FIC: Rearview
Title: Rearview Mirror
Author: nomad1328
Summary: Sometimes, you need to look back.
Rating: T
Warnings: Takes place during Birthmarks. A little House/Stacy- but not a lot.
This has been a work in progress for a long time. It started with that ancient one hour prompt, but I found out that one hour isn't for me. So joe_pike_junior betaed this one (multiple times....) and this is the final result.
When Greg was six years old, Blythe bundled him up in his pyjamas and his blankets, then led him to the backseat of their old Buick. They had a two hour drive to make to the airport to pick up John. He'd been gone for nearly three months and, like always, she was both apprehensive and eager to see him reunite with her and the boy that he believed to be his son. She never knew what went on during missions, what kind of talk there might have been, what kind of introspection might have occurred that might interfere with the modest kiss on her lips and John's arms lifting Greg into his arms. After getting her son settled into a makeshift bed in the backseat, she buckled herself into the driver's seat and backed out of the garage.
She was light-headed from the lack of sleep, but the toast she'd made and the hot black coffee from the thermos started to bring her around. As she hit the highway, she accelerated, and her confidence was immediately boosted. However, the night was cold, black, and Blythe slowed every time one of the few cars on the road whooshed by her. She kept her attention on the road and never once looked back at her sleeping son.
As Blythe watches Greg at the podium of her husband's funeral, she realizes the value of looking back every once in a while. She's kept her focus too far ahead and it's cost them all so much.
She's watched after him his whole life, but she's never noticed this. It's inability beyond the physical. His voice wavers again, but he can't finish the sentence. He turns his head down to his hands, pale and firm on the lacquered wood. There's a way that he looks toward the side of the audience, as if he's drawn there instead of to her or to John's body, but he turns from the podium before the glance is returned or even solidified. He stands for a moment over John and leans down to him for a moment and she senses movement to her right.
James approaches her son in a way that she's never been able. Greg stiffens his back as James puts a hand on his shoulder. There are hesitant whispers that she can't make out. To most, it probably seems to be a pacifying gesture, a way to soothe frayed emotions. Blythe, in her newfound awareness, knows better- there is something awry in this picture. This is not just grief. She sees her son's hand slip into his pocket.
Blythe has wanted to believe that her husband's love was reciprocated by her son in equal proportion, despite the tense air of hostility that often invaded their time together. Greg, with his stubborn grudge, refuses to allow forgiveness or forgetfulness for anyone. She believes now that he may be incapable of doing so. It's not his fault. It may be her's. His near refusal to attend the funeral, the way he'd avoided her eyes when she'd told him that he'd be speaking, lets her know the extent of his feelings in this matter of death. There is a loss for John, but only in the way you mourn the old dog who used to bite you. A loss borne of a length or time or the nostalgia rather than the love. She's going to miss John and the life they had together.
Fifty years ago, she'd given away her independence and free thought in favor of bowing to the whims of the road. She couldn't pinpoint an exact reason, whether it had been the military lifestyle, the intelligence of her one and only son, or John's commanding presence. She'd taken the safe route, buckled in tight with her hands at ten and two, and never wavered over any of the lines. She just hadn't known how to react to avoid injuring her passengers in the pile up that was to become their lives.
She should have known better.
John had been so happy to hear that she was pregnant that he hadn't questioned the timing. They'd had some trouble, a year of unsuccessful attempts. After the visit to the doctor, she couldn't bring herself to make an immediate call to John's command to relay the news. He'd been gone for three months and she was two months along.
She'd called her older sister instead. Sarah was more experienced, with a husband and children of her own. Perfect in every way, her husband was the beaming pride of white collar professionalism and Sarah was a dedicated housewife. She expected this perfection from her sister as well. As a result, Blythe's admission had left Sarah nearly speechless. Her stunned silence soon turned to berating criticism until Blythe felt her eyes brim over and spill. Sarah continued and Blythe was soon hiccuping sobs, curled on the kitchen floor. She begged Sarah to not tell anyone else and then asked her what she should do. “Nothing,” Sarah said to her. “You do nothing but pray for your forgiveness.”
