TW: Mentions of Suicide, mild family violence, and the ugly sides of grief.
Mildew. Sawdust. Paint.
The familiar smell of his father's garage surrounds Henry. He stares at the half-finished hutch, furrowing his brow at the unfinished piece of furniture Patrick McCord chose to leave behind. His father was not to leave things unfinished. Henry had noticed the small things that were done; he left no dishes in the dishwasher, his laundry was folded and put away, and his office was clean. Yet, he didn't finish the cabinet. It's walnut. The glass panes are cut and ready to fit in the frame. There's a brand new bottle of Danish Oil waiting to be rubbed into the wood and protect it for years to come.
He didn't finish the hutch. Henry feels in his bones that his father left it for a reason—for him. It's the least he could've done to leave him a way to work out why he chose to swallow a bottle of pills instead of his pride. All he had to do was ask. Henry knows his siblings don't have the resources. They couldn't have done anything. Henry, though, has money.
He could've, would've, and wanted to help.
He picks up the sanding block perched right on the shelf of the unfinished cabinet as if it were laid out for him.
"Why didn't you tell me, Dad?" Henry mutters as he runs his hand over the smooth, unmarred wood. "I would've helped."
He runs the block over the unfinished wood. It's mostly smooth. He notices as he runs the block covered in finishing grit over the wood. It doesn't take long before his thoughts begin to drift from the cabinet to his father.
Patrick McCord was not a nice guy—not at all. But he was kind and compassionate to a degree—to people who were not his children. He was not an attentive father, though if Henry is honest, he was attentive to the others. He had his favorites, and Henry wasn't one of them—never one of them.
As the wood smoothes, Henry is taken back to the summer before his senior year of high school. Much like now, Henry was in the garage. His father had been working on a large buffet. He remembers his father's face so clearly as the words left his lips: 'I joined up. The Marine Corps is sending me to college. I got into the University of Virginia.' The ire he saw in fathers eyes had not shocked him. The slap did. Henry still recalls his father's words as clearly as the day it happened.
'You're a selfish son of a bitch,' Patrick snarled. 'I should've known better than to believe you could make me proud.'
He never understood what he had done to his father to earn such vitriol. Henry had tried to please him as a child. He had spent hours in this garage as Patrick impatiently passed down his hobby by making Henry plane wood until it was perfect, cutting glass panels without any nicks, or staining wood without missing a single spot. All for nothing. He had never been good enough for his father.
Henry rubs the block over the wood, smoothing the surface and removing the last bits of roughness. It's not a big piece, but it's solid and will be a fine addition to the house. Henry has decided the cabinet is his.
He opens the drawer, readying to sand it so it slides just right and is surprised by the simple white envelope.
Hank
His father's handwriting is the same as ever. The familiar scrawl sends a shiver up his spine.
He flips the envelope over. The flap is not sealed, and he can easily slip the letter from the inside. He hesitates as he leans back onto the workbench behind him. He takes a deep breath and then another. Finally, he steels himself and pulls the simple letter from its confines.
I'm sorry about all this, son. The hutch is yours. I know they'll all lean on you to sort out this mess. They always do. I know you'll take care of it. You always do.
I hope you understand, Hank.
Dad
Henry crumples the note in his fist and drops the sanding block. He turns, and his fist flies straight onto the solid walnut side of the cabinet. He feels the impact painfully run through his hand and up his arm. He doesn't care. He hits it again, and his fist comes away bloody.
"You couldn't even tell me you loved me in your suicide note, you son of a bitch," he says out loud in the cold lonesome garage. His fist slams into the strong side of the hutch again, this time feeling his hand give slightly, and pain shoots up his arm.
He hits the sturdy side of the hutch two more times. Henry screams in agony, not because of the pain in his hand but because of the pain in his heart.
"You stupid, prideful son of a bitch," he laughs humorlessly.
"I could've helped you!" he yells, punching the hutch once more. "All you had to do was ask."
"Henry?"
