Chapter Twenty-Nine: Awkwardness

It was the sound of the phone ringing that woke me from an unexpected sleep. I lay still for a moment, disoriented, and heard someone pick up the living-room extension.

“Hello? Oh, hi! Ah, no, I’m sorry, not right now. He’s resting.”

I moved one hand to rub my eyes, becoming aware of a weird discomfort. Not in my stomach; in my leg. I was lying on my side, on the study sofa, and there was a distinct ache in my upper thigh. Turning over, I touched the spot and realized I’d been lying on the prescription vial in my pants pocket. My neck ached from the position I’d fallen asleep in, and I rubbed it gingerly.

“Yes, certainly. All right, Chet- no, no trouble at all. Oh, fairly good, considering. Yes, he’s still moving pretty slowly, but he’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Dad’s voice. I must have been way out of it, not to hear him get home!

“Sure, I’ll let him know. ‘Bye.”

I sat up and carefully stretched some of the stiffness from my body. Then my gaze fell on the photo album. It had fallen to the floor while I slept, and some of the pictures had slipped out. I got down and picked them up, then went about trying to get them back in their proper places without looking at the pictures any more than was necessary. Somehow I’d gone from wanting very much to see them, to not wanting to see them at all. I hadn’t anticipated the effect they’d have on me. It was while I was doing this that I heard the front door open. A moment later I heard Dad’s voice as he greeted Joe, and Joe’s reply. Then there was the sound of feet hurrying up the stairs, much more noisily than usual. So all this time, Joe had been out of the house- probably struggling with what Mom had told him. And now he was back, and-

“Dad, have you seen Frank?” Joe sounded like he was calling down from the top of the stairs.

“Isn’t he in his room?” Dad sounded both surprised and a bit alarmed.

“No!” Joe’s footsteps came pounding back down the stairs. “Nor in mine, and the bathroom’s empty. Where in the world could he have gone?” There was real fear in my brother’s voice.

“Well, wherever it is, it won’t be far,” Dad said steadily. “But we’d better have a look around.”

I sighed, got up from the sofa, limped over to put the photo album back on the bookshelf, then made my way to the den door. I didn’t really feel like facing either one of them, but I couldn't stay hidden away when I knew they were so worried about me. I opened the door and said, “I’m right here.” My voice came out sounding more sleepy than I expected, but that was all to the good.

Dad and Joe were both standing near the front door, Joe’s hand on the knob; Dad was saying something about calling someone. At the sound of my voice, they both turned sharply and then relaxed visibly. Joe hurried over to me, relief flickering over his face; Dad- my uncle- followed more slowly. “What were you doing in there?” my not-father asked, smiling.

“I came down a while ago to get my prescription,” I explained, patting my pocket with one hand and closing the den door with the other. “Then I went in to read and wait for it to work- I didn’t feel like climbing the stairs again. And then I fell asleep. I woke up just now when the phone rang.” I glanced at Joe, who had paused beside me. “And if that hadn’t done it…”

“Sorry,” he murmured. His look of relief had changed to one of anxiety. “If I’d thought you were asleep, I woulda been quieter.”

“I know.” I patted his shoulder. “Where’d you go, anyway?”

“Just...out.” Joe took a breath, then let it out uncertainly and turned to his Dad. “We had another argument this morning, Mom and us. She thinks Frank got hurt because of a case, and she was really mean about it and wouldn’t believe us when we told her we weren’t working on anything.”

“And then she was denying that she’s ever shown favoritism, again,” I said bluntly.

“She’ll probably tell you how rude we were, ‘cause we told her that if she didn’t believe us about the case, we didn’t have to believe her about her being all equal,” Joe remarked, a scowl crossing his face.

“In other words, one good denial deserves another,” I muttered. Denial- there was a lot of that in the family!

