Chapter Text
“You’ve been quiet for a while now, Stede.”
God, doesn’t he know it.
“Sorry,” he clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t even remember what we were talking about.”
“That’s okay. We were discussing the coming week. I asked if you had any plans.”
He laughs darkly. Plans? When’s the last time he was doing more than treading water, kicking and thrashing around just to stay afloat, to keep breathing?
“Can I ask where you went when you got quiet? If you feel comfortable sharing.”
Stede crosses his legs, then uncrosses them, pointing across the room with his chin. “That painting there. It often grabs my attention when I’m here.”
It’s probably some reprint, but it’s breathtaking in its realism, almost like a photograph — an old tallship boasting flowing masts and resplendent flags standing proud atop a cobalt sea. It’s on the move, no question, destined for some exotic land or adventure.
He wishes it were him.
Dr. Conroy twists in her chair, craning her neck to look.
“Is it yours?” He asks.
“No, that was already up when I started working at the center,” she explains, turning back to face him. He finally meets her eyes again and it’s a swift reminder of why he prefers to look away.
“Does it say something to you?” she asks, expression soft and pitying, words heavy with sympathy.
“Escape,” he answers promptly, eyes lifting to the painting again. God, wouldn’t it be nice if he could run, fly, sail away like that? Leave it all and start anew?
He can practically feel her watching him, can nearly hear her strain to hold that understanding smile — but really, he deserves a proper scolding for that one. Christ, what kind of monster even entertains such taboo thoughts, let alone voices them out loud?
“I think we all feel that way sometimes,” she agrees gently.
Not like I do, he thinks to himself, though that’s not entirely fair and he knows it.
Suddenly a mini-cacophony of bells chimes from her phone, responsibly placed on an end table just out of arm's reach.
“Oop. Five minute warning!”
Stede knows what’s coming, and frankly he’s thankful for it. Homework.
The talking part of therapy hasn’t been his strong suit, though he’s trying, damnit! Besides, even if she’s getting paid to chat with him, it’s often the longest stretch of adult conversation he has each week.
One hour — hell, that’s depressing.
“You never did tell me what your plans were,” Dr. Conroy prods.
“That’s because I don’t have any, as I’m sure you know.” There’s too much bite, and Stede sucks in an apologetic breath the minute he says it. “Sorry.”
“Try again?”
“I’ll leave here and get the kids from their grandparents’ house. They’ll do homework and hide away in their rooms.”
She waits, watching him patiently.
“We’ll spend the weekend apart, probably. They have play dates and the like. I’ll bring them to school on Monday and go to the gym and clean up the house and read until it’s almost dinner time and then I’ll pick them up from their grandparents’ and we’ll do the whole thing over again. Plans.”
“I think you’ll feel better if you work on one of your goals. Pick one. What’s one thing you can do this weekend to move toward accomplishing that?”
Stede’s stomach churns at the question, even though he knows the answer.
“I want the children home more. Or rather, I’d like them to want to be home more, with me. Even without me! They should be at their own house.”
“You’ve mentioned this. What about a babysitter? A nanny? That way you don’t have to rely on your in-laws.”
He considers this, though all it does is stir up lonely memories from his own youth; a big empty mansion where strangers cooked his meals and sent him off to bed. That’s not the life he wants for his children. For all his faults, he knows that much.
“That didn’t exactly work out too well for me,” he finally answers, raking his fingers through his hair.
“I hear you, and also, I’m hearing you compare yourself to them again.”
Stede takes a deep breath before repeating the familiar mantra they’d written together over the past year: “I’m not my parents, and I can be better than them. I don’t have to repeat the same mistakes.”
It does help to say it, even if the encouraging smile he gets in return just depresses him more.
“Think about getting some in-home help for the kids,” she repeats. “Maybe make a pro and con list? We can talk about it next week.”
“Yeah, alright.” He stands, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer before offering a polite handshake, the way he always does to end their sessions. “Til next week then.”
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“Come on in, Stede, the kids are just finishing up dinner.”
