for her either. Even if she was excited about it. Even if her family saw it was an opportunity for her future. And it was. But it was going to be hard for her. Erin knew that – no matter how hopeful and optimistic she was trying to be for the girl. No matter how glad she was that Eth was going to have her there too. No matter how much she hoped that Eva stuck with Ethan as much as she knew Eth was going to want to stick out the next four years with her.
"It's not just going to be Eva who's new to Iggy's in the fall," was what she said, though. "There's going to be a whole bunch of freshman brand new to Iggy's."
"So …" he grumbled more.
"So, right now, you're a legacy kid. Next year, you're going to be in a group of other kids who aren't there because of who their parents are or how much their parents make. And maybe some of those other scholarship, bursary and subsidy kids will try to make friends with the other kids at Iggy's. Maybe some of them even will. But a lot of them are going to find the same thing you've already learned. That me and Justin learned. That they don't quite fit in and aren't accepted into the fold."
"So what …?" he muttered.
"So, give it some time, and you guys are going to learn to band together – even if it is just to sit together in class or at lunch or between bells. Even if you have nothing in common outside of Iggy's – you're going to have that and you aren't going to go through the experience alone."
"And none of them are going to want to be friends with the person who's already getting crapped on. Shit rolls downhill. And they aren't going to want to get shit on. For being friends with me. So they will leave me alone. Even if they're nice – they'll just … keep away from me. It's what people do," he said.
She stared at him. Because she knew he had a point. She knew how it worked. She understood the bystander affect. She'd experienced it in her life. She knew Jay had too. And she knew it could be very lonely and very isolating. And just a fucking tough slog. Especially in a school like Iggy's.
But she wasn't going to tell Eth that. Not right now. She wasn't going to confirm his apprehensions. She was going to keep hoping that something happened that would make his experience better than hers and Justin's. Or at least that high school would somehow be better for him than middle school.
"In the very least you're going to have Eva," she tried.
And she hoped it was true. That it wasn't just true the first week of school. Or freshman year. That it was true right up until senior prom and graduation. And maybe even true for years after that. That they'd both get through it. Through high school and illness and disability and life. Together. Somehow. They'd pull and tug and carry each other through.
"Eva's not going to want to be friends with me…," Ethan said. His tone was even weaker than before.
"Why wouldn't she want to be friends?" Erin put back to him.
Because it hurt knowing that maybe he'd already figured out on his own that being friends with Eva at RIC and at ball and one the weekends they got together to hangout was going to be different than seeing each other every day at Ignatius. Than having classes together. Than trying to find their place and direct their futures and figure themselves out and make friends and having their own interests and activities and goals. And that maybe the puzzle wouldn't fit together quite as well with all the new dynamics and pressures that came with high school.
But she had to hope otherwise. She had to hope for more. Because those two had created quite the little bond. They seemed pretty attached at the hip any time they had the chance to be together. And they were sort of cute in their crushing but trying not to be crushing interactions. And, though, Erin had only seen them together a few times since they got home from their trip, she also hadn't gotten any sense that anything was wrong with their little friendship. Not yet. Not now. And she didn't think there had been some sort of fight or something. But she also knew that friendship dynamics at that age could be strange and could turn on the time.
"Because she's not gonna wanna be friends with a fag …," Ethan near whispered, his eyes back on the ceiling.
"Don't use that word," was the first thing Erin got out. Near immediately. But then she just stared at him trying to figure out how to respond to that and the best thing she could come up with – that sounded so stupid and weak – was, "I don't think you're gay, Ethan."
"I'M NOT!" he spat at her – like she'd just said something completely stupid. Because she had. But it'd taken her off guard. She hadn't considered having that conversation with him that night. Or ever. Because she thought she had a pretty good gaydar and Eth wasn't on it. At all. She would've noticed. She would've known. She'd been there since the day he was born. He was her baby brother. She'd helped raise him.
