"Family Album"

Author: Samantha
Email: sammer77@aol.com

Michael Finn was two days away from turning 33 years old. It was precisely 5:17 am when the shrill ringing of his bedside phone pierced his dreams. Reaching out blindly for the receiver, he mumbled "I’ve got it" to his wife, Lily, and picked it up, pressing it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Michael."

"Mom." He sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes. "What is it?"

A pause.

"Mom. Mom, you there?" He was completely awake now and swallowed the sudden fear that was rising in his throat.

An inaudible sound. A deep, jagged breath. "Michael…it’s your dad."

"Dad? What about him? Is he alright?" His heart started to pound in his ears.

Another breath, this one slower, steadier. Mike knew that breath and it scared him.

"He’s gone, Michael. He’s gone."

"What do you mean, gone? Where did he go?"

"No." Mike heard his mother try to calm herself. "No, Michael. What I mean is…he’s not breathing."

No. He didn’t just hear her right. He couldn’t have. "W-What? What happened?"

"I don’t know. We went to sleep and he was fine. I woke up and…and…found him. He’s so cold, Michael." Another pause. "Oh God…"

"Mom, listen to me. Did you call 911?"

Nothing.

"Mom!"

A weak, "Yeah?"

"Call 911. Now. I’ll be right there."

Silence.

"Okay, Mom? I’ll be right there. Call an ambulance."

"Okay."

Mike kept the phone pressed to his ear until he heard his mother hang up. Then he sat for a moment, gripping it tightly in his fingers, his mother’s words pounding in his head.

"Honey? Honey, what’s the matter?" Lily asked from beside him.

Mike jumped, startled out of his reverie. "Um, that was my mom. She needs me to go over there." He gazed at his wife briefly before throwing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his feet into the carpet and leaning forward on his elbows.

Lily’s hand grabbed his shoulder. "What’s wrong, Mike? What happened?"

Mike stared at his feet for a long moment and let out his breath. "It’s my dad."

The paramedics were already at his parents’ house when Mike arrived. The red and white flashing lights lit up the night sky harshly and he tried not to focus on them as he jogged up the front walk and up the porch steps.

The scene that greeted him as he opened the front door was almost surreal. The lights in the living room were off, but the ones upstairs were on. The light poured down the stairs and cast an eerie glow over the carpet at the base of the staircase. The soft sounds of commotion greeted his ears and as he forced his feet up the stairs, he saw the enlarged shadows of busy men on the walls.

His heart in his throat, he gripped the railing tightly as he pushed himself up the last two steps and rounded the corner to his parents’ room.

"…three," the older man said to his younger partner as they hoisted Mike’s father onto the stretcher.

"Hey, is he gonna be…" Mike began, his eyes fixed on his father, "…alright?" he finished hoarsely, watching in horror as the starched white sheet was pulled over his father’s face.

Everything was in slow motion for a moment after that as the paramedics pushed the stretcher past him and into the hallway. The younger one muttered something that sounded like, "I’m sorry," as they passed by, but Mike wasn’t sure if those were his actual words.

Mike’s eyes followed the paramedics as they disappeared down the staircase, frozen in place. It wasn’t until he heard the front door open and close that he remembered his mother. Snapping his head around, he searched for her.

He found her sitting in bed, the blankets tangled around her legs, the front of her nightgown creased and wrinkled. She was just sitting there, staring at her husband’s side of the bed, her hand resting on his pillow where his head usually lay.

"Mom?" Mike said softly, finally moving from his spot in the doorway to walk towards the bed.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just continued to stare. Then, her voice barely a whisper, she said, "He promised he’d never leave me again."

Mike was 10 years old when his father moved out of the house. He came home from school one day and found his mother staring out the window, her eyes red from crying. When he asked her what was wrong, she looked at him and shook her head, saying simply, "Your dad’s gonna live somewhere else for a while."

Even though he was a little boy, Mike knew better than to ask any more questions. He just accepted it and took it upon himself to make sure his little brother Jason understood it as well.

The house wasn’t the same without his father; it was quieter, colder. His mom didn’t smile as much as she had before and the days he and Jason spent with their dad were forced and uncomfortable. Even Mike could feel the strain of trying to be the new man of the house at such a young age. He wanted his parents back together, the way they should be. But he didn’t want to make things worse by bringing it up.

His father was gone for almost seven months. And then one morning, he got up, went downstairs, and saw his dad sitting on the couch, his mom next to him, their hands clasped together.

He never asked any questions. The whys or hows didn’t matter. Because the smiles that had been missing from his parents’ faces had returned and the darkness that had descended on their home had been lifted.

They were once again a family.

"Yeah, Lily. We’re at the hospital….What?…Not too good. She hasn’t said much of anything since we left the house." Mike was leaning against the pay phone, his body feeling too heavy to hold up by himself. He held the phone in his left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right, squeezing his eyes shut against the throbbing in his temples. "I’m not sure when I’ll be home. How are the girls?…Good. Tell ‘em I love them….Yeah. I love you, too….Bye."

Mike hung up the phone with a thunk and let out his breath in a loud rush. He looked up and saw his mom still sitting in the same red plastic chair she had been sitting in since they arrived. And watching her, studying her face, he suddenly felt guilty for bringing her there. The last thing she needed was to be there; he knew how much she had always hated hospitals.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall for a moment. The picture of his father being rolled out on a stretcher, the sheet draped loosely over his body, flashed across his mind and he opened his eyes quickly and shook his head, trying to clear away the image. Standing up straight, he pushed himself away from the wall and began walking towards his mother.