Stede forces a smile and slips into the foyer, feeling just as out of place as he always has in this house.
“Sue, Bill,” he greets the couple in front of him with a terse nod, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes scan the marble floors, the double staircase, the crystal chandelier hanging above them.
“Do you want something to eat?” Sue asks. He finally looks at her, poised in an expensive floral blouse and pencil skirt, hair pulled into a tight bun, dyed to match her once natural auburn. He feels himself wince; she really does look so much like Mary.
“Uh, no. That’s alright. I picked up a salad.”
“Hmm,” she tuts, eyes narrowed with disapproval. Stede contorts his features to widen the smile, but he’s sure it comes off more like a sour-faced grimace. So it goes.
She means well, he knows that. Everyone means well these days, it would seem. With all that goodwill Stede wonders why he doesn’t ever feel very good.
“I’ll get the dishes,” Bill offers, rushing off, probably pleased to have a task of his own. He’s older than his wife, white hair proudly on display; but he’s always seemed like an old soul to Stede, even back when they met fifteen years ago.
“How was your…appointment?” Sue asks. “Helpful?”
“I guess,” Stede shrugs. “We’re talking about maybe hiring a babysitter so the kids can be at home more.”
He knows it might come as a disappointment — they’ve all grown accustomed to the routine.
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” she assures him instead, reaching for his arm after clocking his surprise. “Well, you know we love having them, Stede. But some stability would be good too.”
Somehow her response seems both encouraging and like a scolding. Before he can formulate a reply, Alma and Louis finally shuffle over wearing neutral expressions that Stede’s never been able to decipher.
“How was dinner?” He tries.
“It was good,” Alma informs him, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears and avoiding his eyes. She’s tall for her age — twelve as of two months ago — all arms and legs.
“Lasagna,” Louis adds. Alma takes a tiny denim jacket from her grandmother and pulls Louis’ arms through the sleeves, leaving Stede with a hollow feeling in his chest. She’s already parenting him.
Bill returns to the foyer with an armful of casserole dishes and Tupperware containers, which Stede accepts without argument. The kids grab their backpacks and lunch bags from the closet by the door, say their goodbyes, and soon enough Stede’s awkwardly guiding them back to the car where they pile into the back seat.
Predictably the drive is quiet. Stede rolls down the windows even though it’s cool out. Not much brings him joy these days, but there’s something nice about the sweet smell of fallen leaves in autumn, brisk air laced with hints of smoke from nearby fireplaces. He’ll take the little things.
He doesn’t love the shorter days that come with fall, though, cursing the early darkness under his breath as they pull into the driveway. The house is big — six bedrooms, three baths, a pool out back — but truthfully it’s modest considering where he and Mary come from. It’s been difficult to find much love for the place now. Still, every now and then he feels that sense of pride, of rebellion, that he and Mary felt when they agreed to raise their family in a regular suburban neighborhood instead of some gaudy mansion.
“Need any help with homework?” He asks when once they’re inside. Both children shed their jackets and shoes, and Alma carries their bags across the spacious living room, past the dining table and into the open kitchen where she drops everything on the marble island.
“Finished it at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Plus it’s Friday.”
“I don’t have any!” Louis calls, already on the couch and watching TV.
“Oh — great then,” Stede answers, wishing he had another suggestion for how the kids should spend their time. He reaches back into his memory, files through the crafting projects that Mary used to organize and blanket forts she’d design. Always a master at teasing joy from the mundane; he was in awe of her, and decidedly an outsider watching on from the sidelines. “Should we watch a movie?”
“It’s been a long day,” Alma sighs. “Do you mind if I just go relax in my room?”
He feels the sting of rejection, but maybe a hint of relief, too. “Of course not, dear.”
She smiles at him, and though it’s far too sad and tired for someone her age, Stede knows it’s genuine.
“Don’t forget to eat your salad,” she calls over her shoulder before heading upstairs.
Christ, she isn’t just parenting her brother — she’s parenting him.