Blythe wanted to confess it all to John. She spent half the pregnancy alone in her house, physically sick and torn with guilt. There were days she wrote letters, making amends to him and to God, promising that she would never do it again and that it had been a product of loneliness and desperation. She was on the straight and narrow now, to never waver again. She realized how much John meant to her, how much he did for them. Inevitably, she'd toss the letters into the fireplace, keeping true to her word to Sarah. Sarah was right. It would hurt all of them more if she confessed. Only God could forgive her this sin.
The pregnancy was rife with complications borne of her anxiety. She dragged herself from bed every morning, stared at her pale and hallowed complexion in the mirror and wondered why anyone ever said that pregnant women glowed. She felt and looked horrible. In the 8th month, John came home. She couldn't meet him at the reception because the doctor had put her on bed rest again. John took his hat off at the door and went to her, kissing her gently on the lips. In the days that followed, he rubbed her feet, kissed her bulging belly, and waited on her hand and foot. A day before she was to deliver, she looked in the mirror. Her face had filled out and was indeed glowing. John loved her and he loved the baby, and Blythe finally decided to go through with Sarah's plan. She'd do what she needed to make this right. Everything was going to be just fine.
John was in and out of their lives almost every year. He was rising through the ranks, taking the difficult assignments, going on multiple tours of duty and training exercises. Greg cried when he was four and John dressed in his fatigues and left the house to head to Southeast Asia. Greg had been curious why his father was leaving, asking him about where he was going and when he'd be back. His departure was a pinnacle. There were questions yet unanswered and a boy who didn't yet understand duty to country. All he knew was that his father was leaving for a very long time. A year later when John returned, Greg barely recognized his father's slender and tanned face. When John reached out for his son, Greg turned his face into Blythe's shoulder. John had come around, given the boy a little medallion with the U.S. Flag on it, and asked if he didn't want to play some catch because he suspected that he was big enough by now. Greg gave the little piece of metal back to him and said it was stupid. He had lots of stupid coins. When they got home, Greg went to his room and didn't come out until dinner. That night as they'd lain in bed, John had been frustrated over Greg's reluctance.
“He's just a little boy, John. You've been gone for a year. That's a long time for him.”
“He's getting spoiled. He needs discipline. He needs to respect his father. If he can't respect me, he won't respect anyone.”
“He'll grow out of it,” she'd murmured, kissing her husband on the back of his reddened neck. She was lucky to have him back. And so was Greg. He'd see that soon enough. They'd have fun together. The next day, Greg accidentally slapped his father across the face when throwing a tantrum over picking up his toys. After hearing the initial strike and the silence that followed, Blythe rushed into the living room to see her husband standing with his hands on his hips, his face swollen and red in anger. Staring at their son, he reached into towards his waistband, not for the belt, but for his wallet. When he handed her the hundred dollar bill, he said “You need a new dress for Christmas. And I need some slacks for church.” Blythe took John's advice and his money and went shopping. She bought a new GI Joe for Greg, but he was already snuggled into his blankets, fast asleep by the time she returned. Blythe pulled back the blankets, tucking the GI Joe into his hands. He must have just gone to bed because his hands were still ice cold from whatever chore John had him doing. Raking leaves maybe. Or picking up rocks from the yard. It was cold out, but not yet snowing. Greg needed to learn respect and she trusted John to instill that value through discipline. She placed her lips to his reddened cheek and pulled the blankets over him again. John said the raised red mark on her son's left hand must have been a bug bite.
Though John moved his family around to different bases around the world, he was still often called out for training or deployment. To allay the difficulty in that, Blythe focused solely on raising her son. He was doing so well in school, the teachers thought he should be moved ahead so that he wouldn't get bored. He was stubborn and insolent at times, making his bed too sloppy, or stuffing toys under his bed when she asked him to clean his room. Boys will be boys. Greg was a loner, but he was just so smart that the boys his age didn't understand and the older kids didn't have the patience. She didn't want to force him. Greg was smart and one day his peers would realize that intelligence should be their inspiration. Greg would have friends in time.