"Okay …," she allowed, "But just so you know … I don't think me or your dad—"
"I'M NOT," he near screamed at her again.
"I know," she acknowledged. "I know you're not gay. But I just want you to know that me and your dad—"
"I'M NOT," he seethed. "And don't even say he wouldn't care. Dad totally would. And I'm NOT!"
She shook her head. "Ethan, I know maybe your dad can seem pretty old fashioned and conservative but I'm telling you that no one in this family would care."
"I'm not!" he spat again. "It's just what people are saying!"
"Okay …," she nodded. "But I mean … you don't have to feel like you can't be friends with or have people you care about who are gay. We wouldn't care. None of us. You can be friends. You can care about them. They can come hang out here. This family doesn't judge people on their sexual orientation."
"Dad totally would care and judge …" Ethan muttered.
She shook her head at him. "Ethan, he wouldn't. Your dad deals with all kinds of people. He's seen it all and heard it all. And the only people he really gets upset about are the ones that hurt the people he cares or hurt other people in this city. That's what makes him angry. He doesn't have time to care about whether or not someone is gay. Things like that don't affect him one way or another."
Ethan just stared at her.
She sighed and gave him a little frown. "And if that is something you ever need to talk about … or something is going on anyone else you know … or people are saying things about you at school that aren't true and it's upsetting you … or they're bullying one of your friends and that's making them say stuff about you too … we'd help you get through it. All of us. Jay and Olive too. We wouldn't let you or someone you care about be a target of bullying because of their sexual orientation."
"But you'll all just let everyone say it and tease me and bully me about everything else," Ethan said and buried his head against Bear's.
She reached and squeezed his shoulder. "Ethan, I don't think any of us knew that people had started tossing around that word. You need to tell us these things. And we're really …. We're trying to get the school to be more responsive to some of the bullying that's going on. Not just to you. Within the whole school community. But to help us do that … you need to tell us – and the office when it's happening. You need to give us names of the kids. Because if the school's not going to do anything about it – me and Dad … we will go to their parents."
"Then I'm a narc …" he said.
"Eth …," she sighed. "It's not … snitching. It's … like being one of me and Dad's CIs. It's taking care of your best interests."
"And Dad says I'm supposed to be learning to take care of things on my own," Eth muttered. "But I'm not allowed to fight. I'll get kicked out. He'll send me away. Again."
"Ethan," Erin pressed at him harder. "That is not what will happen. That was before. This is now. Dad is not sending you anywhere. I wouldn't let Dad send you anywhere. We all made mistakes then. We're fixing them. And what Dad says is that you tell him the truth."
"None of you want to know how bad it all sucks there," Ethan seethed. "I hate it."
"We do want to know that," she argued. "We want to know how you're doing. We want to help try to make it better. But you need to tell us. You need to talk to us. It's not snitching. It's protecting other kids too - now. And kids who come after you. Or the ones too scared to go to the office or tell their parents too. You don't want to go through the rest of your time at Ignatius with them giving you this kind of shit."
He just shrugged at her again. And all she could think about was how bullying at gone on when he was up at boarding school. How it was only recently through little things he said that they were getting glimpses of exactly how bad it was. And they'd missed it. They hadn't seen it. They hadn't seen what it was doing to him. They didn't see how the stress of the whole situation was sending his M.S. flaring. They didn't even see the signs of the M.S. until it was too late. But that was then. And this was now. And he was right in front of them. And they weren't allowed to miss the signs. Any of them. They shouldn't have in the first place.
"You're shaking so bad. I can see your anxiety is through the roof. That sends my anxiety through the roof too. It makes me worried. Your dad. Jay. All of us."
"Everyone at school is sayin'," he said. "They all are."
She squinted at him – trying to process that. Trying to understand where it was coming from. Trying to accept the stigma that had now been attached to him – even in 2017 – that the kids at that school had decided to layer onto the physically mutilated, disabled, chronically ill, IEP kid who was also a subsidy student.
