Resurgam
 

BYERS:

I'm with Caroline still, we're sitting in the darkness, and our only source of light is so dim it slightly backlights us.

Her eyes are shimmery and wet. This is visible even with the minimal light we have. She is caressing her daughter's hand, murmuring to her as one would a small child.

It's my theory that when we're ill or under stress, we are just children.

The problem is, if you're just a child, then whose child?

I think about the times I needed to be somebody's child...and could not, because there was no parent there. This is why I was so adamant about staying with Michael after he'd had surgery. I did not want for him, at any time, to wake up and find himself needing an adult, and not having one available.

I remember waking up in a hospital room similar to the one Michael was in-I was roughly the same age, perhaps a few years younger. I'd been in pain, and I was rather frightened by the whole experience.

When I woke up, I was alone. And I felt it.

Most of the memory of first waking up is blurry, but I do remember the aloneness. And it was terrifying.

One of the nurses came in at some point to check on me, and I remember her wiping my face. I must have been crying.

And when Juliet awakens, each and every time, I do not want her to be alone. I don't want her to experience the utter terror and misery that comes from feeling no one cares, no one will be with you. That you're not important enough to take the time to be with. To just be there.

How much of caring is just being there, I wonder. I still feel inadequate...I never feel as if I am doing enough for those in my life who care for me. Yet many times, they seem satisfied that I am just there.

How can this be? I am so utterly fallible, so frail, so...human.

"John." Caroline's voice breaks the soft noises of the electronics around us. I'm so accustomed to this sort of noise, to me, it is a type of silence. One which I am comfortable with. Her voice actually startles me slightly.

"Yes."

"John, as I said...I don't mean to pry, and you can tell me to go to hell if you wish, but I'm curious...Juliet says you never speak of your own parents...forgive me, I'm Italian, and family is very important in my culture, so at the risk of sounding rude and intrusive, I find this to be...curious, to say the least."

Her voice is not in the least chiding; the curiosity is gentle, and the tone is caring. As if she considers this a major travesty, not because I am a horrible human being, but because circumstances have denied me what she considers normal affection.

And it's hard for me to discuss this...but I like Caroline. She is warm without being overly effusive; she is a comfortable person to be around.

The idea that a parental figure is comfortable to be around is, to me, an alien concept. Yes, in many ways, Frohike serves as a father figure...but he is many things, and in many ways, we are equals. The roles shift as needed.

And I'm still mystified by their kindness towards me. They do not know me well.

Perhaps this is her way of attempting to better know me. I'm not certain that's a good idea...how well would she like me if I told her the truth about what happened between my father and myself?

Still, lying to this shrewd woman will yield nothing but her mistrust. And I can't afford that.

"My mother died when I was much younger...and my father and I...we've been alienated from one another for many years now."

"He's still alive, then," Caroline nods.

"Yes."

"And you've not seen him in how long?"

"Not since I was in my early 20s. He came for a few days when I was terribly ill last year, but he had a...falling out with my younger sister, and returned home."

"Juliet speaks well of your sister."

"Kat's a good person." Better than I am, at any rate.

"What did you argue over, if I may ask? Forgive me, but I'm terminally nosy." She laughs a little at that. "Of course, you needn't tell me if you're not comfortable with that."

"My father...my family, we were...well, I'm from a long line of robber barons, to put it bluntly." As a humanities scholar, Caroline could probably appreciate this.

And she does. "And you objected openly to his...philosophy."

"And his practices."

She nods. "I see. And that's a shame, for the both of you. It's one thing to disagree with a child, but to shut that child out for having a different perspective...I think that's tragic."

"Well...I went beyond merely disagreeing. I almost destroyed the family fortune."

I'm not sure she will relate to that. She and Jeffrey have a comfortable middle class life, but the idea of millions upon millions of dollars...this is probably outside of her realm.

"By revealing some of his practices." She deduces this from the little I have said. Obviously a woman accustomed to making inferences.

"Yes." Then again, she may decide that this was the ultimate disrespect for my father...Caroline values respect for family. I'm not sure how she will take this.

She looks at me, carefully studying me in the dim light. The same dark, intelligent eyes as her daughter has.

"You did what you thought was right."

"Yes."

"And there was no way your father would forgive you for that."

"No."

She smiles. "I endured a great deal of resistance from my very traditional Italian family about my pursuit of an education...particularly when I went to graduate school...and then I had children while in graduate school, and they hoped I would get rid of my 'foolish notions' and come around. But I didn't. And eventually, they came around."

"I don't think that's going to happen with my father."

"And that's a terrible loss. For both of you."

"Yes."

She shakes her head. "John, he may not come around...but have you attempted to break the wall down?"

I shake my head. "Not really...we don't talk. I'm not certain he would, even if I approached him."

She thinks about this one. "John, do this for me...for yourself, but also for me, because I know if I tell you just to do something for yourself, you never will." She laughs. "You're a kind man, John Byers...but not very good at preserving yourself sometimes. Does your father know about you and Juliet?"