She didn’t even seem to notice him approaching and she jumped slightly when he sat down beside her and placed his hand on hers. Turning her tired eyes towards his, Mike noticed for the first time that they were dry. She hadn’t shed a tear the entire night. "Michael," she whispered calmly. "I want to see him."

Mike sat up rigidly and squeezed her hand. "Mom, I don’t think that’s such a good idea," he said, shaking his head. "I think you should rest. You can stay with me and Lily. The girls would love to see you."

Buffy was shaking her head as well. "I need to see him, Michael. Please."

He looked at her in silence, all the logical arguments on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed them down and nodded once. "Okay. I’ll see what I can do."

Fifteen minutes later, they were staring at the cold, dead body of Riley Matthew Finn in the morgue. Mike felt his throat tighten the second he saw the square metal door that bore his father’s name. And he felt his mother’s fingers tighten around his left forearm as the door opened and the cold, metal drawer was pulled out.

The sharp sound of the body bag’s zipper rang through the refrigerated room and the closest thing to a sob that he had heard all night came not from his mother’s throat, but from his own. He choked it back as his mother’s slender fingers dug deeper into his arm.

Blue lips, closed eyelids rimmed with soft, light brown eyelashes. He looked…dead. That was the first time Mike had seen him since he got his mother’s frantic phone call almost two hours before. And the tiny little part of him that was still in denial, that still held out hope that this whole thing was one huge misunderstanding, disappeared completely.

He was now 100% convinced that his father was dead.

A crisp, crumpling sound drew his attention and he turned his head towards the diminutive woman next to him. She had released her grip on his arm and was fumbling around inside a large manila envelope labeled "Finn, Riley M."—the envelope the nurse had given to her that contained his father’s belongings.

Mike watched in silence as his mother searched frantically for something inside the envelope, resisting the urge to grab her arm and stop her. The sound of the paper was driving him crazy. But a second later she stopped, withdrawing her fist from the envelope and holding the envelope out to her son without a word.

Taking the envelope from her, he folded it in half neatly and focused his eyes on his mother. Buffy took a step forward until the edge of the metal drawer was pressed against her stomach, then she reached inside the black plastic bag and pulled out her husband’s left hand, pressing his fingers to her lips.

The pale white circle where he wore his wedding ring was still visible and she rubbed her thumb over it slowly. Then she set his hand down across his chest, letting her fingers mingle with his for a moment, before opening her fist and grasping the thin gold band—still shiny after so many years—in her fingers. And as she began to slip the ring back onto his finger, her hand started to tremble.

Mike reached out and touched her shoulder. "Mom," he whispered.

But she shook her head firmly, took a breath, and proceeded, sliding the ring down his finger until it covered the white circle completely. "There," she said clearly after a moment. "That’s where it belongs."

Twelve-year-old Michael squirmed uncomfortably as his grandmother tied the knot in his tie. He hated wearing a suit and he didn’t understand why he had to wear one now. Sure, his parents were getting married again. But it wasn’t like they weren’t already married. And it’s not like they wouldn’t be just as married if he wore jeans.

But his grandmother insisted. "Dressing up never killed anybody, Michael. Besides, if you don’t wear your suit, the ushers will think that you’re one of the neighborhood kids and won’t even let you in. And it would break your mother’s heart if you weren’t there." Then she winked at him and gave him one of her grandmotherly smiles and so he rolled his eyes and stopped squirming and let her tie the tie.

"I’m ready, Grandma!" Jason proclaimed as he bounced into the room, a huge grin on his face. He looked at his older brother and smirked. "Can’t even tie your own tie, huh Michael? I can."

Glaring at his seven-year-old heathen of a brother, Mike narrowed his eyes and held up his fist. "Shut up, twerp, before I make you."

"Boys, boys," Claire Finn interjected calmly, standing up and putting a hand on each of the boys. "Let’s not fight. We’re supposed to make this day special for your mom and dad, remember? That means being the little angels I know you can be." She smiled down at her grandsons. "Okay?"

Narrowing his eyes at his brother one last time, Mike sighed and stated evenly, "Fine," walking out of the room with his brother in tow.

"Why didn’t you call me sooner?" His brother’s angry voice boomed from the other end of the phone line.

"Look, Jason," Mike said calmly. "It’s been crazy here. I’ve had a lot of things on my mind."

"Glad to hear that I was one of them." Mike could hear Jason sigh into the phone in frustration. Then he said, "I’ll bet you called Cameron already."

Mike didn’t answer.

"I knew it," Jason spat out. "I fucking knew it. Figures."

"Well, if it makes any difference, he wasn’t there."

"Gee, Mike. I feel so much better now."

Mike was at the end of his already short fuse. "Goddammit, Jason. Now is not the time for this shit. Are you coming or not?"

A brief pause from the other end. Then, "Yeah. I’ll be there just as soon as I can get a flight. How’s Mom?"

"How do you think?" Mike shot back, more abruptly than intended.

"Right." Another breath. "Bye." Click.

"Bye," Mike replied to the dial tone.

A minute later, he tried calling Cameron again. He tapped his knee nervously as he counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five, six. Didn’t the kid ever hear of an answering machine? Seven, eight, nine.

Dammit. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he was about to hang up when he heard a voice on the other end finally say, "Hello?"

Pressing the phone back to his ear, Mike answered, "Cam? Is that you?"

"Yeah, this is Cam. Who is this?"