His head whips to the sound of Elizabeth's tentative and cautious voice. Her eyes are soft, but her body language is guarded as if she's afraid of him. She steps towards him cautiously, and her eyes drop to his bleeding hand.
He's seen that look before. His father never raised a hand to his mother, not once. Even the slap to Henry's face in this very garage was an unexpected and shocking outlier. Henry knows how many patches there are in the plaster walls of the house he grew up in and how many were caused by fists flying. He had witnessed Patrick's fury, and the fear written on his mother's face has stayed with him much longer than his own.
He looks at his wife and down at his bloodied, maybe broken knuckles.
"Elizabeth, I..." he starts.
She shakes her head and takes one cautious step toward him. She holds his gaze and takes another step, and another, until she's within arm's reach. She holds her hand out—an offering, a request.
"It's okay," she tells him, her tone soothing. "Let me see."
Henry doesn't want to show her. He doesn't want her to think he's capable of the violence he was raised around.
"Elizabeth," he whispers with tears catching in his throat.
"Let me see," She whispers, not backing away, not allowing him to be free of her gaze. Her eyes are intense and piercing. "Please."
His shoulders drop. The fight drains out of him, and he raises his injured hand palm up—to hide the damage or to ensure she's not afraid, he doesn't know. She slowly turns his wrist as if she knows his hand is broken, though he can't feel the pain.
"We need to clean it," she says softly. "I can wrap it, and we can go to urgent care. Or, if you want, we can drive to the ER. It's your choice."
She's not asking for permission, but he can't make himself speak.
"What do you want to do?" She asks, meeting his gaze again.
Henry takes a shaky breath and looks down at his hand, "Did the kids hear?"
She swallows, and he can tell she's contemplating lying to him. But then she nods, "Yeah, but they are old enough to understand grief—they're grieving, too. They'll be fine."
He swallows. He had never admitted out loud how terrified he had been when Elizabeth got pregnant with Stevie. There is an adage that goes: If you grow up with an angry man in your home, there will always be an angry man in your home. He never wanted to be his father, and yet here he is, beating the shit out of furniture loud enough his kids could hear.
"Baby," Elizabeth's voice combined with her soft, warm hand on his cheek pulls his attention back to her, "I think your hand is broken. We have to take care of it now. Okay?"
He blinks at her, "It's numb," he tells her, not sure if he means his hand or his mind.
She nods, and her thumb gently strokes his cheek, "It'll hurt soon. Come on, you need an x-ray, okay?"
He swallows and nods, allowing her to lead him out of the garage and into the house. He doesn't see his kids. Shame covers his face as he realizes she's removed them from the main floor of his childhood home.
She walks him straight for the front door, grabbing her coat on the way. He tries to grab his coat, too, and realizes she is correct; his right hand is definitely broken.
She must notice him wince as her words hit his ears, "Here, let me."
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth."
"Shhh, it's okay, Henry," she assures him, "Let's get you taken care of."
He barely registers her negotiating a smaller motorcade and detail with Matt: "One car. Two agents. This is a personal matter, Matt. I'll call the President if I have to." She's unyielding.
The ride to the twenty-four-hour urgent care is quiet. She sits beside him and holds his left hand as the car maneuvers through traffic. She doesn't chastise him or ask him why. She holds his hand, her thumb rubbing small circles. He draws his gaze to her and looks at her for a moment. Her face is serene, and he's not sure how she can be so calm.
He takes a deep breath, "Elizabeth,"
"I know," she breathes with a nod, "I know, babe."
He swallows his left hand, squeezing hers tighter. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, letting the tears fall. He doesn't sob. He's not shaking. His jaw doesn't clench. But the tears slide down his face, and he's helpless to stop them.
"I loved him," he finally whispers. "But I hated him, too."
"I know," she murmurs, "and that's okay. It's okay that it's complicated."
He shakes his head, "That man never once told me he loved me, you know,"
Elizabeth swallows at her husband's confession. She hadn't known that, though if she goes back through her memories of her father-in-law, she can see a pattern. Henry was Patrick's son, and yet, his affection was not reserved for him. She had known Patrick well enough to know the man had his favorites. It was no secret that Patrick and Elizabeth had had no love lost between them. She facilitated Henry's relationship with his father purely for her husband.