The year that Greg turned 12 was the hardest on the family. They'd been in Egypt for nearly two years and John had been on Embassy duty for half the time and training in Israel the other half. When the call came, the Marines packed their boxes and shipped them all out to California. Like Egypt, sand and people were prevalent in California, but there were no more tombs or mummies for Greg to explore. He hated it before they'd even arrived. Two days after he started in the public schools, he came home with a black eye. The principal said it wasn't his fault, that there was a bully who liked to pick on the new kids, especially the kids from the military. Greg had a bright future, Mr. Wilkerson had said. His test scores were incredible for a boy his age. Crestview Junior High was going to be a great place for Greg to learn and they were sure he was going to thrive academically. It was one of the best public schools in the area. School got better after that and Greg didn't get beat up anymore. He made friends, he joined the band.
Home, on the other hand, had been better.
John would stay with his family for three years without a deployment and this was the time he decided that he could be a father. He'd drag Greg up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, tossing him his baseball mitt and running him through drills in the front yard. Afterwards, Greg would be allowed free time until dinner, 5PM on the spot. In December of that year, Greg was late to dinner for the first time. Blythe watched him come in the door, sweaty and red-faced, as she and John were quietly eating at the family's table. After washing his hands at the kitchen sink, Greg went to the cabinet and grabbed a plate, but John wouldn't have it. He pushed his seat back and stood, shutting the cabinet near enough to Greg's hand that he yelled a cracked “Hey, take it easy!”
“You can't get here on time, you don't eat.”
“That's not fair! I forgot to put on my watch!”
“Next time, you won't forget.”
The following week, Greg showed up three hours after dinner with a handful of candy bars. John locked him in the backyard and said that if he wanted to live like a hooligan, he could do it back there. That night, Blythe hardly slept thinking about Greg back there by himself, in the cool December air. But John said it was for the best. He had a whole corps of boys to watch after and he was an outstanding leader. The Marines believed in John and so did Blythe. Greg needed discipline and it took tough love to show him the rules of this life. Greg would grow up to appreciate it, she was sure of that. It would make him into an honorable man. He'd grow out of this angry rebellion and become the son that they both wanted. Someone to be there for them in their older years, someone to bring pride to the family name. One night outside in fifty degree weather was nothing.
Though his adolescent years were strife with continuing hostility and disobedience, Greg found solace at school as much as John found his at work with his men. Bringing them both away from those things and putting their overbearing personalities together was like mixing bleach with ammonia. Putting them together never failed to create a toxic reaction.
John wasn't around when Greg left for college. Blythe drove him there in her new Chevy, loaded with two of Greg's suitcases and a box full of books. She'd helped him carry the things to his dorm room and hugged him when they were done. He said he was looking forward to being on his own and she was hoping he'd be able to come home for fall break. She reassured him that he was always welcome there.
He stood with his hands on his hips, looking around the tiny postage stamp of a room. “Yeah I know. I'll be home soon.”
'Blythe, watching the way he stared at his new twin bed in the corner of the concrete room, smiled and shook her head, catching him this time because she knew him pretty well after eighteen years. Their home was comfortable, welcoming, and Greg could take the five hour bus ride easily enough. “You're a liar. But I love you anyway.” Greg was still a teenager, and as she put her arms around him, he tensed, embarrassed as if someone else was in the room watching.
Greg continued to live his life focused on his school and his work. The rigors of medical school and Greg's foray into the music industry took him from coast to coast with hardly any time for visiting his family. They spoke intermittently, on holidays and birthdays. When Greg's career launched and his book was published, Blythe called him every other week at his office, if only to hear his professional message on his voicemail, and to give him the latest updates from the life of a retired military wife. When he did answer, she asked all the questions she needed until he interrupted her and said he had to go. Greg was always too busy to go back to Lexington and the only time she saw her son was when she went to him.
In June of 1999, she'd have an opportunity to see her son that she never wanted. Blythe was out in the garden when Stacy called. The machine picked up just as her hand reached for the handset, but the conversation recorded anyway. Greg was in the hospital, something was wrong with his leg. He wasn't doing well and the doctors said they should amputate. It shouldn't have been suprising that Greg wasn't cooperative. Hearing of Greg's infarction was the most devastating news that she'd ever gotten. She and John had gotten out on the first flight they could book. Greg was only forty and it looked like he might be dying.