"Cameron, it’s Mike. I’m glad I finally got a hold of you. I’ve tried calling you four times. Where have you been?"

"Out," Cameron replied simply. "What’s up?"

Mike closed his eyes and let out his breath slowly. "Cam…it’s Dad. He…uh…" He couldn’t seem to say the words.

"Mike, what about Dad?" Cam’s voice suddenly sounded serious.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat and taking a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking, Mike said softly, "Cameron, Dad’s dead."

Cameron Ryan Finn was born exactly three months and seventeen days after Mike’s fifteenth birthday. The newest member of the Finn family was the pride of his father and the joy of his mother, weighing in at 7 pounds, 14 ounces.

Michael resented his littlest brother from the moment he was told of his existence. All the young man could see were more babysitting duties and sleepless nights; crying and baby food on the floor and dirty diapers. And for the first three years of Cameron’s life, Mike interacted as little as possible with his brother.

But something happened to change his mind. It was two and a half months into the fall semester at UCLA when he received a call from his father. Cameron was in the hospital in a coma. He had fallen from the monkey bars and had broken two vertebrae in his neck.

The next several months were filled with tears and hospital visits and prayers. Until finally, the tears had dried and the prayers had paid off and Cameron was able to go home. Mike, who had withdrawn from school to help take care of his mom and brother, was trying to work through the guilt he felt about his brother’s condition. He felt that it was his fault; all the times he had wished that Cameron had never been born. He never talked about how he felt, just kept it to himself, all the time secretly vowing to himself that he would do everything he could to protect Cam from that day forward.

Mike became Cameron’s self-proclaimed protector, chasing away the bullies on the playground, teaching him how to hit a baseball, throw a football, drive a car. He gave all his attention to Cameron at the expense of others.

Others such as Jason.

When Mike walked into the kitchen, he immediately noticed the subdued quality of the atmosphere. Not that he expected it to be any other way. He walked over to his wife, who was standing next to the stove absently scrambling eggs in the heavy cast iron skillet, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"How is she?" he whispered to her, casting a sideways glance at his mother who was sitting at the breakfast table staring out the window, the bright morning sunshine making the blonde streaks in her hair shine.

Lily shrugged. "I don’t really know, Mike. She hasn’t said much of anything at all." She squeezed her husband’s hand gently and gave him a tight-lipped smile.

Just then, two noisy bundles bounded into the kitchen, their chatter filling the air. "Hi, Daddy!" they said cheerfully. Then, noticing their grandmother sitting at the table, they ran over and climbed up on the chairs next to her. "Nana!"

"Callie! Jessica! Nana’s not feeling very well right now. Let’s just let her be, okay?" Mike said quickly, striding over and taking his daughters’ hands.

Buffy put a hand on his arm and looked up into his face. "It’s okay, Michael. Let them stay."

Exchanging a long, silent look with his mother, Mike finally let go of his daughters’ hands and said softly, "Sure." Then he leaned down and said sternly to the two little girls, "Be good, okay? Don’t bother your grandma too much."

"We won’t, Daddy," Callie said sweetly, taking her little sister’s hand in one of hers and Buffy’s in the other. "Don’t be sad, Nana. Everything will be okay, I promise."

Walking back to where Lily was standing, Mike thought about his daughter’s words. How simple everything is to a six-year-old. How in the world was he going to explain the concept of death to his girls?

Mike had a good understanding about death when he was just a child. His maternal grandmother, Joyce, had died when he was five and his paternal grandfather, Roger, had died when he was seven. He still remembered the look on his father’s face the day they found out that grandpa Roger was gone. The wide-eyed look of grief that covered his dad’s face was the same one that covered his own now, if he was completely honest with himself.

In fact, Riley was about the age Mike was now when Roger died. He remembered the way his father had cried, his head cradled in his mother’s lap. He didn’t know Mike had seen him and Mike never mentioned it. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his father cry, but none of those times compared to the night after his grandfather’s funeral. His father had seemed so lost, so lonely. And there had been nothing Mike could do to help. And then the next morning, everything was fine again. Just like that.

Mike swallowed the lump in his throat as he shook the memory out of his head. There wasn’t any time to reminisce. Not when there was so much left to do.

Like arrange his dad’s funeral.

"Come on, Dad," Mike said in exasperation, "we had this talk when I was twelve. We really don’t need to have it again."

Riley looked at his seventeen-year-old son calmly. "I think we do, son. ‘Cause I’m not sure you got the message the first time."

Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat and refused to meet his father’s gaze. "Look, me and Shelly. What you saw…it wasn’t what you think. We were just…"

"…checking each other for ticks? Give me a break, Mike. I’m not an idiot. Don’t treat me like one," Riley said evenly, raising his eyebrows at his teenaged son.

"As long as you give me the same courtesy," Mike said then, looking his dad squarely in the eyes for the first time. He kept his gaze for a long moment without a word. Then he said slowly, "Nothing happened, Dad. I swear. And even if something did, I know all about the safety precautions, okay?"

Riley studied his son closely, then nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. "Good. I’m glad to hear that. Just promise me one thing, Mike. Promise me that if anything ever happens, even by accident, that you’ll come to me for help. Don’t keep it from me."

Nodding slowly, Mike replied, "Okay, Dad. I promise."

"Good," Riley said. A smile crept across his face as he stood up. "How about a game of 21? Loser washes the car." And he bolted out of Mike’s room and down the stairs.