"Not about our engagement, no."

"Then call him."

"He probably won't talk to me."

"Call him anyway. Then you will have made the attempt, you'll have some peace, and if he won't connect to you, then I'd say, he's got a very unforgiving heart."

Caroline, you have no idea.

"Call him. It's still Father's Day. See if he'll speak to you. At least then you'll have tried."

"Uh...I don't know...he..."

"Do it. Do it now. Maybe the wounds will start to heal. Maybe they won't. But at least make it his loss if they don't." She gives me a steady look. "I can't imagine a parent not wanting to speak to their child...but that's me. I think as the parent, he should make the first attempt, but as you know well by now, life isn't always fair...and I know you're a good man. You'll do the right thing."

I rather get the impression I'll do the right thing...or else.

She smiles at me.
 

LANGLY:

"NOOOOO!!!"

Patrick has thus far disassembled the toaster, a portable radio, and two remotes.

He's only been here four hours. At this rate, by the time we hand him back to Scott, the place will no longer be standing.

Miranda and Jesse attempted to keep him amused for a while, but after he terrorized Screamer and broke her Beastie Boys CD (I really could thank the kid for that, but then again, she did pay for the damn thing),` she informed us that he would be a strangulation victim in very short order if we didn't take him off her hands.

Ally's been trying, but she's still not feeling great, and she's got a temp-I'm starting to think agreeing to this was a REAL bad idea.

I mean, he's not a bad kid...just an energetic one.

Well, that's what I said at six o'clock.

Now it's after nine, and now, he's a bad kid.

I need this monster to go to bed, and he's having none of it. I call Scott to see what I should do, but Krista says Scott's asleep and she doesn't want to disturb him.

Plus, it occurs to me...where the hell are we going to put this kid? We don't have the spare room downstairs, Kelly's there, only she's not there right now, and if we put him there, he'll probably trash the place.

There's the photo lab...Jesus fuck. He'd stay up all night and we'd be left with nothing but a mass of wires, microchips, and chemicals by morning...Christ.

Ally suggests drowning him in the spa, and I think she's only half kidding.

He didn't like her cooking, either. She made lasagna Provencal, which has white sauce and veggies in it and doesn't come out of a box. Patrick informed us if it doesn't come from a box, he's not eating it.

I better check with Scott, if that's Stouffers' or just Swanson's.

Ally told him if he didn't eat what was served, he didn't get to eat. He said she was mean. She told him he was a brat. He of course complained an hour after dinner he was hungry, Ally told him he could have some Cocoa Puffs, which he was okay with...and he managed to spill the first bowl all over the floor. I'm sorry, Cocoa Puffs are a bitch to clean up. Particularly after you pour the milk on them.

I tell him to leave some Cocoa Puffs for Aunt Ally, she likes them in the morning, and he's like, she can't eat that, she's a grownup. I remind him that Aunt Ally can eat what she wants.

And drink what she wants. She pours herself a large margarita two hours after this kid gets here, and I don't object when she hands me one. Strawberry, too. Of course, Patrick wants to try the stuff, and Ally says he can have his own, she pours him some virgin margarita mix, and it's bright red, and he spills it on himself, and the carpet, and into one of the other remotes we have lying around.

We're down three remotes, and he's not even in bed yet.

I'm thinking, my brother...and I think he is...I'm gonna find out soon...he may love this kid, but he doesn't have much of a grip on him.

I mean, sometimes like I think Frohike's too strict with Junior and all, but I'm beginning to see the light here...Michael did behave better after Frohike started stomping on him.

Maybe this kid needs to go stay with Frohike. I am sorely tempted to make that call.

Nah. Frohike's got his hands full. He's got enough kids to look after. I should know. I'm one of 'em.

I'm trying to think of some way to calm this kid down. It's like he's the Energizer Bunny...he keeps going and going and going and going...

OH CHRIST, NOT THE CORDLESS PHONE!!!

"PATRICK!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

This brings Ally out running. "What the?" Then she sees the little devil child with a screwdriver, trying to take apart the cordless...she just sighs.

Then she starts giggling.

This is really not that funny, I'm thinking.

"Langly, I've got some pictures Joan gave me...I'm going to get them now."

"I don't think this kid will want to see them," I snip at her.

"No, dear. I think you should look at them."

She's got that totally evil look on her face.

I don't trust her at all.
 

MICHAEL:

Got to wait for the laundry cycle to finish. Actually, it'll take less time than it took us to figure out the washer they had...Christ. Kelly and me, we're used to doing clothes in the laundromat or apartment laundry...you get one setting, throw in the soap, bam, half hour later, you got clean laundry.