The image of Greg lying in a hospital bed would never completely leave her. Every time she saw him from then on, she'd think of that day she and John arrived in his hospital room. He'd had surgery the night before and was drugged to the gills, covered in wires and tubes. Blythe tentatively reached out her hands to the space between to touch his overheated skin. She kept her hand on his right forearm as he slept. When he woke up, he'd ask about Stacy and then he'd ask about his leg. He'd forget the in between times, the answers that they gave. Eventually, she'd just rub the space above his eyes, tell him everything was okay, to go to sleep. There were times when he talked in his sleep, moaning incoherently about the cold or the hot or the pain. She held on tight through the turns, the scares and setbacks of his post-surgical recovery, working with Stacy in keeping him constant company for four days while the toxins that had built in his system diminished and the fluid stopped draining from his leg. John brought the coffee, rubbed Blythe's shoulders and read a book on the couch in the corner of the room. On the fifth day, when Greg asked what happened, she shushed him back to sleep, but he wouldn't have it.
While Dr. Cuddy explained the news and Stacy came in to sit with him, Blythe and John drove out to Greg's apartment to gather some things for him, now that it appeared he was going to be released to home care in a few days. John took the wheel of the rental vehicle, some sort of Ford Sedan, and he'd sped through Princeton's streets as if he was the only person on the road that mattered. Blythe put a hand on top of his and said calmly “Slow down, John. It doesn't serve any of us that you go this fast.” He eased off the pedal at first, but when his speed crept up again, she didn't say anything more. John was just as saddened as she was and he was taking it out the only way he knew how. Their only son was crippled.
When they arrived back at the hospital with a duffel bag, Greg was errantly flipping channels on the television. Stacy was nowhere in sight.
“How are you feeling?”
Blythe sat in the chair next to him, reaching for his hand again. He pulled away a little, squinting up at the television.
“Fine.”
“Where did Stacy head off to?”
“She had to work.”
Greg flipped the channel again and again, not stopping long enough for anything to register. But her son's mind was quick. He was on medication. The doctors said it could be awhile, but that he would get better. A lot of people get sick. And Greg was strong. He'd get better. And hopefully this time next year, they'd finally marry, and she'd have a grandbaby.
Blythe never found out exactly what happened with Stacy but the next time she and John had visited, she hadn't been around. The apartment where Greg lived was void of the homey feminine touches Stacy had placed upon it in her five years there. There were no more fragant candles or lush flowers on the kitchen table. Blythe couldn't pinpoint the other changes, but it seemed to be a different place altogether. Masculine, dark features accompanied by some unmistakable emptiness on the dulled espresso wood floors. Greg's embrace was still tense and she could see the way his eyes had bored straight through her
confusion and he gave her the answer she needed.
“Stacy's gone.”
Blythe nodded and smiled up at him, patting his arm. “I know.”
“I think I'm losing my job.”
“It'll be fine.”
She hugged him again and said she was sorry about it, that things would get better.
She watched Greg use his cane to move slowly towards the couch, where he'd been watching some sort of sports program. Blythe took in the dust on the shelves, the broken tortilla chips on the floor, and the three stained coffee mugs on the table next to the couch. Greg said he was fine, but when prompted twice, he told her that the Lysol was under the kitchen sink. She spent a few hours making his home livable again and cooked him a beef stew that she hoped would go right to his heart and to his bones. Life goes on, heartbreaks and heartaches. Greg was having a rough time of it, but it had only been a year since his illness. He was doing fine, despite the obstacles that God had given him.
As she looks back over the years, she realizes that Greg has run into a lot of obstacles. He never fit into the straight and narrow and eventually, the other drivers on the road can no longer avoid his wild swings. Greg's aim is true to himself, but to no one else. Everyone goes into the guardrail and there are sparks and bent metal and damage on every end.
