The narrator is droning on about the social dynamics between elephants, but Sandy can't focus enough to really glean any facts.

Which is too bad.

He'd gotten into the habit of peppering animal trivia into conversation that summer. It helped fill the long lulls in conversation at the dinner table, and seemed to vacillate between moderately irritating and mildly amusing the boys, so that was something.

But he finds he can't really pay attention.

He's half-listening for a car pulling into the driveway and a doorknob turning, sneakers scuffing on the entryway floor.

Well, more than half-listening.

It's all he can do to remain on the couch, to resist the temptation to sit on the bottom step and stare at the front door.

He tries not to show it to Seth or Ryan, but part of him feels anxious and unsettled unless both boys are securely at home.

He feels powerless to help either of them with the burdens they're bearing, but if they're both at home, then he at least knows they're safe.

Physically safe, anyway.

Beyond that was anyone's guess.

Ryan had never been talkative, but Sandy wasn't sure he'd heard more than a dozen words from him since the shooting, retreated as he had to wherever it was he went when things got to be too much.

And Seth had gone quiet again, or at least quiet for him, more like Seth had been before Ryan.

More and more, he seemed checked out, like he was a million miles away, like it was a herculean effort just to rejoin the moment and give the bare minimum a personal interaction required: passing the cream cheese or turning down his music or picking up the phone because Summer was on the other line.

He'd blink several times in rapid succession and look at Sandy, eyes crinkling in some degree of puzzlement, until some cogs in his brain turned and put together what was being asked of him, and then he'd deliver the cream cheese or turn down the music or pick up the phone, but still with that little crease of puzzlement in his brow and around his eyes.

It had only been a few weeks since Kirsten had gone to Suriak and Sandy had reunited with his boys in a hospital waiting room, since he'd listened to his son stammer out answers that felt only loosely related to his frantic questions, and since he'd begun the process of trying to keep what remained of his own household together, but it felt like an eternity ago.

oooooooooooooooooooo

It was a few nights after Kirsten had checked into rehab and Ryan had been discharged from the hospital, and Sandy was doing his rounds. It was part of his nightly routine; after watching animal documentaries in the living room and before watching animal documentaries in bed, he checked in on both boys.

After he'd been discharged from the hospital, Sandy had insisted that Ryan spend at least a few nights in the guest room next to Seth's. There was something about having them in adjoining rooms and all under the same roof that felt comforting to Sandy, felt like he was containing all that could currently be contained.

Satisfied that Ryan was sleeping soundly with the help of the medication he'd been given and Sandy had insisted he take, Sandy tiptoed out of the guest room and moved on to Seth's bedroom.

He turned the knob and crept inside tentatively. Not hearing anything, he sent up a prayer to Hashem that he'd be two-for-two in terms of sleeping sons.

He squinted as his eyesight gradually adjusted to the dim room. There was a mass of blankets on the bed, but it was hard to tell if a teenager lay amongst them.

A guttural noise from the corner caught his attention. The glow from Seth's desktop computer illuminated a figure huddled in the corner of the room.

ooooooooooooooo

It would've been hard to explain these nights to anyone who hadn't lived through it. There were a million mundane domestic moments in their household, moments where everything felt overwhelmingly ordinary.

They ate breakfast, they passed each other sections of the newspaper, they watched a movie on the couch, they ate takeout out of the cartons. He asked Seth to take the trash to the curb. He reminded Seth to take the trash to the curb. He informed Seth that he wasn't going to remind him again to take the trash to the curb, although he never outlined any specific threat, should trash-taking-out not take place. He lectured Seth and Ryan about missing curfew, but only half-heartedly, without any real parental heft behind it. He played video games with the boys on those rare occasions when they asked and he wasn't too proud to make a fool of himself.

And then some nights this happened, or something like this, and he felt cruelly ripped away from the dull domestic scene, thrown into some kind of horror movie, not knowing which was his son: Seth groaning about chores and Seth leaving his sneakers in the middle of the floor and Seth late for curfew and Seth making borderline tasteless but admittedly funny jokes at the dining room table, or this Seth, the huddled mass in the corner of the room, Seth shaking and sweating and sick and disoriented and in pain.