"Why are they saying it?" she managed. "Did you say something about Evan—"
But his eyes shot to her in such a way that she stopped. That she tried to read his face. If something had happened between him and Evan. If he hadn't realized that Evan was really … rather effeminate for a kid who was also rather athletic. If Ethan hadn't considered that Evan might be – or was without a doubt – gay. Or if he had, it wasn't something that anyone was supposed to talk about. Not yet. Because maybe Ethan hadn't placed a word on it – or didn't want to because he did understand the stigma that came with it. Because maybe he knew and Evan knew but they knew the kind of bullshit that came with that label – that identity - and they weren't going to bring that upon themselves.
Or maybe Evan hadn't realized or admitted to Ethan that he was. Because maybe he was a little young for that and it wasn't something he wanted to be revealing or getting into either with just looking down the barrel of starting high school either. Not when he had visible scars too. Not when he was a good athlete and seemed to have some sort of future still in sports – where he'd be surrounded by other guys who wouldn't be comfortable with his sexual orientation. Or with his parents getting divorced and his dad the way his dad was if wasn't something he could say out loud even at home yet. If his dad struggled with his kid's relatively minor disability – in the scheme of all the challenges and impairments that kids faced at RIC – Erin wasn't sure how well the guy would react to revelation that his son was also gay. Though, she also thought if Evan's parents didn't realize they were likely in some sort of deep denial. But she supposed a lot of parents get like that too.
"Because I'm not going on the Grade Eight trip," Ethan spat. "They say it's because no one will room with me because no one wants to room with a fag."
Erin stared more. She tried to process more. And then she just shook her head. "You know that's bullshit."
He just shrugged, rubbing his forehead against the top of Bear's head. She reached and tugged at his shoulder again until he tried to avoid her eyes but sort of looked at her.
"You aren't going on the Grade Eight trip because it'd take too much out of you," she pressed at him.
"I'm not tellin' 'em that," he grumbled.
"It's the truth," Erin said even though she recognized the legitimacy of him not wanting – really shouldn't be needing – to disclose the reasons why he wasn't going on the fucking five-day field trip. It was no one's fucking business but their family's – the reasons why he wasn't going. "You'd be exhausted before you even got to D.C. You'd probably be hurting. You aren't comfortable managing your own medication yet. None of us are comfortable with you being that far away on your own."
"There'd be teachers," he said. "And chaperones."
She squinted at him. "But not me. Not Dad. And we didn't think it'd be a good idea. We talked about this."
"No we didn't …," he whispered.
"Yes, we did," she stressed. Because there had been conversations. Maybe they were the same as most conversations with Hank, which really were only so much a conversation as it was an informational presentation of how it was going to be. But Ethan had been there. He'd had the opportunity to pout and participate. "And we decided the Grade Eight trip was really expensive. We weren't comfortable with you going."
"So you and Dad talked and decided," Ethan said. "Not me."
"Ethan …," she sighed at him. "We did talk about this. We decided your dad was going to help us go to Orlando on Spring Break instead. You know this. Daddy paid for your flight. He got us the suite upgrade at the hotel. So you could have your own room. He gave you some spending money. He paid for that nice dinner we had on the pier, OK? The steam pots? That was your dad. Florida was your Grade Eight trip. From all of us."
"It was supposed to be Graduation Trip," he said.
"It was," she stressed. "It was both."
"It's not fair …," he whispered.
But she shook her head at him. "Ethan …," she kept shaking her head and stared across the room. "Don't be like that."
"Like what …" he muttered under his breath.
She felt him look at her and she found his eyes. "Like a fucking self-entitled spoiled brat."
His eyes hardened. "This where you tell me how much it sucked balls to be you again."
She glared at him. "This is where I tell you that by the time I was about your age, I was here. I was home. But do you think me and Justin each had fucking laptops and iPads and smartphones and Xboxs all of our own."
"That's because that stuff barely existed forever ago," he muttered at her.