There was something else her father said to her once, as he'd passed her a news article about two teenagers involved in a fatal car crash. She'd been out on the road again with him that morning and they'd bickered and argued about turning too soon before an oncoming car. Her father said that bad drivers always have to start somewhere- usually with a bad teacher. If that child's father had been a better teacher, he'd have never made the mistake that he did. Her father refused to let that happen to her and he pushed her to perfection. It was a lesson that she probably took too lightly.
Blythe was far too easily pleased with Greg and with John. Her lessons have gone unheeded because her methods were faulty. She thought she was doing the right thing by allowing time and circumstance to run its course. She didn't take into consideration that the course itself had no barriers and no limits to its chaos. Greg does what he wants, when he wants, to get what he needs.
When Greg walks down the aisle and stares at David out of the corner of his eye, Blythe knows. She never taught him this and he didn't learn it by her example. Blythe hadn't looked back at her son during this long trip together, but John's gaze never wavered. It's his eye, his influence that Greg has followed despite the hostility. Like his father, he's earned respect and he demands truth. He's been pushed and pulled and broken and built up again into this roughed up version of John without the uniform and the discipline. Greg has become John's son, but he was never hers.
Author: nomad1328
Summary: Sometimes, you need to look back.
Rating: T
Warnings: Takes place during Birthmarks. A little House/Stacy- but not a lot.
This has been a work in progress for a long time. It started with that ancient one hour prompt, but I found out that one hour isn't for me. So joe_pike_junior betaed this one (multiple times....) and this is the final result.
When Greg was six years old, Blythe bundled him up in his pyjamas and his blankets, then led him to the backseat of their old Buick. They had a two hour drive to make to the airport to pick up John. He'd been gone for nearly three months and, like always, she was both apprehensive and eager to see him reunite with her and the boy that he believed to be his son. She never knew what went on during missions, what kind of talk there might have been, what kind of introspection might have occurred that might interfere with the modest kiss on her lips and John's arms lifting Greg into his arms. After getting her son settled into a makeshift bed in the backseat, she buckled herself into the driver's seat and backed out of the garage.
She was light-headed from the lack of sleep, but the toast she'd made and the hot black coffee from the thermos started to bring her around. As she hit the highway, she accelerated, and her confidence was immediately boosted. However, the night was cold, black, and Blythe slowed every time one of the few cars on the road whooshed by her. She kept her attention on the road and never once looked back at her sleeping son.
As Blythe watches Greg at the podium of her husband's funeral, she realizes the value of looking back every once in a while. She's kept her focus too far ahead and it's cost them all so much.
She's watched after him his whole life, but she's never noticed this. It's inability beyond the physical. His voice wavers again, but he can't finish the sentence. He turns his head down to his hands, pale and firm on the lacquered wood. There's a way that he looks toward the side of the audience, as if he's drawn there instead of to her or to John's body, but he turns from the podium before the glance is returned or even solidified. He stands for a moment over John and leans down to him for a moment and she senses movement to her right.
James approaches her son in a way that she's never been able. Greg stiffens his back as James puts a hand on his shoulder. There are hesitant whispers that she can't make out. To most, it probably seems to be a pacifying gesture, a way to soothe frayed emotions. Blythe, in her newfound awareness, knows better- there is something awry in this picture. This is not just grief. She sees her son's hand slip into his pocket.
Blythe has wanted to believe that her husband's love was reciprocated by her son in equal proportion, despite the tense air of hostility that often invaded their time together. Greg, with his stubborn grudge, refuses to allow forgiveness or forgetfulness for anyone. She believes now that he may be incapable of doing so. It's not his fault. It may be her's. His near refusal to attend the funeral, the way he'd avoided her eyes when she'd told him that he'd be speaking, lets her know the extent of his feelings in this matter of death. There is a loss for John, but only in the way you mourn the old dog who used to bite you. A loss borne of a length or time or the nostalgia rather than the love. She's going to miss John and the life they had together.
Fifty years ago, she'd given away her independence and free thought in favor of bowing to the whims of the road. She couldn't pinpoint an exact reason, whether it had been the military lifestyle, the intelligence of her one and only son, or John's commanding presence. She'd taken the safe route, buckled in tight with her hands at ten and two, and never wavered over any of the lines. She just hadn't known how to react to avoid injuring her passengers in the pile up that was to become their lives.