He runs his hands down his face, the familiar sense of overwhelm twisting his guts and tensing his muscles. Instead of pulling at his hair, or worse, terrifying Louis with the frustrated cry bubbling in his chest, he takes a long, deep breath. He holds it, lungs full and ribs expanded wide until he’s so lightheaded he has to exhale. He does it again. And then again.
Okay. No way out but through, as they say. Onto the next.
He makes himself a gin and tonic — the single cocktail he allows himself most nights to take the edge off. The sounds of explosions and loud voices carry from the living room, and maybe he should be a little more on top of what his son is watching right now, but Stede can only handle so much at a time.
He sets to work on freezing the casserole dishes that he’ll end up serving the kids this weekend. The Tupperware goes in the fridge, organized by color (red top for Louis, blue for Alma). Those will be lunches next week. He breathes in again, ravaged with self-pity at the reminder that his in-laws are still doing most of the work to feed his own children. Well, at least their chef is.
“We don’t mind, really Stede. You need to take care of yourself, too.”
Like he’s even doing a good job of that. He collects his drink and salad, a mediocre chicken caesar from the grocery store deli that he gets far more often than he should, and settles in at the table. With a better view of the TV he’s relieved to see it’s just some harmless cartoon. There’s a notepad peeking out from a pile of mail; he reaches over to pull it close.
Okay. Homework. He wills himself to take a bite of dinner, washes it down with his drink, and writes.
Babysitter for the kids: pros and cons.
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The weekends are always the hardest. Stede tries to give Bill and Sue a break and take care of things himself, though he’d be lying if he said there weren’t a few panicked calls begging for some respite.
It’s just — so much. The kids have cereal. He takes care of the usual household tasks (laundry, cleaning, making sure they’re bathed and rooms are cleaned). He drives them to see friends, runs some errands in between. He thaws the chicken marsala or eggplant parm or chicken pot pie, and wakes up to do the whole thing over.
They’re good kids, and he loves them — he’s just not a great father. He’d never figured it out, endlessly haunted by his own upbringing, and after he’d been forced to adopt a more hands-on role when Mary got sick, he wondered if some magical switch might flip and change things.
No switch. Certainly no magic. And now he’s on his own, barely getting by.
On Sunday Louis has a birthday party for one of his classmates, blessedly followed by a playdate with another friend (whose parents have offered to drive him home by dinner). Alma, on the other hand, is working on a school project at her best friend Josh’s house.
These types of plans are the worst, he’s found. There’s no set time frame (“When should I come and get you?” “I don’t know, Dad, when we’re done?”) and therefore Stede needs to be doing something that he can drop quickly should he get a call from Josh’s mom. No phone yet for Alma – it would certainly make his life easier in many ways, but leaving her to the Wild West of the internet at this age seems a step too far, even for him.
He decides to post up at his favorite coffee shop in town, tucked away in his favorite booth, drinking his favorite oak milk latte. He reviews his list.
Babysitter for the kids: pros and cons.
Cons:
Less help from Bill and Sue
Fewer meals from Bill and Sue
Have to find and hire someone
How do you background check a babysitter?
Hours?
Need something to do outside the house to warrant childcare
It’s a long list, spiraling even longer as he reads it over again now. He’s prone to catastrophize (obviously) so it’s not all that surprising that the con list is far longer than the pros.
Pros:
Children are home more
Stede closes his eyes and shakes his head – the absolute irony of reading those words while hiding in one of his few sanctuaries, relishing the time when he isn’t responsible for anything or anyone.
It’s one of his goals, he reminds himself. If he could just be a little better for his kids – connect with them more, prove that he’s reliable and capable (to them, yes, but himself as well) – then maybe it will all come a bit easier. He’ll never be Mary, but he’s certain he has more to offer than this. Stede’s still not sure what that is, but he knows nothing will change until he unscrews the training wheels and goes for it, unsteady and wobbly as he may be.
Another two lattes and a chocolate croissant later, he gets the call that it’s time to pick up Alma. Josh’s house is pretty close to theirs, just a touch too far for the kids to walk by themselves. Stede rings the doorbell, wiping stray crumbs from his collar and foam from his lip before Josh’s mom Carol opens the door.