Mike walked up the front walk to his childhood home. It looked different in the light of day, as if nothing tragic had happened there less than 24 hours before. Slipping the key in the lock, he turned it and opened the door, stepping inside. As he looked around, he noticed that everything was in its place, so neat and tidy, as if there hadn’t been two people actually living there.

Now there would only be one person living there.

Shaking his head, he headed towards the stairs, scaling them two at a time, suddenly intent on getting what he came for and getting out. He went there to get some of his mother’s things and so he took a quick right at the top of the stairs and entered his parents’ bedroom.

Ignoring the unmade bed, he walked to the closet and flung open the doors, stepping inside and reaching up to the top shelf to grab a suitcase. But when he pulled it down, more than just the suitcase came down. Shoeboxes and other odds and ends rained down on his head and Mike, cursing under his breath, threw the suitcase into the bedroom and bent to pick up the fallen items.

But he couldn’t get the stuff to stay on the closet shelf; they kept falling down again until Michael lost all patience and started kicking the boxes around the closet, taking his frustrations out on everything he could find. When he finally stopped, out of breath, he looked around at what he had done. Clothes and shoes were everywhere; the mess was supposed to have relieved some of the pressure in his chest. But, amazingly, he didn’t feel any better.

And he laughed. A dry, bitter laugh.

"Mike?"

Startled, his chest still heaving with labored breaths, Mike turned in the direction of the voice. Cameron stood in the doorway to the bedroom, looking at his brother strangely. "You alright?"

"I’m fine, Cam," Mike said quickly, stepping over the mess and out of the closet. "What are you doing here?

Cameron took another step into the room, stopping when he saw the bed, as if he didn’t want to get any closer. "I went by your house and Lily told me where to find you. Thought I’d help." His eyes fell once again on the rumpled blankets on the bed.

Following his brother’s gaze, Mike noticed what was drawing Cam’s attention and walked over to the bed, straightening the covers quickly.

"Is that where he…" Cam started but didn’t finish.

"Yeah," Mike answered softly. Then, louder, "I can handle things here, Cameron. You should go back to the house and be with Mom. Have you seen her yet?"

"Uh…" Cam muttered, raising his eyes to meet his brother’s, looking at Mike as though he was trying to remember the question. "What?" he asked finally.

Rounding the foot of the bed, Mike walked over to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to focus on his face. "Go on, Cameron. Back to my house. Mom’s there and I’m sure she’d like to see you."

"Mom…" Cam said absently, nodding. "Oh God, Mom."

"Go," Mike urged. "I’ll be there in a little while."

Nodding in affirmation, Cam muttered softly, "Alright." Then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

"Jason! If you don’t have your butt down here in one minute, you’re walking to school!" Mike screamed impatiently from the kitchen. He was standing by the door, car keys in hand.

"Michael, please don’t yell in the house. Your brother will be down. You have plenty of time, don’t worry," Buffy said from the table.

"He *always* does this, Mom. He does it just to piss me off," Mike spat, crossing his arms indignantly.

"Watch your mouth, Mike." Riley’s words were accompanied by a stern look towards his eldest son.

Jason walked into the kitchen, his book bag slung over his shoulder, a smile on his face. "Good morning, family," he said cheerfully, messing little Cameron’s hair as he passed by.

"Morning, son," his parents echoed.

Rolling his eyes, Mike opened the back door, standing in the open doorway. "Can we go, please? I promised Shelly I’d meet her before homeroom."

Jason made kissing noises as he walked towards the door. "Ooh, Shelly. I love you, I love you, I love you," he said playfully, batting his eyelashes at his older brother.

"Shut up, moron," Mike said, grabbing Jason by the back of his shirt and pushing him out the door

The house was full of Finns when Mike opened his front door. Jason had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and was currently sitting on the couch in the living room, three-year-old Jessica in his lap.

Jessica, spotting her dad in the foyer, smiled widely and said, "Look, Daddy! Uncle Jason’s here!"

The two brothers’ eyes met briefly before Mike nodded and smiled slightly at his little girl. "I see that, Jess."

"Uncle Cameron’s here, too. He’s with Nana."

"And where’s Nana, Jess?"

"Upstairs in your room."

Nodding again, Mike turned to go upstairs, the suitcase starting to weigh him down.

"Hello, Mike."

Jason’s crisp words caused him to turn around and nod in his brother’s direction. "Jason," he replied evenly. "Thanks for coming," he added.

"Sure. No problem."

Shaking his head slowly, Mike turned and walked up the stairs.

His legs felt like lead and the fatigue pulled on his eyelids as he rounded the corner into his bedroom. He found his mom sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. Cameron sat beside her, holding her hand loosely in his.

"Mom," Mike said gently, setting the suitcase down by the door. "I brought you some of your stuff. So you can change your clothes and everything."

Buffy didn’t respond at first, then nodded and said, "Thank you, Michael." A silent moment passed and Mike turned to go. His mother’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

"The blue suit."

Mike turned and leaned against the doorframe heavily. "What?"

Buffy turned to look at her oldest son through tired eyes. "Your father’s blue suit. That’s the one he should be buried in. I’ve been trying to decide between the blue and the gray. I think blue would be the nicest. Don’t you think?"

Mike let out his breath and tried to clear the lump out of his throat. He didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Cameron jumped in and said, "Sure, Mom. I think the blue one would be nice." Kissing his mother on the cheek, he squeezed her hand and stood up, walking over to Mike and whispering, "I’ll go get it."