Logically, he knew it was all Seth, but they were two halves he'd never been able to make into one whole, never gotten it to make any kind of semblance of sense to him.

He didn't know if Seth lived his life and The Trauma hung out in the background, or if The Trauma lived in the foreground and Seth managed his life around it.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

oooooooooooooooooo

Sandy flicked on the light and Seth looked over at him, eyes peeking over the top of his bed, his face wrinkling in confusion.

"Dad, I—-I -

"It's okay, Seth." Sandy crossed the room and knelt down in front of his son. "You don't have to talk."

Seth doubled over suddenly, cupping his hands in front of his face, gagging and shoulders heaving.

Liquid gushed between his fingers.

Sandy felt something warm splash onto his arm. He reached forward and started rubbing Seth's back gently through his thin cotton t-shirt, murmuring comforting sounds as Seth hacked wet coughs into his hands.

"God, I want to die," Seth croaked, his head making a dull thump as he leaned back against the wall. "Why is the instinct to like, catch it?" He wiped his dripping hands onto his pajama pants.

They sat quietly for a few moments, Seth breathing raggedly in and out. He snickered suddenly, tipping his head further back against the wall, until he was looking up at the ceiling.

"I tried to die once, you know," he announced drily. "When I was little."

Sandy felt a flash of heat behind his eyes.

Over the years, he'd become acquainted with all of the versions of Seth that could come out on the bad nights, all of the moods and the quirks and the needs.

This was the one that could make him the most nervous, reminding him as it did of a cross between an embittered standup comic and his freshman year roommate, a quiet Chemistry major named Peter, whose autobiography was revealed to Sandy in dribs and drabs as he stumbled into their dorm room on Saturday nights after a few too many out at the bar.

"You and Mom went to some Newpsie party and I just like, got in the pool and kept trying to stay under," Seth continued, smirking like he was regaling his dad with a funny little anecdote. "I spent like two hours going under and coming back up and going under and coming back up, but I couldn't do it." He threw his hands up in a kind of hapless shrug. "So now I'm here."

All the bells that can't be unrung, all the things Sandy couldn't unknow or unhear.

And he could see it, just a flicker of it. Seth hadn't specified an age, so it was like seeing a succession of ages. Seth at six, Seth at eight, Seth at ten, each one of them dipping below the surface of the water, each one of them alone.

"God, you guys used to hire the shittiest babysitters, huh?" Seth snickered, his eyes widening. "Oh fuck. I don't think I meant it like that."

Sandy felt untethered, like he couldn't breathe, like he could never leave Seth alone again, like he didn't know how to do it anymore and he didn't know how to be there in that moment, but who else was there to do it?

And maybe Seth did mean it like that. Maybe this was the only time and way that he could ever express how mad he must be at him and at Kirsten, how hurt and angry and betrayed.

Sandy's chest hurt.

The silence stretched out.

Conversations progressed by saying something.

Seth had said something, and now it was Sandy's turn, but he couldn't find any foothold in reality, couldn't lead himself through the bare minimum a personal interaction required, could only churn out rapid-fire nonsense.

Hey Seth, did you know a newborn kangaroo is the size of a lima bean?

Hey Seth, did you know that tiger urine smells like buttered popcorn?

Hey Seth, did you know that crocodiles can't stick their tongues out?

The silence stretched out further.

"Let's uh, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" Sandy said finally and instead, clearing his throat.

Seth snickered, shaking his head.

Sandy wondered if his son was going to call him a coward, because he was one.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd encouraged Seth to express his feelings, how many times he'd told that it was okay to feel any way that he was feeling, that it was okay to tell him anything.

They both knew better.

Give Sandy one glimpse behind the curtain and he's reeling and running away and excelling at that same avoidance Seth is always getting chastised for.

Seth sucked on his teeth and gave Sandy a long searching look, hands held away from his body.

"Yeah, okay," Seth said finally, breaking eye contact.

Yeah, okay.

"I'm going to help you take your shirt off, okay?" Sandy needed something to do, needed a problem with one single and straightforward solution, but he knew his primary objective was to distract this part of Seth, to keep him at arm's length until a less terrifying version of him returned. "Do you think you're done throwing up?"