"There's nothing I can say that'll heal that," she says softly, "I'm so sorry, Henry."
His gaze shifts to the window as silence befalls him again. He tries to make sense of it. Patrick never wanted him. The older he got, the more apparent that became. Yet, his father's final words had been his apology and his request to help his siblings grieve. Was it for him or them? He wants to say that he never needed to hear the words 'I love you, son.' He wants to be able to put the pieces together of his father's actions and know without any doubt he was loved by him. But he can't.
"I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," his voice cracks, "I shouldn't have..."
"Hush," she interrupts him, "you don't have anything to be sorry for. Not to me. And certainly not about this."
He's quiet again, and the rest of the drive is silent. He's relieved to find that the urgent care is quiet. He remains quiet as his wife assures the nurses that his injury is not the result of a fight or domestic violence. He feels his cheeks burn with shame as they ask to speak with her alone, not believing her. He hears her sternly assure them that her husband's injury is self-inflicted, and the subject is dropped.
Henry's x-ray shows two breaks. The doctor assures him his hand will be as good as new with a little TLC and a splint. Elizabeth leads him back out to the SUV. And then back into his childhood home after the silent drive.
He allows her to remove his coat and lead him up the stairs to his childhood bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches her move around the room. He notices her slip off her shoes and remove her jewelry. He watches as she changes into her pajamas, and then he allows her to help him undress. He's never felt quite as powerless in his life as he allows her to change him as if he were a child.
When he's down to his boxers, she guides him under the covers and follows him, her arms wrapping around his torso.
"Maureen accused me of rejecting him. But he was the one who rejected me," he tells her as if she hasn't been his wife for over twenty-five years, and she doesn't know the depths of the dysfunction of his relationship with his father.
She remains silent, not wanting to make a definitive statement either way. Instead, she holds him tightly. She knows better than anyone that sometimes it's best to listen.
"He hit me when I told him I enlisted," he admits for the first time out loud.
He hears her swallow hard and take a slow, deep breath, "Henry..."
"I know I've always said I joined up to piss him off, but actually, I thought he would be proud," he chuckles at his younger self. "I was going to college. I found a way to work for it all on my own. But all he saw was selfish. He was ashamed of me. And I won't ever know why."
"No, you won't," she agrees. "You won't ever know his true feelings. I was no fan of your father's, but I don't think he didn't love you. I think he was a working-class man who had a hard life and was most likely depressed for a lot longer than you may believe right now."
"You really think he loved me?"
"I think he didn't understand you, and he didn't know what to do with you. You're not the same as your siblings. You just aren't. You've always had a sensitive soul. He was a product of his time; it's not fair, and it's not an excuse, but he was. Maybe one day you'll find a way to make peace with all of this."
"He left me a note," he admits, having to realize that his father did leave him an outlet for this. And that all those hours he spent shadowing his father in the garage weren't in vain. Maybe all these years, those memories of his of not being good enough, his father cherished, "Why me, instead of Mo?"
"Does it matter?" She asks softly.
He swallows. Does it matter? His brow knits as he's hit with a memory. Christmas morning. 1976. He was ten. The toolbox under the tree with the tag that read, 'From Dad' in his father's handwriting.
He feels the tears as he remembers the way his father ruffled his hair when he pulled the electric drill out and said, 'I'll teach you how to use it right, Hank.' His smile was small but proud.
"No," he whispers, his tears now noticeable, "I guess it doesn't."
His mind is a swirling maelstrom of confusing, contradictory emotions. He feels her lips press against his shoulder as her hands stroke his chest. Her warmth radiates, and he can feel the steady rhythm of her heart and breathing. It calms him. It brings him peace, and he is not so sure how she does that.
He knows that one day, the pain will subside, the anger will dissipate, and he'll find peace with it all. But tonight, he chooses to retreat into Christmas with the new drill and a father who loved him.