She pressed her fingered into his shoulder until he caught her eyes again. "No," she said. "It's because those things are expensive and your parents were raising three kids – going to private school – in a barely middle-class family, Ethan. And we sure as hell didn't go one Spring Break Trips or Graduation Trips or Grade Eight Trips to the fucking District of Columbia or trips to Disney World either."
He just flopped his head away from her and stared at the wall. She knew he knew all of this. He just wanted to reframe reality now to try to avoid what he was dealing with in the present. Avoidance. Escapism. Placing blame. Misdirected blame.
"Ethan, me and your dad work really hard to make sure you have this stuff so you aren't dealing with a digital divide at Iggy's too. We are trying our best to help you keep up and to give you the basics so you can try to fit in. You can't have everything. You don't need everything these kids have. And even if you did – we can't afford everything. We do our best. You have a lot more … stuff, privileges that go outside of the rules that me and your brother had growing up."
He just petted his dog. She sighed but scooted forward and put her hand against the side of his head. He let her.
"Me and your dad. Jay. Olive. We all know … things are hard. That you've been through a lot. That you've got a lot to go through. And we're trying to help you through that. We try to give you a little extra when we can to help you through it. So you can have things to look forward to. The Xbox."
"Thought the Xbox was from Santa …" he muttered.
She pressed the heel of her hand slightly into his temple. "Don't be a snot," she warned but left it at that. She kept going with her argument to try to get him to get out of this little moody rut. "And, the Florida trip. That trip was … really special. That was once in a lifetime, Ethan. We worked really hard for us to be able to do that. Me and Jay. We're going to be putting OT checks toward that for a while. And that's okay. Because we wanted to do that for you. With you. And we had a really good time. Me and Jay liked it. We thought you did too. And we liked having that time with you and making those memories with you. And you … being …" she sighed and shook her head, gripping at his shoulder but stroking it with her thumb too. "You being dismissive about it … it hurts. And it makes me … angry."
He gave her a look. An apology and deep sadness was in his eyes. They flickered a bit. "I liked the trip," he offered weakly.
"Okay …," she allowed. "I'm glad. But then, Ethan, you just need to accept those kids are just being assholes," she said. "They're just saying stupid shit. And you don't need to start spouting stupid shit too just because they are."
"But they are saying it and everyone will keep saying it," he muttered. "They were saying it today."
She rubbed her thumb against his temple and he gave her a small glance. "Why were they saying it today?"
"You'll think it's retarded …"
She shook her head. "I don't use that word. So I won't think that."
"Fine," he huffed. "You'll think it's stupid."
"I don't think most things you say are stupid."
"You think me being upset about Star Wars Day is stupid," he said. "You already said. That I'm talking in circles."
She nodded. And she let that sit with her for a moment. She checked herself. She reminded herself – again – that with Eth moodiness wasn't always teen-aged moodiness. It wasn't always a temper tantrum or angst.
That his M.S. gave him brain fog. And that his brain damage made him emotionally volatile and sometimes really confusing to listen to. That he struggled to organize his thoughts and present them in a way that made sense to anyone and didn't just sound like one of his no-filter motors or a discussion that went around and around in circles.
So sometimes you did need to listen harder – even on the nights you really didn't want to. On the nights you wanted to bury yourself in your own thoughts. About other fourteen year old boys. And ways you'd let them down. How you hadn't protected them. How you'd been the one who hurt them. Who let them get killed. That you'd killed them.
But that wasn't who she was going to be with Ethan. It wasn't what she was going to let happen. So she needed to stop and to listen. To read between the lines and try to understand what he was saying and what was happening and what was going on in that head of his. And she needed to try to figure out some way to help him fix it.
"Okay …," she allowed. "So help me understand why we're talking in circles about Star Wars Day, Eth."