She should have known better.
John had been so happy to hear that she was pregnant that he hadn't questioned the timing. They'd had some trouble, a year of unsuccessful attempts. After the visit to the doctor, she couldn't bring herself to make an immediate call to John's command to relay the news. He'd been gone for three months and she was two months along.
She'd called her older sister instead. Sarah was more experienced, with a husband and children of her own. Perfect in every way, her husband was the beaming pride of white collar professionalism and Sarah was a dedicated housewife. She expected this perfection from her sister as well. As a result, Blythe's admission had left Sarah nearly speechless. Her stunned silence soon turned to berating criticism until Blythe felt her eyes brim over and spill. Sarah continued and Blythe was soon hiccuping sobs, curled on the kitchen floor. She begged Sarah to not tell anyone else and then asked her what she should do. “Nothing,” Sarah said to her. “You do nothing but pray for your forgiveness.”
Blythe wanted to confess it all to John. She spent half the pregnancy alone in her house, physically sick and torn with guilt. There were days she wrote letters, making amends to him and to God, promising that she would never do it again and that it had been a product of loneliness and desperation. She was on the straight and narrow now, to never waver again. She realized how much John meant to her, how much he did for them. Inevitably, she'd toss the letters into the fireplace, keeping true to her word to Sarah. Sarah was right. It would hurt all of them more if she confessed. Only God could forgive her this sin.
The pregnancy was rife with complications borne of her anxiety. She dragged herself from bed every morning, stared at her pale and hallowed complexion in the mirror and wondered why anyone ever said that pregnant women glowed. She felt and looked horrible. In the 8th month, John came home. She couldn't meet him at the reception because the doctor had put her on bed rest again. John took his hat off at the door and went to her, kissing her gently on the lips. In the days that followed, he rubbed her feet, kissed her bulging belly, and waited on her hand and foot. A day before she was to deliver, she looked in the mirror. Her face had filled out and was indeed glowing. John loved her and he loved the baby, and Blythe finally decided to go through with Sarah's plan. She'd do what she needed to make this right. Everything was going to be just fine.
John was in and out of their lives almost every year. He was rising through the ranks, taking the difficult assignments, going on multiple tours of duty and training exercises. Greg cried when he was four and John dressed in his fatigues and left the house to head to Southeast Asia. Greg had been curious why his father was leaving, asking him about where he was going and when he'd be back. His departure was a pinnacle. There were questions yet unanswered and a boy who didn't yet understand duty to country. All he knew was that his father was leaving for a very long time. A year later when John returned, Greg barely recognized his father's slender and tanned face. When John reached out for his son, Greg turned his face into Blythe's shoulder. John had come around, given the boy a little medallion with the U.S. Flag on it, and asked if he didn't want to play some catch because he suspected that he was big enough by now. Greg gave the little piece of metal back to him and said it was stupid. He had lots of stupid coins. When they got home, Greg went to his room and didn't come out until dinner. That night as they'd lain in bed, John had been frustrated over Greg's reluctance.
“He's just a little boy, John. You've been gone for a year. That's a long time for him.”
“He's getting spoiled. He needs discipline. He needs to respect his father. If he can't respect me, he won't respect anyone.”
“He'll grow out of it,” she'd murmured, kissing her husband on the back of his reddened neck. She was lucky to have him back. And so was Greg. He'd see that soon enough. They'd have fun together. The next day, Greg accidentally slapped his father across the face when throwing a tantrum over picking up his toys. After hearing the initial strike and the silence that followed, Blythe rushed into the living room to see her husband standing with his hands on his hips, his face swollen and red in anger. Staring at their son, he reached into towards his waistband, not for the belt, but for his wallet. When he handed her the hundred dollar bill, he said “You need a new dress for Christmas. And I need some slacks for church.” Blythe took John's advice and his money and went shopping. She bought a new GI Joe for Greg, but he was already snuggled into his blankets, fast asleep by the time she returned. Blythe pulled back the blankets, tucking the GI Joe into his hands. He must have just gone to bed because his hands were still ice cold from whatever chore John had him doing. Raking leaves maybe. Or picking up rocks from the yard. It was cold out, but not yet snowing. Greg needed to learn respect and she trusted John to instill that value through discipline. She placed her lips to his reddened cheek and pulled the blankets over him again. John said the raised red mark on her son's left hand must have been a bug bite.