“Hi Stede,” she greets, voice dipping with sympathy as she says his name. Goddamnit.
He tries for an upbeat tone, hoping to ward off more condolences. “Nice to see you, Carol. How were they today?”
“Always a pleasure to have her here, you know that.”
“Hey, Dad,” Alma appears, hopping on one foot as she works to wedge the other into a bright pink Converse sneaker.
“Hi sweetheart. Did you eat lunch?”
“We had sandwiches,” she confirms, wearing both shoes now (though untied). “Did you?”
“Of course,” he lies. Well, a croissant can be lunch. Alma throws a skeptic look before walking past him toward the car.
“How are you really, Stede?” Carol asks. Her eyes are soft, arms crossed, hands rubbing and pinching at the fabric of her cardigan.
“I’m fine. Still a lot of work, but we’re getting on.”
“How long has it been since Mary passed? A year?”
Do they really need to do this now? Stede folds his lips together and nods, a flash of anger tearing through him at being dragged into this conversation again.
“Well I think you’re all doing great. I know it’s not easy. And we’re here if you ever need anything, you know.”
He knows. It’s a kind and generous offer, they all are, they always are. And yet he can’t think of anything more stifling than the constant reminders.
“Death is tricky,” Dr. Conroy had once said. “People are uncomfortable around those who are grieving. They don’t want to say the wrong thing. The crazy part is most of the time we’d rather face it head on than dance around it.”
“I guess I’m the exception to the rule,” Stede had replied bitterly.
“It’s not a rule. But it’s certainly something we can explore in this space, if you want to.”
He takes another deep, steadying breath. “Thanks, we appreciate it. See you soon, I’m sure.”
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His Friday therapy session seems to arrive in record time. It’s even colder than last week; Stede zips his khaki jacket up to his chin, car locking with a loud beep-beep behind him while he shuffles into the building. He’s hit with the strong aroma of essential oils wafting from a diffuser (today it’s peppermint) before he turns to take a seat in the modest waiting room. It’s always quiet at this time of day, he’s found, even though Dr. Conroy is one of several therapists and psychiatrists who work at the center.
Today, though, he’s not alone. There’s another man sitting in Stede’s usual spot, leg crossed casually over his knee, arm draped across the back of the chair beside him. He looks up from his phone with a little surprise and nods in greeting.
“Hello,” Stede replies, equally surprised. He takes a seat across the room, facing the stranger, who’s returned to scrolling.
He decides to take his own phone out while he waits – should be another five minutes or so until Dr. Conroy comes out to usher him into her office. It occurs to him rather quickly, though, that he doesn’t have anything to look at on his phone. He’d sworn off all social media over the past year (a long time coming, to be honest), and still gets his news from old fashioned sources like magazines and the paper. His thumb hovers over the photos app before he finally hits it and starts to skim through those; it’s a mistake. His gaze lifts to look across the room.
The man appears to be about Stede’s age, late forties, but that’s where their similarities end. He’s wearing a leather jacket and dark jeans (cool), has a scruffy silvering beard, and long hair pulled half back. Stede can’t help but wonder what’s brought him here – he supposes one doesn’t need some extraordinary event to get some therapy, but still. Everyone has a story.
“WiFi is pretty shit here, isn’t it?” The man suddenly asks, still looking down at his phone. Stede jumps in his seat.
“Oh – well, yeah. Always figured it was on purpose. Mental health and all.”
He looks up at Stede and grins, mustache lifting with his smile. “Conspiracy theorist, are we?”
They stare at each other for a beat, a bit of a standoff, and Stede isn’t quite sure why. He can’t wrangle the words to reply, but even if he could he’s promptly struck by another revelation altogether.
“Hang on, am I hearing Kiwi?”
“Was just thinking the same,” the man laughs, pocketing his phone. “Thought I caught it when you said hello, but figured that’d be too much of a coincidence.”
“How odd,” Stede agrees, marveling at the serendipity.