Shaking his head emphatically, Mike laid a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. "I’ll get it. You stay here and be with Mom."

"Mike…" Cameron started protesting.

"Please, Cam."

Sighing, Cam relented, nodding. "Okay."

"Thanks," Mike said wearily, letting his hand drop to his side as he turned to head back downstairs.

"Where are you going now, Daddy?" Jessica asked from the living room, still perched on Jason’s lap.

"Back to Nana’s house. Daddy forgot something." He reached for the doorknob.

"I’ll go," Jason said, standing up and setting his little niece on her feet.

Mike shook his head. "You don’t even know what you’re looking for."

"I will when you tell me," Jason replied, trying hard to control the edge in his voice.

Too exhausted to argue, Mike sighed heavily and looked at his brother. "Dad’s blue suit. Mom said that’s the one…" He let his voice trail off when he saw his little daughter saunter up between them.

Nodding silently, Jason reached out and pulled open the front door. "I’ll be back soon."

"Jason," Mike said quickly, remembering something. He followed Jason out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. "Could you take it by the funeral home? Sunny Meadows."

"Sure." Jason turned and walked down the front steps, heading down the front walk. Then he stopped and turned suddenly, saying, "That’s a stupid name, isn’t it?"

"What is?" Mike asked from the doorway.

"Sunny Meadows. That’s a really stupid name for a funeral home."

Mike sniffed. "Yeah. I guess it is," he said, smiling slightly.

"See you later."

"Later."

Turning, Mike went back into the house.

"Mike, I asked you to take your brother along *with* you, not drop him off at the arcade and then forget about him!" Riley was having a hard time controlling his anger.

"He *wanted* to go to the arcade, Dad," Mike said evenly. "I was doing him a favor."

"And were you doing him a favor when you left him there for *eight* hours? He called here looking for you. He was worried that you were dead or something!" Riley started pacing, stopping every few steps to glare at his sixteen-year-old son.

Mike leaned against the back of the couch and watched his father amusedly. "Well, I’m not dead. See? It’s not my fault the kid has a wild imagination," he replied calmly, shrugging.

"You think this is pretty funny, don’t you? A real laugh riot. Jason is eleven years old, Mike. Eleven! You should be more responsible. Let’s see how funny you think it is after, say, two weeks of thinking about it." Riley stopped pacing and stood towering over the young man on the couch.

"Two weeks?! Come on, Dad!"

"That’s it, Michael. No arguments. Now go up to your room. We’ll let you know when dinner’s ready."

Standing, Michael glared into his father’s face. At 16, he was almost as tall as Riley. "I hate you," Mike muttered before stalking away up the stairs.

Riley just shook his head as he watched his son disappear up the stairs.

The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the back yard. Mike sat on the wooden picnic table, his feet resting heavily on the bench below. His shoulders were slumped and the pounding in his head had gradually worsened throughout the day.

He looked up into the sky and rubbed the back of his neck. It had been over 36 hours since his mother had called him to tell him his father was dead. And even though those words had never really come out of her mouth, looking back, Mike knew that’s what she meant but just couldn’t bring herself to say.

His father had only been 59 years old. Fifty-nine. It didn’t seem right. Mike had just talked to him three days ago. They were planning to go fishing over the weekend. He guessed he wouldn’t be going fishing after all.

Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he took a deep drag and let the smoke burn in his lungs for a moment before pushing it out through his nostrils. The fiery orange tip bobbed in the increasing darkness as he tapped his fingers nervously against his knee.

"I thought you quit."

Looking over his shoulder, Mike spotted Jason standing a few feet behind the table. "I did," he answered simply as he turned back around and took another drag from the cigarette.

Silence passed between the brothers.

"Did you find the suit?" Mike asked suddenly.

"It’s taken care of."

"Good." Pause. "What time did you get in?"

"About 4:30, I guess."

"Hmm."

A soft female voice cut through the increasingly uncomfortable silence. "Dinner’s ready in case anyone’s hungry."

"Thanks, hon," Mike called over his shoulder. "We’ll be right there." He stood up and dropped the cigarette butt on the grass, watching as the tiny orange fire disappeared under his boot.

"Hungry?" he asked his brother as he made his way back to the house.

Jason studied his brother in the growing darkness. "Yeah. A little," he replied, following Mike into the house.

"Okay, let’s count off," Riley said as he clicked the seatbelt into place.

"One," Mike said from the passenger’s seat.

"Two!" came Jason’s voice from the backseat.

"Is everyone buckled up?" Riley asked, and when it had been confirmed that everyone was, he started the van and backed out of the driveway.

The three Finn men spent the entire day at the mall searching for the perfect gift for Buffy for Mother’s Day. Flowers, candy, and a card were not enough for the lone female in the Finn household, no siree. Nope, Riley had had a serious discussion with the boys about it and they had all decided to make an event out of it. Mike carried a bag full of streamers and balloons and confetti and all other such goodies from the Hallmark store while little Jason, who insisted on carrying something, dragged another bag full of goodies behind him.

Riley smiled to himself as he watched his smallest son struggle with the bag that was almost as big as he was. "Hey guys," he said, pointing to his left. "Look over there. I’d bet your mom would like that. Whaddya think?"

Jason grinned widely and ran over to the storefront to make a closer inspection while Mike smiled up at his father. "Mom’s gonna be so happy, she’ll probably cry," he said, laughing.

"You’re probably right, kiddo. But as long as she cries because she’s happy, it’s okay. Isn’t it?" Riley asked.