Though John moved his family around to different bases around the world, he was still often called out for training or deployment. To allay the difficulty in that, Blythe focused solely on raising her son. He was doing so well in school, the teachers thought he should be moved ahead so that he wouldn't get bored. He was stubborn and insolent at times, making his bed too sloppy, or stuffing toys under his bed when she asked him to clean his room. Boys will be boys. Greg was a loner, but he was just so smart that the boys his age didn't understand and the older kids didn't have the patience. She didn't want to force him. Greg was smart and one day his peers would realize that intelligence should be their inspiration. Greg would have friends in time.
The year that Greg turned 12 was the hardest on the family. They'd been in Egypt for nearly two years and John had been on Embassy duty for half the time and training in Israel the other half. When the call came, the Marines packed their boxes and shipped them all out to California. Like Egypt, sand and people were prevalent in California, but there were no more tombs or mummies for Greg to explore. He hated it before they'd even arrived. Two days after he started in the public schools, he came home with a black eye. The principal said it wasn't his fault, that there was a bully who liked to pick on the new kids, especially the kids from the military. Greg had a bright future, Mr. Wilkerson had said. His test scores were incredible for a boy his age. Crestview Junior High was going to be a great place for Greg to learn and they were sure he was going to thrive academically. It was one of the best public schools in the area. School got better after that and Greg didn't get beat up anymore. He made friends, he joined the band.
Home, on the other hand, had been better.
John would stay with his family for three years without a deployment and this was the time he decided that he could be a father. He'd drag Greg up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, tossing him his baseball mitt and running him through drills in the front yard. Afterwards, Greg would be allowed free time until dinner, 5PM on the spot. In December of that year, Greg was late to dinner for the first time. Blythe watched him come in the door, sweaty and red-faced, as she and John were quietly eating at the family's table. After washing his hands at the kitchen sink, Greg went to the cabinet and grabbed a plate, but John wouldn't have it. He pushed his seat back and stood, shutting the cabinet near enough to Greg's hand that he yelled a cracked “Hey, take it easy!”
“You can't get here on time, you don't eat.”
“That's not fair! I forgot to put on my watch!”
“Next time, you won't forget.”
The following week, Greg showed up three hours after dinner with a handful of candy bars. John locked him in the backyard and said that if he wanted to live like a hooligan, he could do it back there. That night, Blythe hardly slept thinking about Greg back there by himself, in the cool December air. But John said it was for the best. He had a whole corps of boys to watch after and he was an outstanding leader. The Marines believed in John and so did Blythe. Greg needed discipline and it took tough love to show him the rules of this life. Greg would grow up to appreciate it, she was sure of that. It would make him into an honorable man. He'd grow out of this angry rebellion and become the son that they both wanted. Someone to be there for them in their older years, someone to bring pride to the family name. One night outside in fifty degree weather was nothing.
Though his adolescent years were strife with continuing hostility and disobedience, Greg found solace at school as much as John found his at work with his men. Bringing them both away from those things and putting their overbearing personalities together was like mixing bleach with ammonia. Putting them together never failed to create a toxic reaction.
John wasn't around when Greg left for college. Blythe drove him there in her new Chevy, loaded with two of Greg's suitcases and a box full of books. She'd helped him carry the things to his dorm room and hugged him when they were done. He said he was looking forward to being on his own and she was hoping he'd be able to come home for fall break. She reassured him that he was always welcome there.
He stood with his hands on his hips, looking around the tiny postage stamp of a room. “Yeah I know. I'll be home soon.”
'Blythe, watching the way he stared at his new twin bed in the corner of the concrete room, smiled and shook her head, catching him this time because she knew him pretty well after eighteen years. Their home was comfortable, welcoming, and Greg could take the five hour bus ride easily enough. “You're a liar. But I love you anyway.” Greg was still a teenager, and as she put her arms around him, he tensed, embarrassed as if someone else was in the room watching.