“I see.” Dad- Fenton- sighed. For the first time, I noticed he was holding an envelope, and wondered vaguely if it was a threat. He tended to get a lot of those. “I tried to tell her last night that you two were neither working with me or on your own, but she didn’t seem convinced. Where is she, by the way?”

Joe and I traded a glance and both of us shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since breakfast,” I replied honestly. Heard her, yes. Seen her, no. “But then I haven’t exactly seen anyone. I wish this stuff wouldn’t keep putting me to sleep,” I added, shaking my pocket so the pills rattled in their vial.

“Cut ‘em in half,” Joe suggested, his expression turning sympathetic.

“Maybe. Or maybe I should skip ‘em and take something over-the-counter.”

“It’ll be another day or two before ordinary pain relief will have much effect, Frank. But your brother’s idea isn’t a bad one. Try cutting one in half, and if it doesn't help quite enough, take the other half. Spacing it out a bit might help with the drowsiness.”

I was nodding when I heard a car pull into the driveway. A strong urge to flee gripped me; the last thing I wanted was to face her and I moved to the stairs as quickly as I could. “Oh- who was the phone call?” I remembered to ask, pausing to look over my shoulder at my- uncle.

“Ah, that was Chet. He wanted to check in, see how you were doing and talk about that get-together.” Dad smiled at me. “Your welcome-home dinner.”

“Oh, right. But we can’t do that till I can eat solid food again. Just having eggs this morning made for problems.” I grimaced and started up the stairs as fast as I was able. I was relieved when Dad didn’t try to stop me, or remind me that avoiding Mom wasn’t going to solve any of the problems between us.

I know I won’t be able to avoid her forever. Sooner or later- tonight at dinner, tomorrow at breakfast, sometime- I’ll have to look at her, talk to her. And sooner or later, I’ll have to let them know what I heard. But not now!

I heard the front door open as I reached the top step, and sped up my pace to get down the hall to my room. I heard her greeting Dad as I closed the door very quietly behind me, shutting out the sound of her voice. Let her think I’d been upstairs all along, if she even cared enough to wonder. I sat down on the side of the bed to get my breath and reflected that moving around was was still not very comfortable or easy. The pain pill took care of most of the discomfort, but dulled me with fatigue. Not taking the pill meant I was in pain, but it didn't leave me feeling like I'd run a mile instead of climbing twelve steps. I decided to give Joe's idea a try; half a pill might give me a perfect balance between discomfort and fatigue. Not too much of either.

A soft tap on the door distracted me and I wasn’t at all surprised when Joe pushed it open and came in. He carefully closed it behind him and I braced myself as he sat down beside me. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. "What's up?" I asked neutrally as he fidgeted.

"I just didn't want to be down there. I'm still furious at her for this morning," he grumbled. "Acting like we were lying...it's like she's going paranoid or something. Like just because she thinks or wonders something, or thinks there's a chance of something, that means it must be true, because she thinks so."

"Like her thinking is what makes it true and anyone who says different can't possibly be right," I clarified.

"Like that," he agreed, kicking the side of my bed. "I wonder what'd happen if she decided to believe the Earth was flat. Probably tell everyone Columbus was some kind of con man."

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but I didn't argue. Joe tends to exaggerate when he's nervous. And I was pretty sure I knew what he was nervous about. It's no light thing, telling your brother that your mother's disowned you. For a moment, I wondered if I ought to ease his mind and bring it up myself. Then I wondered if admitting my inadvertant eavesdropping would be wise or not. He'd probably be upset that I'd heard any of the discussion- including his own vicious remarks, even though they had been directed at Mom. I lay down on the bed, wondering what I should do, and almost didn't hear Joe asking if I was all right. "I'm- okay," I answered at last. "I think maybe I will start chopping these pills in half- thanks for the idea." Reminded, I pulled the vial from my pocket and put it on my nightstand.