"Yeah," Seth said, wiping his hands on his pajama pants again. He squinted up at Sandy. "I can do this, you know."

"I know," Sandy said, reaching out and pulling gently at the neck of Seth's white t-shirt. "Let an old dad feel useful, huh?" He frowned at his own question as he started to roll the damp shirt up and over Seth's head, carefully working his arms free and trying to maneuver it so that the drier patches were the only ones grazing Seth's face and hair as he did so.

"I can take care of things here if you want to grab a shower." Sandy looked Seth over, noticing that he'd started to shiver.

Seth's eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"Seth?" Sandy hesitantly reached out to his son.

"Don't call me that," Seth snapped.

"What?" Sandy drew back, his head swimming.

"Nothing." Seth shook his head with a force that made Sandy wince. "Forget it." His shoulders slumped, and his mouth twitched a little. "I'm sorry." His voice hitched. "For the mess."

"It's okay," Sandy assured him, relieved for the role reversal, relieved to suddenly be in the position to offer Seth pardon, and ashamed of that relief. "You have nothing to be sorry for, okay?"

Seth didn't respond.

"I was just saying that I could take care of things here if you want to shower," Sandy repeated slowly.

"Okay." Seth's voice was flat, hoarse.

"I'll put clean clothes on top of the hamper for you, okay?" Sandy tried to hold Seth's t-shirt by a dry spot, but he could feel the warmth and the wetness soaking through to his fingers and the palms of his hands.

"Thanks. I mean, I would but..." Seth waggled his still dripping fingers and gave a bitter little shrug. He started to awkwardly push himself up on the wall with his back and legs, his hands still held as far as possible from the rest of his body.

"You got it?"

"I'll manage." Seth's lips twitched into a fleeting expression barely attempting to resemble a smile. He slowly staggered the rest of the way to a standing position and shuffled towards the bathroom.

There was a sound from the bathroom a few moments later. It might've been a throat clearing or a hacking cough, or it might have been a hoarse sob.

Sandy wondered if he should go check, but he couldn't seem to think through that particular question and he couldn't seem to move yet, rooted as he was to the bedroom carpet, clutching Seth's vomit-damp t-shirt in his fist.

He heard the shower spray start up, and guessed that that made his decision for him.

Seth couldn't have possibly understood it, but Sandy was grateful for the mess and ashamed of that gratitude too, ashamed that the greater Seth's suffering was, the harder Sandy clung to having some tangible debris to clear away and some order to restore.

And ashamed that it was a relief to watch Seth disappear into the bathroom, a relief to have him out of sight and to be able to apply himself to a series of problems with simple and straightforward solutions.

Seth would be the one to step into the hot shower, to rinse the vomit from his hands and the rest of his body, to try to get clean again, but Sandy, he could remake a bed and fluff the pillows and mop up vomit and collect Seth's vomit-damp pants from the bathroom floor and throw clothes in the wash and find a pair of clean pajama pants and a shirt that Seth would like to wear to bed, not one of the shirts with the itchy tags or the stiff fabric or the ironed on design that stuck to his skin or crinkled weirdly when he rolled over.

Give Sandy ten minutes in that bedroom, and it'd be like nothing had ever happened.

oooooooooooooooooooo

The next morning over breakfast, when Sandy had tentatively suggested that Seth consider seeing Dr. Max twice a week, he'd been surprised to see Seth nod slowly, shrug and mumble "Yeah, okay," as he idly pushed at his cereal with his spoon, very little of it actually make its way toward his mouth.

"Yeah, okay."

Yeah, okay.

oooooooooooooooooooo

The phone rings shrilly.

Sandy rises to answer it, abandoning his thoughts, and the elephants.

He's trying to grateful for the distraction, but a ringing phone makes him nervous these days.

ooooooooooooooooo

When Seth opens the front door, he's surprised to see his dad sitting on the bottom step, staring at him with his most intimidating paternal scowl.

Which, all things considered, isn't terribly intimidating, but still.

"Hello, son." His dad stands up. He crosses his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows.

Seth quickly wracks his brain for any recent transgressions he's forgotten about, but he comes up relatively empty.