"Yup. I guess," Mike replied matter-of-factly.

"Come on. We better go before Jason takes all the credit."

Bolting up in bed, Mike looked around the room frantically, cold rivulets of sweat running down his face. He was trying to catch his breath when he felt his wife’s soothing hand on his back. "What’s the matter, honey?" she asked gently.

"Nothing," he said quickly, throwing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "It’s alright now. Go back to sleep."

"Michael, I wish you would talk to me," she pleaded softly.

But he shook her off. "I’m fine, Lily. It was nothing." Then he got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He pressed his back against the door and closed his eyes. The throbbing at his temples hadn’t lessened at all and he balled his hands into fists, wanting to hit something, anything that would make the pain go away.

But he didn’t. Instead, he flipped on the light, squinting against the sudden assault, and gripped the sink tightly in his fingers, the cool porcelain strangely soothing against the fire that raged inside. Turning on the cold water, he bent down and splashed two handfuls of it on his face, letting it drip down his face, his neck, his chest.

And he stared at his reflection, seeing his father’s face. He had his mother’s eyes; everyone had always told him that. But the rest—the rest was all Riley. He had never really noticed it before, just how much he resembled his dad. Maybe that’s why his mom had a hard time looking at him. He reminded her too much of him.

"Damn you, Dad," he whispered to his own reflection. "Why did you have to leave everyone behind?"

"Finn men versus Finn women," Riley stated as studied his wife, grinning widely.

Buffy stood at the edge of the driveway, her hands on her hips. "Don’t you think that’s a little unfair? I mean, there are four men and only one woman. I’m just a bit outnumbered, don’t you think?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time, my dear," Riley drawled tauntingly.

Buffy smirked at him.

"I’ll play with you, Mommy!" three-year-old Cameron offered, running over to Buffy and hugging her legs.

"At least I have one ally around here," she said proudly, running her fingers through her youngest son’s hair.

"Fine," Riley said. "Three against two. The manly men against the girl and the munchkin. I’d say that’s even."

"I just bet you would," Buffy said, wrinkling her nose at her husband. Then she knelt down until she was eye level with Cameron. "It’s just you and me, kid. Ready to kick some butt?"

"Yeah!" Cam exclaimed, laughing.

"Alright," Buffy said, standing and looking each of them in the eye one by one. "Let’s play ball. You’re gonna regret it, though. ‘Cause Cam and me, we’ve got moves you’ve never seen." Then she lunged for the basketball.

The soft strumming of guitar strings wafted up the stairs as Mike approached them. And the farther he got down the stairs, the louder the sounds became. Mike stood in the doorway to the den, watching silently as his brother Cameron played his guitar. He had his eyes closed and the dim light of the lamp made the shadows of his fingers dance along the wall.

The music continued for several more minutes before Cameron stopped strumming and opened his eyes. He jumped slightly when he noticed Mike in the doorway. "How long have you been standing there?" he asked him.

"Not long," Mike answered softly. "That was great."

Cameron shrugged. "It’s nothing, really. Just something I’ve been working on. It’s not finished."

"You wrote that yourself?"

"Yeah. Like I said, it’s nothing. I can’t seem to finish it. I keep getting stuck on the same part." He sighed and set the guitar down on the floor by his feet, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the carpet. He absently played with the pick in his hand.

"Well, for what it’s worth," Mike said as he stepped into the den and sat on the couch across from him, "I think it’s good."

"Thanks."

Silence fell upon the room as Mike studied the young man in front of him. He wasn’t a kid anymore; he could see that now. His baby brother was a man in his own right and didn’t need to be protected anymore.

"How did it happen, Mike?" Cam asked suddenly.

Mike could feel his brother’s gaze upon him and he shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t really know, Cam. Mom said he was fine when they went to sleep." He set his jaw tightly and offered nothing more.

"Jason figured he probably had a stroke or something. Something quick, you know? Quick enough that Mom wouldn’t even notice anything lying beside him." Cam’s voice started shaking slightly and Mike heard him inhale a deep, audible breath.

"Where is Jason, anyway? He disappeared after dinner." Mike knew that Cameron knew that he was changing the subject, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to talk about his dad.

Cam shrugged. "I don’t know. Last time I saw him, he told me he had to go out and get some air."

"Or a drink," Mike muttered bitterly, under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Silence again.

"We all deal with things differently," Cam offered.

Mike stared at his brother in the dim light. "What?"

"This is hard on all of us, you know," he said. "Some of us need to let off a little steam. I play the guitar to clear my head. Jason has a few drinks. Mom writes in her journal. Just because we don’t act the way you do doesn’t mean that we don’t care."

"I know that, Cameron," Mike said, sitting up. "But someone’s got to take care of things around here. If I don’t do them, nobody will." And he got up and stormed out of the den, calling brusquely over his shoulder, "The service starts at 9:00am. Be ready."

"Happy 30th Anniversary, Mom and Dad," Mike toasted as he raised his glass of champagne.

"Here, here," everyone echoed as glasses clinked all around the table.

The happy couple sat at the head of the table, hands clasped tightly, huge smiles cutting across their faces. "Thanks, son," Riley said and leaned down to plant a big wet one on his wife. Buffy blushed slightly and tried to blink her tears away. "I don’t know what to say," she whispered.

"Don’t say anything," Cameron said. "Just promise to stay married for another 30 years." He winked at his parents and downed his champagne in one gulp, instantly regretting it because it was the only glass of champagne he was allowed to have.