We remained in my room for about an hour, talking about nothing in particular. I was jumpy and keyed up, and Joe didn’t seem to be feeling much better than I was. I’d never felt so awkward with my brother before and it was an unpleasant feeling. He didn’t notice that I kept staring at him, but that might have been because he was having trouble meeting my eyes at all. I knew there was no logical reason for him to have changed physically, but the shock of knowing the truth about my parents was so strong that it seemed impossible for there to not have been some outward change. How could he still look exactly like he always had when everything was so different? I also started to feel a little resentful, as it became obvious that he wasn't going to 'enlighten' me, after all. I wondered rather irritably what he was waiting for, why he didn't just get it over with. Part of me longed to just get everything out in the open, let the consequences start. But I dreaded the thought of what would happen once it was out in the open. It’s one thing to start something when you know where it’s going to end; it’s another thing entirely to unleash something nobody can see the end of.

Guess I can’t blame him for not having the nerve to tell me, since I don’t have the guts to tell him that I already know.

And then the opportunity evaporated as a call from downstairs summoned us to come and eat. Joe’s reaction to that was a word he ought not to be using- at least not in the house- but I didn’t reprimand him. I wasn’t looking forward to the meal, either, and not just because I was getting tired of ‘semi-solid’ food.

This is going to get ugly.

It did, and it was my own fault.

The table was already set and the food on, which surprised Joe and I a little- that was usually our chore. Mom and Dad- or whoever they were- sat down as we came in, and for a few minutes it was the usual ‘pass your plate over’ routine. I didn’t try to eat any of the casserole. Instead, I sipped my milk, attempted the mashed potatoes in the hopes they’d give less trouble than eggs had that morning, and mused about liquid supplements. Mom nearly scolded me for not eating, but then stopped with a guilty look and hurriedly left the table. After about two minutes of loud activity in the kitchen, she came out carrying a bowl of heated-up puree of vegetables and beef. She gave it to me and I thanked her, but I had trouble eating it. It looked too much like baby food, and I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway, even though I'd missed lunch.

It was Dad who triggered it, near the end of the meal. Till then things had been neutral, with him talking a bit about his case and her mentioning average, everyday stuff- things she’d done at work and chores that needed doing around the house. The uproar of the morning went unmentioned; I had the feeling that was waiting in the wings for later in the evening. Joe was as silent as I, neither of us caring to contribute anything beyond a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and eventually a prolonged silence fell. Dad looked at my half-full bowl- everyone else’s plates were nearly clean- and asked, “Not too hungry, son?”

I could have just said No, but all of a sudden I decided to put an end to it. “You shouldn’t call me that,” I remarked quietly, poking the remainder of my potato-hill with my fork. “Seeing as I’m not.”

Dad’s fork fell with a clatter and there was a moment of complete silence. I didn’t look up, but I could feel three shocked, horrified gazes burning into me.

“Frank...” The man who’d called himself my father sounded stunned, his voice weak. “How- who-?”

“I might have known,” Laura said bitterly. “Trust you to run to him at the first opportunity, Joseph, and-”

“That's right, blame the one who's not guilty!” I shouted, turning on her with a savagery that astounded even me. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it? Someone else's fault, never yours! But you can't squirm out of this one, because Joe said nothing to me about it. Not a word! He wasn't the one who said, He's not my son!" I mimicked her voice. "He’s not your father’s son. He’s not your brother." I had to stop and catch my breath as the pain of the last statement rolled over me again.

Little brother...

“Laura-!” Fenton’s voice came out in a shocked whisper. “How could you?”

She had gone white and her hand pressed against her throat, her gaze darting between me and her husband. "You- but- I didn't..."

"Don't tell me you didn't! I was coming downstairs to get my medication and I heard! I sat there on those steps and listened to every word you said about me and my real parents!” I pointed fiercely at the staircase, glaring at the wide-eyed woman, rage overwhelming my grief. "You never wanted me, never, you just got stuck with me when circumstances went out of your control! And then you lied to me!” I spun to face Fenton, for he was trying to interrupt. “Every damned day of my life, you’ve let me live a complete lie. From the day I was old enough to understand English!” I paused as something else occurred to me. “You know, you’re a fine one to accuse us of lying to you,” I growled, turning on my aunt again. “You’ve deceived me and Joe every day- for sixteen years! And you have the absolute gall to scream at us for telling most of the truth?”