“So, is it just the center’s plot to sabotage WiFi and wean us from our phones, or are you into other wild shit?” He asks, studying Stede with interest. “Moon landing? Area 51? JFK?”
Stede’s brain is buzzing. When’s the last time he had a normal conversation like this?
“Area 51, obviously,” he answers seriously. “Come on. Roswell? No brainer.”
Okay, normal conversation might be a bit of a stretch. Still, it’s a goddamn rush.
“How are we doing today, Stede?” He hears the doctor’s voice before she even rounds the corner, but she stops short once she makes it to the waiting room. “Oh no. Did I double-book?”
“Looks that way,” the man answers. Stede’s a bit confused, since he’s had this standing appointment for nearly a year, but these things must happen.
“I’m sorry, Ed – I meant 4pm on Monday, not Friday. I must have given you bad information.”
“Nah, probably my own fault. Still new to this.”
“You know what?” Stede jumps in. “Take the appointment. It’s no big deal.”
“Are you sure, mate?” The man – Ed – asks, standing up from his seat.
“It’s your scheduled time, Stede,” Dr. Conroy reminds him.
“I don’t mind taking a week off,” he assures her (and isn’t that the truth). “I did my homework, and I think I can start following through on that goal we discussed.”
She smiles. “Well, okay. If you want to squeeze something else in before next week give me a call.”
Stede waves goodbye to them both and returns to the ever colder, ever darker afternoon outside. He drives to the coffee shop for a warm beverage, relieved to have an unexpected free hour before picking up the kids.
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Another weekend, another week. Stede reheats frozen meals, sends the kids to school, picks them up from Bill and Sue’s. In between he spends his time worrying, reading, going to the gym. Every now and then his thoughts circle back to the brief conversation he had in the waiting room with Ed – not that it’d been very long or deep or meaningful, of course, but it did shake him from his routine, however briefly.
It inspires him to do a little more of that, in fact – buys a few new books, starts the search for a babysitter. He even orders a pizza mid-week instead of leaving the kids to eat at their grandparents’, and to his surprise they’re both excited by the unexpected treat. He files that away to remember for later.
On Friday Stede arrives for his appointment five minutes early, as usual. It’s more familiar this time — quiet. The waiting room is empty and smells of lavender. He sits where he normally would, the spot that Ed had taken last week, and starts to mentally prepare for his session. Dr. Conroy should be pleased about the progress with his goal, though she’ll probably press him on some other things. That’s usually the way of it.
Her door opens and some voices cut through the silence, growing louder as they move down the hallway.
“Same time next week?” She’s asking.
“Yeah, that works.”
It’s Ed.
“Oh!” Stede barks, shooting up to standing. Both pause to look at him curiously, and then Ed grins.
“Kia ora, Stede.”
“Y-yes. Hello. I thought you came on Mondays?”
Stede isn’t sure why he’s so thrown by Ed’s presence – maybe because he’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about their short conversation (so short he can barely even call it that!) over the past week. Jesus he’s pathetic.
Ed shrugs. “Liked this day better. We just had to work around your appointment.”
With that he throws on a pair of sunglasses and spins toward the door, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket (still cool). Stede finds himself oddly jealous that Ed’s appointment is over and he still has a whole hour ahead of him.
“How was your week?” The doctor asks as they settle in. Stede shrugs his jacket off, draping it over the armrest of his chair.
“Same old. Well, the kids and I got a pizza.”
She perks up. “That sounds fun.”
“Yeah. Just felt like a change of pace I guess. They enjoyed picking their own toppings and eating in the living room.”
“Stede, that sounds really nice.”
He squirms uncomfortably in the chair, starts looking at his fingernails. “I’m trying.”
“And where are we with your goal?”
“I have a few names — planning to make some calls and bring them over for interviews, I guess.”
Dr. Conroy smiles widely, lifting her hands up from her lap in a little burst of joy before settling back in. “Great!”