"What's with all this?" Seth asks, gesturing up and down at his dad's tough guy posturing. He taps his watch. "I didn't miss curfew. I'm like two hours early. I drove the speed limit the whole way and remembered to use my-"

"Summer called."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. Imagine my surprise, Summer calling the house looking for my son when my son is out on a date with one and the same."

Seth winces. He has to think quickly.

"Okay, so I was going to see Summer, but then the craziest thing happened—"

"Seth." His dad gives him a pointed look. "How about you just tell me where you really were?"

"Yeah about that…" Seth's wince deepens into a cringe. "I'd...really rather not say."

"That's not gonna fly, kiddo."

"I didn't miss curfew though."

"I'm well aware, and while I do appreciate that, not knowing where you are and you not picking up your phone when I call you a dozen times is its own heart attack." His dad's arms uncross and kind of sag down his body. "And I think I've had enough heart attack moments this summer to last me a lifetime."

Ouch.

When his dad wanted to, he could lay on the guilt in a fashion that would make Nana Cohen envious.

"I'm sorry, Dad." Seth dummies up his most contrite look.

He is actually sorry, but it doesn't hurt to sell it with the facial expression too.

"Thank you, son. I appreciate that too. And?"

"And what?"

"And where were you?"

Seth tries to wrack his brain again, but that cupboard's barren too.

It would help if he had more than three people in his immediate social circle, one of whom was holed up in the poolhouse at present, one of whom had called his house looking for him, and one of whom Seth had never in his life hung out with without the poolhouse denizen or the phone caller who blew his cover.

Time for a new strategy.

"Look if you knew, you'd be fine with it," Seth argues, holding up his hands. "Ecstatic, even. Can't we just leave it at that?"

It's not great, but it, paired with his best imploring smile, is the best he can do at a moment's notice.

"Ecstatic, huh?" His dad's eyebrows are now in their intrigued formation; clearly Seth went too far with the tantalizing language. "Well now I've gotta know."

Fuck.

"I really am sorry, Dad."

"I know that." His dad smirks a little. "You know I can tell when you mean it and when you're just saying it."

"You can?" Seth is mildly alarmed. "I...don't love the implications of that." He narrows his eyes. "Unless you're just bluffing."

His dad, unwilling to be deterred or distracted, makes a c'mon gesture with his hand.

"Out with it, Seth."

Seth doesn't envy anyone who gets cross-examined by his dad. The man was dogged.

"Okay, fine." Seth closes his eyes and blows out an exhausted breath. "If I tell you, can we just not talk about it?"

"I make no guarantees."

"Figures." Seth rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms across his chest and looks at the floor. He takes another deep breath.

It doesn't help.

"Dr. Max told me about this group…"

Seth doesn't want to look, so of course he does, and so he sees it, the look of absolute shock and glee that takes over his dad's face, as if he'd just gotten called up for the Broadway's revival of Grease.

This kind of fanfare was exactly what he was hoping to avoid, but he should've realized he wouldn't get any privacy in the Cohen house. His dad seemed to take any kind of secret as a direct threat against him.

Which he guesses he gets, if he has to be honest.

"That's great, Seth. How was it?" his dad asks eagerly.

"Can we—-" Seth stops. He looks at his dad, in his tattered bathrobe and with a manic gleam of excitement in his eyes.

He considers the question, realizing he really hadn't stopped to give the group much thought.

It wasn't too weepy, and it wasn't surprise Jesus-y, and it didn't feel like the room was filled with paid performers or a painful undercurrent of earnestness.

It was excruciating, obviously.

And the very act of walking into that church basement felt like telling a room full of people something he'd never voluntarily told another person in his life.

"I know honey, but they're all going to be there for the same reason."

It was annoying and comforting and annoyingly comforting, the way his dad's voice-that Brooklyn accent that his little kid self had been shocked to learn not every dad came equipped with-had taken up residence in his brain.

Not for everything, Baruch Hashem, but for some things.

Like he can close his eyes and still hear his dad's words, spoken as he stared at the fading yellow lines on the asphalt and felt like his chest was rapidly caving in.