Joe’s bowed head snapped up; his blue eyes were full of misery, but his mouth was tight with anger. “You’ve got a real good point there, brother,” he told me grimly. “And you are my brother, no matter what anybody says. Maybe not by birth, but by choice and blood.”

I met his intense gaze, his words soothing me slightly. By choice- yes; if choices meant anything at all, he was who I’d chose to be my brother. Maybe it didn’t mean anything legally, there might be a different label for us now, but it wouldn’t change the relationship we’d had all our lives. As long as he felt like my brother, filled a brother’s place in my heart, that was what he would be- what I would call him. But by blood-?

Then I remembered: the blood he'd donated to me in the hospital.

Yes, I have that much left. I haven’t lost him. He’s truly my brother, my blood brother.

But then- if he was my brother- what did that make his parents, to me? How could I call them Mom and Dad now? Yet- how could I not, and still call Joe my brother? I pushed the puzzle aside; we could work through that some other time. He was my brother, and the thought strengthened me.

“You lied to me, too,” I accused my real father’s brother. “And you didn’t care enough to adopt me as your ‘real’ son. Did you.”

“S- Frank, we- I-” he stammered, then let out a breath and closed his eyes, rubbing them with his finger and thumb. “We were appointed your legal guardians, Frank. And we did consider adopting you. But-”

“But, you didn’t.” I bit down on the rest of my remark- ‘What stopped you- knowing you’d soon have a honest-to-goodness kid of your own?’- stood up from my chair and started to walk towards the stairs. Then I stopped, turned about, and stalked out the front door. Maybe the guy who shot me would be hanging around, waiting for a better chance. And maybe this time, he’d have decent aim.

I didn’t really want to die, but it took me a long time to reach that conclusion.

I walked, too lost in my own angry misery to notice where I was going and how tired I was getting. When my legs started to feel unsteady, I sat down on someone's lawn and rested; when I felt stronger, I got up and kept walking. Away. Anywhere, so long as it was away from that house and that man and woman. A little while later I had to rest again, and sat down right where I was. I was vaguely aware of streets and stoplights, traffic and buildings, and the faint smell of salt water, but I didn't pay much attention to any of that. I was also aware of sidelong glances from people passing me- most people don't sit down on the curb to take a breather- but I ignored those. When I could, I got up and went on again.

I lost track of how many times I stopped and rested and got up and walked again, but I did notice that my rests were getting longer and longer, without making much difference to my fatigue. I tried to ignore the fact, but when I started stumbling over rough spots in the pavement, I admitted to myself that I had to stop soon, before I collapsed. Halting, I looked around and took in my surroundings. I was over a mile from home, on the far side of Bayport proper, heading into the suburbs between us and Southport. The sensible thing to do would be to find a phone booth and call to tell Dad or Joe where I was, but I didn’t feel like being sensible. And what was so sensible about seeking out acrimony and confrontations and half-truths, anyway? Home wasn’t a haven for me anymore; it was the source of all my problems. I’d be an idiot to go back there.

Of course, that didn’t leave me with many prospects of where to sleep.

I sat down on the curb to rest my shaking legs and tried to decide what to do. I could call some of my friends, maybe, but then I’d have a lot of explaining to do. I wondered if my family would call in a missing persons report on me or not. Sighing again, I noticed the ache in my gut and felt rather relieved that my painkiller vial was still in my pocket. I was wondering if all this walking was good or bad for me- and concluding that it hardly mattered- when a car pulled up beside me. As I looked up, fully expecting to see the man with the gun taking aim at me again, I noticed in passing that the sky was growing dark. I wasn’t afraid, I was too tired and depressed to feel any fear. So when I found myself gazing into my father’s worried eyes and recognized the family car, I simply stared back at him, mildly surprised and relieved. I hadn't, I discovered, really wanted to get shot again, after all.