"That’s should be an easy promise to keep," Riley said, laughing. "Of course, that’s if your mom’ll have me."

Buffy looked up into her husband’s face, her adoration for him written clearly in her eyes. "Always."

An awkward silence descended upon the groups as they shared another kiss. Then Jason broke it by saying, "Enough already! Let’s eat!"

The household awakened to the realization that today was the day they were going to bury someone they all loved dearly and everyone in it acted accordingly. Even the girls were unusually calm and quiet, staying close by their grandmother, acting like if they left her side, she would crumble to the ground.

Faces were washed, teeth were brushed, neatly pressed and starched clothes were put on bodies surrounding broken hearts. Half-eaten breakfasts were left on the table to be dealt with later, much later. When there was nothing left to do but move on.

But right at that moment, everyone was content to leave well enough alone. To leave the dirty dishes as a reminder that life must go on, even if it’s only long enough to clean the mess away.

Everyone was ready to go and still no sign of Jason. Mike fumed inwardly at his middle brother’s lack of responsibility, but didn’t say a word. He just ushered the girls out to the car as Lily left a note for Jason telling him where’d they be.

They arrived at the church early enough to greet the guests. Cameron escorted their mother into the church, walking silently up the middle aisle and taking a seat in the front row. His father’s casket was set up on the altar, the front half of it open. Cameron stared at it for a long moment, then looked at his mother and saw her gaze focused on it as well, her lips trembling and her eyes welling up.

"Mom," he whispered. "We can wait outside until it starts if you’d like."

But Buffy shook her head solidly and took a deep breath, steadying herself. "No, it’s alright," she said, patting her son’s hand. "It’s alright."

At the sound of his name, Mike looked up from his perch in the church doorway and into the face of Josh Miller. "Oh my God. Josh Miller. How have you been?" he asked his once inseparable boyhood friend, extending his hand.

"Fine, Mike," Josh replied, taking Mike’s hand in both of his. "I’m very sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good man."

"Thanks." Then, "How did you even know?"

"Your wife called my dad. She said she didn’t know who to call, so she just called everyone in your mother’s address book. My dad called me and here I am," Josh answered, letting go of Mike’s hand.

"Uncle Graham?" Mike asked absently, the once-familiar moniker for his father’s best friend rolling easily from his lips.

"I think the last time you called me that was when you were ten or eleven years old," Graham said as he stepped up next to his son. "Michael Finn. Gosh, you’ve grown."

"A lot can happen to a person in 20 years," Mike muttered, taking Graham’s hand and forcing a smile.

"How’s Buffy?" Graham asked.

"She’s holding up alright, I guess. She hasn’t said much in the last couple days," Mike answered mechanically.

"I know the feeling. There just doesn’t seem like there’s much to say when you lose the one person you tell everything to," Graham offered. "I don’t think I said a word for almost a month after I lost Will."

Mike just nodded, only half-listening, still searching the perimeter for his absentee brother. "Thanks for coming," he said absently. He looked at his watch; it was 9:07. They couldn’t wait any longer. And he followed Graham and Josh inside the church.

"I can’t believe he didn’t come," Mike said to his father, the anger in his voice obvious.

"Son, he’s got classes and other obligations he couldn’t get out of. He would’ve been here if he could have," Riley soothed.

Mike shook his head. "Quit making excuses for him, Dad. Why can’t you just face the fact that he’s a screw-up that would rather party with his friends than come to his own brother’s wedding? Why can’t you see that he hates me?"

"Stop it, Michael. Jason does not hate you."

"Have you tried telling him that? ‘Cause I don’t think he got that memo."

"Mike…"

"Forget it. It doesn’t matter anyway. Where’s Mom? She promised to dance with me," Mike said, searching the reception crowd for Buffy. When he spotted her, he made a beeline for her, leaving his father standing there.

"A gray suit! He’s wearing a gray suit! It’s supposed to be blue! He’s supposed to wearing the blue suit!" Mike screamed from the front of the church, going ballistic the moment he saw his father’s body.

All eyes were on him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to notice his brother’s hands on him, either. Mike stood on the steps in front of the altar, in front of his father’s casket, staring wildly back at the numerous pairs of eyes focused on him.

"I told him to get the blue suit! Blue!" He looked at his mother, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I swear I told him the blue one, Mom. Just like you wanted. He said he’d taken care of it." He looked back at the crowd. "He told me he’d taken care of it! Now it’s ruined…all ruined." His whole body started to shake and he slumped to the floor, choking on the sobs that had held back for the last two days.

Cameron reached for him and Josh had come forward to help, but Buffy said quietly, "Leave him alone."

Lily, telling the girls to stay put, walked up to her husband and sat down silently beside him, weaving her fingers through his hair. Mike grasped the hem of her dress in his fingers and buried his face in her lap, his shoulders shaking under her hand.

No other sound could be heard in the church and everyone was so transfixed with the scene at the front, that when the church doors opened and Jason walked in, no one turned to look.

The wall was covered with photographs—the "Wall of Memories" as his mother called it. Each picture was a freeze-frame of various Finn moments and triumphs—birthdays and Christmases, baseball championships and music recitals, a memorial to a sister he never knew.

He wished he had known Emma. He probably would have like having a sister around. Then he wouldn’t be the oldest anymore, the responsible one, the strong one. Finally, he would have someone to look to when he needed help.

After the scene in the church, he had followed the group to Serenity Cemetery, where he had watched them lower his father into the ground. Then he endured the reception, biting his tongue at the hundredth, "I’m sorry for your loss" and escaping just as soon as he could find an opening.