Seth looks up and his dad is still looking at him expectantly, and although no one had been or could ever really be with him in the trenches of all this, he guesses his dad came the closest of anyone.

And that pathetic bathrobe is really tugging at his heartstrings.

"It was all right," Seth offers finally, looking back down at his old friend, the entryway floor.

"And high praise too! Seth, that's great." His dad claps an affectionate hand on his shoulder, looking like he might cry. "I'm just-"

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," Seth cuts in, fighting against the impulse to flinch away from his dad's hand on his shoulder. "I knew you'd want to like, take my picture in front of the mantle."

"Don't think the thought isn't crossing my mind," his dad admits, taking a step back. He pauses, looking like he's maybe trying to rein it in a little. "But the proud dad thing is maybe a little much right now?"

A small smile quirks at Seth's mouth.

"Yeah well, I get it, I guess," he says. "You never got to cheer me on in any organized sports over the years, so gotta compensate sometime, right?"

"Hey, there was Parent's Day at camp. And that summer you did t-ball."

"Don't remind me," Seth groans. "I think I was the only kid in history asked not to return to a t-ball league. My coaches didn't appreciate my running commentary on the futility of the sport."

"Aw, your coaches loved you; you just didn't love t-ball. Too much standing around, and we Cohens aren't exactly known for our patience." His dad smiles and runs a hand through his hair. "Although come to think of it, you weren't a big fan of the uniforms or the team spirit either."

"Or the heat, or the dirt, or the grass," Seth adds. "Or people looking at me."

The last one lands on kind of an awkward note, but in its wake is a sweet awkward silence, which leaves Seth with a perfect window of opportunity to yawn, stretch and announce his bedtime.

But he's too slow.

"So uh, this group..." his dad's tone is a ludicrous attempt at casual. "You uh, you think you'll go again?"

"Probably, yeah." Seth bites his lip, trying to block out whatever elated facial expression his dad is making and doing a shoddy job hiding. He forces a smile as best he can. "For now, I'm just going to go upstairs though, okay? I'm kind of beat."

"Of course, yeah." His dad has managed to adopt a more restrained smile.

"Cool." Seth nods a little. "Good night."

He turns toward the stairs.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Sandy watches Seth as he starts to trudge up the stairs.

"Hey uh, Seth?"

Seth stops, halfway up the stairs. With what appears to be some level of reluctance, he turns back towards Sandy, pausing and slumping against the bannister. "Yeah?"

"I was just going to watch some tv in my room, if you were interested." He holds up his hands, showing he's unarmed, not trying to pull any fast ones on him. "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to, I promise."

Seth bites his lip for a long moment, looking pensive.

"What is it tonight?" He asks softly. "Lions of the savanna? Canadian geese? Disgruntled otters of the Midwest?"

"It was elephants," Sandy says. "But I think it's some kind of deep sea thing now."

"How timely."

Sandy has no idea what that means, but he's learned to avoid meandering down every single pathway in Seth's brain. "So whaddya say, keep an old man company?"

Seth shrugs, scratching at the wood grain on the banister with a fingernail.

"Okay." Seth's mouth twitches into a hesitant half-smirk. "But only because you look like you could use it."

"I appreciate that, son."

"I'm just gonna get changed." Seth gestures upstairs.

"Sounds good. Turn off the lights on your way?"

"Okay."

Sandy watches Seth climb the stairs.

He feels a little uneasy, still reeling from the revelation that Seth-who could fold up into himself and disappear at the first sign of not just trouble, but conversation, confrontation, connection-had voluntarily attended a support group. Sandy can't quite wrap his mind around that one yet, or sort out the jumble of thoughts and feelings and reactions stirred up in him.

There's time for that, he supposes, time to temper his excitement and his expectations, time to figure out what it means and why that pang in his chest of missing Kirsten is aching harder and sharper, time to figure all that out in between all the million mundane domestic moments in their household.

Sandy approaches the front door, on instinct peering out into the night.

Seeing nothing to worry about and safe in the knowledge that both boys are at home, he flicks off the porch light, flooding the outside with darkness.

"Everyone's home who's coming home," he says, to no one.

He heads towards his bedroom, to wait for his son and to miss his wife.

*****the end*****