“Yeah…” He can’t say he shares the same enthusiasm; it’s not like achieving this one goal is going to fix everything. It’s still going to be a lot of work. He tells her as much.
“Tell me what else happened this week; maybe last week too, since we didn’t get to meet.”
Stede walks her through all the boring details, every frustrating interaction, every reminder of his shortcomings.
“You seem pretty frustrated when people express their sympathy for you,” she observes. “At least, that’s what I’ve been hearing over the course of the year.”
“Well it’s annoying, isn’t it?” He answers, already feeling that hot rage burning him up inside. “I mean, everyone offers to help, but it’s just an empty gesture in the end. I’m the one doing it all.”
“What about your in-laws?”
Stede pauses. “Fine. They’ve been more than helpful. I just mean; I don’t know, when is this cloud that follows me finally going to lift? How am I supposed to be a better father when everyone sees me as some charity case?”
She tilts her head, brows pressed together with concern. “You think that’s how people see you, just because they feel sorry that you lost your wife? Wouldn’t you feel badly for a friend or even an acquaintance who’d gone through the same thing?”
Stede doesn’t have friends, nor many acquaintances to be honest, but he takes her point. “I just want to try and move forward. It's been a…well, a challenging year.”
“I know, Stede. But I feel like I should remind you what I’ve noticed, and mentioned, many times: you haven’t really grieved. You’ve been trying to keep your head on straight and do right by the kids, but you need to sit with what happened before you can move forward.”
She’s right, and also, he has zero interest in doing any of that. “There’s complications there, as you know.”
She folds her hands patiently and nods. “I won’t press it any more today, but it’s not going away.”
Stede’s grateful to close that particular book for now, even if there’s a glaring “to be continued” implied — bolded, underlined, highlighted in neon yellow.
His eyes wander up to the painting of the ship again, tempted to drift back into the fantasy it often lures him toward, but he’s called back to discuss more goals, strategies to meet them, plans for the coming week.
It’s nearly dark when he finally leaves — back into the cold, back to his prepackaged chicken caesar and his gin and tonic and a night of planning his weekend of parenting solo.
Ed’s outside. He’s leaning against a car a few spots from Stede’s, shivering a bit, staring down at his phone. At first Stede stops walking, stunned to see him (for the second time today, no less). He does a better job of collecting himself this time, though, striding over to greet him.
“Sure you didn’t want my timeslot again? Could have just asked instead of staging some kind of protest outside for it.”
Ed looks up and pockets his phone. “Oh, hey mate. Fuckin’ car battery died. Any chance you have cables with you?”
“Sorry, they’re in the garage at home.”
“Well what fuckin’ good is that?” Ed laughs. “People only need ‘em when they’re stranded someplace. Like me. Right now.”
Stede shrugs. “I’ll be sure to bring them next week.”
Ed laughs again, and Stede feels himself grin right back. The sensation is foreign, and he hates that, but damn it feels nice.
“No worries, I’ve got a jump on its way. My mum buys me a AAA membership every year and it pays off every three it seems.”
“Want some company while you wait?”
“Wouldn’t say no to that.”
Stede cups his hands to breathe warm air into them, stepping closer toward Ed. They talk about Aotearoa and where they grew up (Stede in Auckland, Ed in Wellington, though he moved around a lot). Turns out both came to the States pretty young; Ed’s gone back once for his father’s funeral, but Stede hasn’t returned since his family immigrated.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous, you really should make the trip. A hell of a plane ride but it’s worth it.”
The AAA truck arrives, headlights sweeping across the parking lot as it turns from the main road.
“Hey,” Ed catches his arm. “Want to grab a beer? For keeping me company. My treat.”
“Oh…” Stede’s paralyzed again. “Um, what time is it?”
Ed pulls his phone from his jacket. “5:40?”
Shit, he’s already running late to grab the kids. He also hates beer.
Still, how often does he get the chance to talk to someone about anything other than grief or goals or frozen dinners?
He’s not about to turn that down.
“Sure, yeah,” he answers. It’s hard to see in the dark, but Ed looks delighted. “Let me make one quick call.”