The next thing I knew, Dad was crouched in the street before me, asking if I was hurt. Then the other door slammed and Joe came racing to my side- always running, where did he get all that energy from?- and knelt on the curb, his hand smoothing over my shoulder. They were both asking questions too quickly for me to follow, so I just sat there feeling somewhere between glad and irritated that they'd found me.

“I almost wish he’d killed me,” I remarked to Joe when he finally quieted down.

That, of course, set off a new round of jabbering questions, but then Dad hushed Joe and asked, “Who? When?”

“The guy with the gun, in the car,” I replied, surprised. “When he shot me.”

“Oh.” Dad looked relieved. “I thought you meant now, tonight.”

I snorted, the irritability breaking through my half-numb fatigue. “Listen to him,” I told my brother. “He hears me wish I was weeks dead and all he can say is he’s glad it didn’t happen tonight. Why not tonight? Three weeks ago would be better, though,” I went on, turning to face the man, whose relieved expression was fading into a sort of appalled sorrow. “Then none of this would’ve happened. For that matter, last year would’ve worked just as well...if you get right down to it, it would’ve been better if I’d died in the fire with my parents.” I glanced back at Joe, fondly. “Then you wouldn’t have to miss me.”

“Frank, I- I just meant that I’m glad you’re not hurt,” Dad protested. “We’ve been looking for you for the past two hours, worrying the whole time that you’d end up in the hospital again, or worse.” He took a breath, let it out in a sigh, and added, “It’s getting late. Come get in the car and we’ll go home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” I told him bleakly. Besides that, I was not all too sure I could stand up. Joe slid his arm around my shoulders and I leaned against him, wishing I was as healthy and strong as he was. Then I could have walked farther, too far for them to find me. “I hate it there- every time I go home, things just get worse and worse.” Was that really me talking? Calm, logical, old-for-his-years Frank Hardy making such a petulant, emotional overstatement?

“I know,” my brother murmured as Dad sighed again. “But you’re tired and need to rest, and your bed’s the best place for that. Besides, your painkillers are there. Remember how you put them down on your night-table while we were talking in your room? And you look like you could use one.”

I frowned, patted my pocket, and discovered that it was empty. “Forgot about that,” I admitted, feeling defeated. They’d take me home whether I wanted them to or not, rationalizing it as what was best for me physically, if not emotionally. And I didn’t have the energy to deny them. In fact- “I don’t think I can stand up. It hurts.” The result of that statement was my father and brother carefully helping me to my feet and guiding me the few steps to the car. I lay down across the back seat and closed my eyes. The gray of the evening seemed to fill my head and I hardly felt the car move as Dad drove home.

How I got into the house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom is still beyond me; I have no memory of it. I do recall making a tremendous fuss when someone tried to tuck me in bed, though. I pushed and slapped at the hands that were trying to keep me in bed, nearly falling to the floor when I got up, but I persisted and managed to get out of the room on my own. Joe tried to turn me back when I got partway down the hall, but I pushed him aside too and got into the bathroom without further interference. I had to go, bad.

It wasn’t pleasant. In fact, it hurt worse than it had in the hospital, so much so that I sank my teeth into my hand to keep from yelling. ‘That’s what you get for eating solid foods,’ said the little voice of logic in the back of my brain. I didn’t pay it much attention, except to admit the validity; I was too busy getting my breath back and being glad that, despite all the pain, there was no blood. When I got out of there, someone helped me back down the hall to my room. This time, I didn’t protest as I was covered up, and when Joe gave me the pain pill, I took it with relief. The grayness came back with a vengeance, turning black almost at once, and I gratefully floated away from the pain and misery.

 

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.