Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Chapter Twenty-Eight: My Parents

The rest of the morning passed in a sort of haze. The pain in my abdomen increased, as I’d expected, but I did my best to ignore it. When the pain got too intense to ignore, I decided- perversely- that as long as my mind and body were both hurting, I might as well see if the physical pain might help blot out the psychological distress. Instead of ignoring the pain, I concentrated on it, willing it to distract me from the chaos in my mind. I quickly learned that pain is no replacement for calm meditation, and I soon grew tired of the misery I was putting myself through. I would have to take a pill. Feeling defeated, I forced myself to get up and make my painful way downstairs to find my medication. I deliberately didn’t think about what I’d say to Mom or Joe, aside from, perhaps, “Shut up and leave me alone.”

To my surprise and vast relief, no one was around. I didn’t speculate on where they’d gone or when they’d left, just looked for my prescription bottle. Finding it, I downed one of the pills with the help of a glass of water, then closed the vial and put it in my pocket. Then, on a whim, I opened the basement door and carefully descended the steps. I knew I’d feel better faster if I sat down and rested, but I stubbornly refused to do so. It wasn’t really perversity, this time; I just didn’t want to chance an encounter with her.

The concrete floor was chilly on my bare feet and the overhead lights shone bright and hard off the objects arranged in their spaces. I remembered how cluttered it used to be and how Mom and Dad had spent an entire weekend cleaning out a lot of junk and organizing the rest. The whole rear wall had the house and garden tools: buckets and sponges, car wax, house paint, spare light bulbs, a stepladder, furnace filters, bottles of nails and screws and a peg-board of carpentry tools. There was a workbench, too, with several clamps still fastened to it; I wandered over and hung those up where they belonged. The left side of the basement was the furnace-water heater-laundry area: the washer and dryer and ‘drip-dry’ clothesline were closest to the stairs and then there was a space between that and the big units. I’d always been wary of that corner when I was little. The furnace, particularly, had made what I considered very threatening noises, and one day I had summoned the nerve to peer into the wide crack in the side. The sight of the blue gas flames had given me a bad scare and for a long time I’d worried about the house catching on fire.

I leaned against the wooden worktable, and after a moment, pulled myself up to sit on the flat top. My body was still aching, but less fiercely, and the change in position helped. Sunlight warmed my back from the small, high window behind me and I felt myself relax a little. I looked over at the other wall, letting my eyes seek familiar things among the outdoor equipment. Not the sports stuff that we kept in the garage near the spare-parts shelves, but camping, hiking, fishing and even a bit of rock-climbing stuff. Coils of ropes and the tent; sleeping bags, wet-weather gear, fishing rods, tackle boxes... It wasn’t nearly as tidy as the workbench, but then it is pretty hard to stack such things neatly.

The sight of the gear brought memories rushing through my mind- all the times we’d used the stuff seemed to blur and tangle together, with bits and pieces standing out. Sometimes we’d gone as a family; other times it had been just Joe and I. Or, twice, just Dad and I. And a couple times it’d been the three of us, with Mom staying home.

I’d always been closer to him than to her. Now I knew why. And I’d always been closest to Joe- poor Joe, as ignorant as I, loving me for exactly what he thought I was. No secret, hidden background to dilute or erase his feelings. I wondered suddenly, frowning, why he hadn’t come up to tell me Mom’s revelation- why had he left? He couldn’t have guessed that I overheard...

Maybe he needed to think about how he’s going to tell me? Or maybe he’s giving her a chance to tell me herself.

That made my frown deepen. On the whole, I’d rather get significant news from Joe instead of Mom, and this was more than merely ‘significant’ news. I didn’t want her delivering me the truth in some cool, uninterested way, setting the record straight. Not that it really mattered, since that was how I’d gotten it anyhow-! Well, not really, I decided after a moment. She hadn’t been exactly uninterested or- or clinical when she told Joe about my parents. But that simple, blunt, flatly factual remark- “He’s not my son.” I swallowed and squeezed my eyes shut as her voice repeated in my mind.

Not her son. Stanton and Phoebe’s son.

A new thought dawned on me. I slid carefully down from the worktable, went to the stairs, and started climbing. It was a rough haul, and made the pain flare again, but I bulled on through and paused, panting, at the top. When I got my breath back, I made my way quietly to the den. I closed the door softly behind me and went to the bookcase that held the family photo albums. Taking the first one down from the shelf, I sank down on the sofa, placed the album in my lap...hesitated a long moment...and then, with a deep intake of breath, opened it.

I immediately realized that the photo albums weren’t arranged chronologically, for the first page had pictures of Joe, Dad and I on one of our ‘guy’ camping trips. Nevertheless, I paged through the book- just in case. It stirred a lot of memories, memories that now caused me considerable pain and left me wishing I could go back and un-hear that awful conversation. Ignorance really can be- well, if not quite bliss, certainly a lot less upsetting than enlightenment.

Three photo albums later, I finally found what I was looking for. The pictures were old and faded, some of them turning yellow, others beginning to crack. Some had been fixed to the pages with tape, and even that was turning yellow. I studied the faces intently, recognizing my much-younger grandparents- at least that’s still the same!- and Gertrude. And two young dark-haired boys. The farther I went, the more the family aged, until my grandparents were more like I remembered them and my father and his brother were in their late teens- or perhaps early twenties. The pictures were less faded here, and as I studied them I felt a sudden sense of bemusement.

You hardly needed to go looking, Frank- they were twins! Identical twins! That’s why you look like Dad... like Fenton...because you look like his identical brother, your real father.

It wasn’t a completely pointless exercise, though, because a few pages later, I saw the twins with their girlfriends, or fiancées. I actually pulled back the plastic and took the picture out, studying my mother Phoebe very carefully. All I could really tell was that she had dark hair. She was squinting- the shadows indicated she was looking into the sun- and she was several inches shorter than Stanton. But taller than M- than Laura. Maybe that’s why I’m taller than Joe...

Then I encountered the wedding pictures.

My father, Stanton, really did look exactly like the man I called Dad; if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was Dad marrying a different woman. A closer look at the best man changed that half-thought notion, and then I turned my attention to Phoebe. She was smiling up at her new husband, her whole face alight with happiness. I studied her for a long time, wondering briefly if there was any Hispanic or Mexican blood in her- my- family. Her black hair brushed her shoulders and her dark complexion was heightened by the white dress. I still couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but I would have been willing to bet they were dark brown. I wondered what she’d been like. Cheerful? Moody? Fun-loving? Strict?

Sighing, I turned the page and flipped past shots of the reception. If my real parents had lived, would they still be married? Would Phoebe have tried to dissuade me from Stanton’s profession? What had that been, anyway? Was he something safe, like a banker or lawyer? Or had he been a detective, too? Was that why Dad worked mostly solo- had he and his twin planned to be partners, the way Joe and I were?

So many questions. I flipped a few more pages, ready to shut the book- and then froze with a gasp.

Phoebe- holding a baby-

Holding me-

She was sitting in a hospital bed, in a soft-purple robe, looking down at my infant self with a weary but tender smile. And Stanton, my father, was hovering near, looking both amazed and proud.

My heart pounded and my eyes stung as I slowly turned the pages. My parents- holding me, feeding me, playing with me...holding my fingers and smiling at me, wearing expressions of pride and happiness. I stopped at one picture...my parents looking down at their baby son as he slept in his crib, both oblivious to the photographer, their faces so full of love that I couldn’t bear it. I slapped the cover of the album shut, dropped it on the floor, buried my face in the sofa cushions, and tried very hard to cry softly- so no one would hear me.