Here he was, in the familiar comfort of his parents’ den. He used to watch basketball and football and baseball with his dad in this room. They would sit on the couch together, side-by-side, munching on junk food and rooting for the Lakers or the 49ers or the Dodgers. It didn’t matter who was playing or even if their favorite team was winning or losing. All that mattered were those few hours of father-son bliss, just him and his dad.

Not even Jason or Cameron had that.

That memory belonged to him only.

Memories were all he had left.

He sunk into the soft leather sofa and rested his head against the back of it, closing his eyes and letting out his breath slowly. He wanted to remember how it felt to be 12 years old again, to have his most pressing problem be getting an A in math, to come home and know that his dad would be there to greet him.

But he wasn’t 12 years old anymore. And he never would be again. He just had to face it.

"Mike."

He recognized the voice right away and opened his eyes to see the face it belonged to. He didn’t say a word.

"Mike," Jason said again, fumbling for words. "I thought I’d find you here. I know how much time you and Dad always spent here."

"What is it you want?" Mike asked, the words coming out more harshly than intended.

Jason let out his breath and shifted his weight as he stood in the doorway. "To say I’m sorry. For everything. For the way I talked to you on the phone the other day. For…for the suit. For all of it."

"It doesn’t matter."

"Yes it does, Mike. It matters to me," Jason said softly. He stared down at his feet and Mike knew he was searching for the right words to say. He wasn’t really in the mood to talk, but he was too tired to argue about it. So he waited.

Jason cleared his throat and continued. "I resented you, you know. I think it started when Cameron got hurt. They way you cared for him, protected him. I guess I was jealous." He started pacing, the words coming easier the more he moved his feet. "You had a connection to him like you never did with me. The same with Dad. The two of you had a bond that I wasn’t a part of, that I didn’t understand. I thought you were taking him away from me. You were his favorite and Cam was the baby and there was no room for me. I didn’t belong anywhere."

"Jason…"

But Jason help up his hand and shook his head. "Do you know why I didn’t go to your wedding? Because I was angry at you for not asking me to be your best man. I saw it as you shutting me out—again. And so when you called me up to tell me that Dad had died, all that bitterness that I had let build up all came rushing back. I just kept thinking about all the time that I had lost with Dad because of my own stupidity and I wanted to blame someone. So I blamed you. It was easier that way."

Mike didn’t respond. He just sat on the sofa, staring at the Wall of Memories. And he noticed something he had never noticed before. There weren’t any pictures of he and Jason together except for the family portraits when they were forced to take a picture together.

"Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say," Jason said softly, turning to leave.

"I keep thinking about that time when I was eight years old," Mike began. Jason stopped in the doorway and turned around, looking at his brother in the dim light.

Mike threw him a sideways glance as he continued. "You must’ve been about three. Dad had gotten me a brand new baseball glove for my birthday. I loved that thing. I oiled it and broke it in just right. I came home from school one day and found you sitting on the floor of my room, with my new glove in your lap. You had pulled all the laces out of it and had totally destroyed it. I was so mad at you that I grabbed you by the arm and flung you across the room. You hit your head hard against the edge of my dresser and busted your head open. You were crying and bleeding all over." Looking over, he saw Jason absently brush the faded scar over his left eye. "Dad came running upstairs to see what was the matter. I told him that we were running around and that you tripped and fell, hitting your head on the dresser."

He paused, taking a breath. "Anyway, later that night, I went into your room. I was scared that I had really hurt you. I made you promise not to tell Mom or Dad about what really happened. And you know what you did? You looked at me and smiled and said, ‘I promise I won’t tell, Mikey.’ You had eight fucking stitches in your head because of me and you were still smiling." He looked at his brother then, his story finally finished. "God, I don’t know what made me think of that."

"Sometimes the strangest things pop into our heads for no reason."

Mike nodded, then sat up straight and looked Jason squarely in the eye. "I never apologized for that."

"It was a long time ago, Mike. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"Yes, it does. I hurt you and I’m sorry." He got up and stood in front of Jason. "I’m really sorry for hurting you, Jason."

"Mike…"

"I need you to forgive me," Mike pleaded, grabbing a handful of Jason’s shirt.

Mike wasn’t talking about the stitches anymore. His words meant a lot more than that. "Please, Jason."

Squeezing his brother’s forearm tightly, Jason looked into Mike’s eyes and whispered, "I forgive you."

The Finns were once again gathered at Michael Finn’s home. But this time it was for a celebration. Two years had passed since Riley’s death and life had gone on, like it always did.

The adults were gathered around the dining room table, a table overflowing with brightly wrapped gifts. At one end of the table stood Buffy, a long-absent smile adorning her still-beautiful face. At her side were her two granddaughters, Callie and Jessica, and in her arms was her newborn grandson, squirming and cooing in his baby blue blanket.

Jason Finn had finally settled down and married his girlfriend, Kimberly, a few months after his father’s funeral. The squirming baby in his mother’s arms was he and Kimberly’s first child. He had just been christened that morning.

"I’d like to propose a toast," Mike said, raising his glass. "To Jason and Kimberly. Congratulations on your new family. May you have 10 more just like him. And to my brand new nephew, Riley Matthew Finn II. Your grandfather may not be here to share this event with us, but he’s in all our hearts. He was a great man. And as his namesake, I have all the faith in the world that you’ll grow up to be one, too."

 

The End