He gazed at her. There was pain there. She'd seen it in his eyes when he was sitting in the backseat of the Sierra struggling with whether he was going to get out of the vehicle or not and ultimately deciding that he wasn't going to. But maybe she hadn't read between the lines well enough then. She hadn't stopped to try to really understand it. She'd been pissed off. She'd been buried in her own stuff. And even though she was worried – she hadn't really stopped to consider what might be driving it all. What had happened that would make it so last night they were texting about picking him up after school to take him to the Lego store to that night when he'd stayed in his room all night – giving up something it had seemed he really wanted to do.
"Holly is friends with a guy in the other Grade Eight homeroom …," he said – like that was all she needed to know.
"Okay …," she allowed again and just kept her eyes on him. Because that really wasn't enough of an explanation for her to figure out what the hell was going on either. So she gave him a little nod.
"He came and bugged me when I was waitin' for you guys. He was goin' to Holly's party."
Erin shrugged at him. "Okay … but you and Holly aren't really friends anymore. And your dad wouldn't have wanted you next door without her mom home anyways."
"All the popular kids – the cool kids, everyone – was going. Accept me. And we live next door."
She stared at him again. "Okay … so this kid was giving you a hard time about us having Star Wars Day plans but he was going to a Star Wars Day party?" she tried to wrap her head around these fucking Grade Eight dynamics.
"It was a Lightsaber Party," he spat at her and drew his arms across his chest. "Do you need me to explain what that is too …?" he muttered.
She gazed at him and shook her head. "I'm good," she allowed. "But I really don't think a Lightsaber Party is an actual thing."
He gave her annoyed eyes. "Now you're just going to make a big deal about it just like Dad does about everything. And it's not a big deal." His eyes drifted away from her when he said it, staring at the ceiling.
She stooped slightly to get into his line of sight again. He tried to avoid eye contact. "You think dropping your pants and having someone put your penis in their mouth isn't a big deal?" she put to him firmly.
His pale cheeks flooded with embarrassment. But he defiantly darted his eyes away again. His arms crossed tighter over his chest and Bear cast a nervous look at her over his furry shoulder. "Everyone does it," he muttered.
Before she realized she was even doing it, her hand at darted out and turned his chin so she had his eye contact again. "Not everyone does it," she disclosed – almost inadvertently. "I don't do it. Me and Jay don't do it."
Ethan's face changed. The defiance faded. The embarrassment flooded harder into his cheeks. But she also saw something flicker in his eyes. A relief. He gazed at her. She could see his teen-aged mind processing that. The part of him that wanted to tell her that he'd just been given too much information and demand she leave him alone – for real that time. But there was another part of him that she could tell wanted some sort of more information. A bit more reassurance.
"And it actually really upsets both of us," she put to him firmly but gently, "when you get bratty on us and toss talk about blowjobs at us. It's not something I do for Jay. And it's something that anyone has the right to say they don't want to give or receive. Because, Ethan – it is sex. And like all sex - it is a big deal."
His eyes shifted away from her again – starring at the ceiling. His arms crossed over himself even tighter. "He said I wasn't going cuz I'm either gay or cuz my dick got scraped off just like my ear." His hand went up and touched what was left on it. Her heart broke a bit as he said that and she reached to take it. But he pulled away, putting his hand back to grip at his bicep.
"Ethan … you know … we both know … this whole family knows … that neither of those things are true," she offered.
"It doesn't matter what's true," he said. "It matters that everyone is saying it. And if people are saying it – it's true."
She sighed and gazed at him. Because she knew Ethan's statement was true. That as soon as everyone was saying it – it didn't matter what the facts were anymore. That didn't make it right. But it was true.
And that made her hurt even more. Because she didn't know she could fix that. Gossip and talk and rumor mill in a Catholic middle school and high school? She wasn't sure there was any real fix for that. And looking at her baby brother starring up at the ceiling. It felt like she was letting another teen-aged boy take a bullet and bleed out slowly in front of her. And there was nothing she could do.
AUTHOR NOTE: Your readership, comments and reviews are appreciated.