This thing...silk...delicates...permanent press...washable cotton...washable wool...Jesus Christ, Kelly says you could probably wash DNA in here and it would be all right. So we're trying to determine if the sheets we messed up are permanent press or not.    And it's not like the tags helped, because the sheets are from Italy and the tags are in Italian. Just our luck.

With our luck, they'll be dry clean only, and we'll trash them, and then we'll end up replacing a set of sheets that probably cost more than what the two of us made together last year.

Or the chocolate stains won't come out...Christ, world is going to hell, and I'm sweating about some other dude's laundry, for Christ's sake!

But we do get to pet the kitty...and she's awesome. You can tell she's real lonesome. I should take her over to the offices and let her keep us company...

And then she'd probably run off, or get chased by one of Ally's cats, or get scared, or...

I'll stick to explaining about the sheets, thank you very much.
 

BYERS:

I'm standing near one of the banks of phones that are in myriad locations throughout the hospital.

Standing being the operative word here.

What should I do? Tell Caroline I forgot my calling card?

I don't think she'd buy that one...furthermore, I have it memorized.

No. The only excuse I have for this one is fear, pure and simple.

What is it that I am afraid of? Do I fear that my father will once again cut me off, or refuse to accept my call...

Or is the greater fear the one that he'll want to talk?

I'm not certain I'm ready for that.

Reluctantly, with my hands shaking like leaves in a windstorm, I dial the number.
 

A woman's voice, soft, an accent I recognize as Puerto Rican, answers my father's phone.

"James Arthur Byers, please." I cannot keep my voice from quavering.

"Who is calling, please?"

"John Byers."

She is probably not even aware that I am his son; she may not even be aware of the fact that he has two children. I have no idea how long-or short-her tenure may have been at this time.

"One minute, please." She places me on hold; even the phones in his home have hold buttons.

I wonder if he traces every incoming call...

Several minutes later, a voice returns to the phone. "I'm sorry...Mr. Byers is not available at this time...thank you for calling." I hear a soft, but definite, click as she replaces the receiver on her end.

This is what I should have expected.

Was I hoping it would be different? I think I was.

My level of dejection has sunk to a new all-time low.

I need to return to Juliet, and I hope Caroline is still with her.
 

She is.

I don't consider myself to have a particularly expressive face...I'm more known for my neutral expression than for my visible emotional range.

Yet I don't have to utter a word to her. She looks at me, and she knows.

All she says is, "I'm sorry, dear."

And for what seems to be many hours, I sit in silence, holding the hand of a woman I barely know, who has shown me more tenderness in this brief time than my own parents have in my 37 years.

I am grateful to her beyond what I can express for her gentleness towards me.

Yet there will always be a void there, an empty space, a piece of my heart that will always possess a dull ache.

I feel my eyes blur and dampen in the dim light.
 

FROHIKE:

It's getting very late, and I should go.

I am now the only person here at the wall. The last man standing.

The summer night air is warm, delightful. A small breeze disturbs my hat, the bright yellow one that Michael detests so completely. And lets me know every time I wear it.

I stay. The solitude is restful. I consider quiet to be a kindness.

I am mildly startled when I hear soft footsteps approaching. Not many people come here by night, which is why I am often here after dark.

Perhaps another soul in need of a quiet place to collect himself. If that's the case, then I will not be obliged to make needless conversation.

I am surprised that the figure chooses the same bench that I am seated on. There are others.

But more surprised when I become aware of who the silent figure is.

Michael.

He says nothing, but sits near me. While he cannot know what this place means to me, I think perhaps he realizes that to try to converse at this point would not be appropriate. Or appreciated.

He does respect that.

And I am oddly glad that he is here.

It's rather ironic; I have often come here to think about what it is I need to be doing with him, about him, how to be the best possible parent to a child who should have been past childhood long ago.

I see him shedding the old ways more and more. That he would voluntarily come here, and come in silence, shows that while he may not have understanding, he at least has caring and respect.

After a time, still with no words exchanged, he edges closer to me, and places his head on my shoulder. I can feel the silky brown hair brush up against my cheek.

I am muddling in the dark where all the people I care for are concerned. What's best for them. How to do right by them, without doing it for them.

Forever a question.

How can I best help Byers at this terrible time in his life? I try to be there for him...I'm not sure it's enough.

And Langly? Another one rapidly having the scales of childhood fall from his eyes...but still turns to me, needing. And frequently, I have no good answers for him.

My daughter...I don't know that she would ever give me another chance. I would very much like to explain to her why I do the things I do...but I am unconvinced that she would be willing. Certainly at this time, it would be a futile attempt.

I hope in the future, that will change...but I cannot count on it.

Yet, oddly enough, I have come to count on the young man leaning against me, in many ways. He's still so rough around the edges.

But where he is abrasive and harsh, he is also equally tender and caring. He aggravates the shit out of me, and he brings me my finest joy.

I can't have done everything wrong.

But even if I have, I'm blessed to have the love of this child.

Happy Father's Day.

Yes, it was.

END OF PART 45