Greg continued to live his life focused on his school and his work. The rigors of medical school and Greg's foray into the music industry took him from coast to coast with hardly any time for visiting his family. They spoke intermittently, on holidays and birthdays. When Greg's career launched and his book was published, Blythe called him every other week at his office, if only to hear his professional message on his voicemail, and to give him the latest updates from the life of a retired military wife. When he did answer, she asked all the questions she needed until he interrupted her and said he had to go. Greg was always too busy to go back to Lexington and the only time she saw her son was when she went to him.
In June of 1999, she'd have an opportunity to see her son that she never wanted. Blythe was out in the garden when Stacy called. The machine picked up just as her hand reached for the handset, but the conversation recorded anyway. Greg was in the hospital, something was wrong with his leg. He wasn't doing well and the doctors said they should amputate. It shouldn't have been suprising that Greg wasn't cooperative. Hearing of Greg's infarction was the most devastating news that she'd ever gotten. She and John had gotten out on the first flight they could book. Greg was only forty and it looked like he might be dying.
The image of Greg lying in a hospital bed would never completely leave her. Every time she saw him from then on, she'd think of that day she and John arrived in his hospital room. He'd had surgery the night before and was drugged to the gills, covered in wires and tubes. Blythe tentatively reached out her hands to the space between to touch his overheated skin. She kept her hand on his right forearm as he slept. When he woke up, he'd ask about Stacy and then he'd ask about his leg. He'd forget the in between times, the answers that they gave. Eventually, she'd just rub the space above his eyes, tell him everything was okay, to go to sleep. There were times when he talked in his sleep, moaning incoherently about the cold or the hot or the pain. She held on tight through the turns, the scares and setbacks of his post-surgical recovery, working with Stacy in keeping him constant company for four days while the toxins that had built in his system diminished and the fluid stopped draining from his leg. John brought the coffee, rubbed Blythe's shoulders and read a book on the couch in the corner of the room. On the fifth day, when Greg asked what happened, she shushed him back to sleep, but he wouldn't have it.
While Dr. Cuddy explained the news and Stacy came in to sit with him, Blythe and John drove out to Greg's apartment to gather some things for him, now that it appeared he was going to be released to home care in a few days. John took the wheel of the rental vehicle, some sort of Ford Sedan, and he'd sped through Princeton's streets as if he was the only person on the road that mattered. Blythe put a hand on top of his and said calmly “Slow down, John. It doesn't serve any of us that you go this fast.” He eased off the pedal at first, but when his speed crept up again, she didn't say anything more. John was just as saddened as she was and he was taking it out the only way he knew how. Their only son was crippled.
When they arrived back at the hospital with a duffel bag, Greg was errantly flipping channels on the television. Stacy was nowhere in sight.
“How are you feeling?”
Blythe sat in the chair next to him, reaching for his hand again. He pulled away a little, squinting up at the television.
“Fine.”
“Where did Stacy head off to?”
“She had to work.”
Greg flipped the channel again and again, not stopping long enough for anything to register. But her son's mind was quick. He was on medication. The doctors said it could be awhile, but that he would get better. A lot of people get sick. And Greg was strong. He'd get better. And hopefully this time next year, they'd finally marry, and she'd have a grandbaby.
Blythe never found out exactly what happened with Stacy but the next time she and John had visited, she hadn't been around. The apartment where Greg lived was void of the homey feminine touches Stacy had placed upon it in her five years there. There were no more fragant candles or lush flowers on the kitchen table. Blythe couldn't pinpoint the other changes, but it seemed to be a different place altogether. Masculine, dark features accompanied by some unmistakable emptiness on the dulled espresso wood floors. Greg's embrace was still tense and she could see the way his eyes had bored straight through her
confusion and he gave her the answer she needed.
“Stacy's gone.”
Blythe nodded and smiled up at him, patting his arm. “I know.”
“I think I'm losing my job.”
“It'll be fine.”
She hugged him again and said she was sorry about it, that things would get better.
She watched Greg use his cane to move slowly towards the couch, where he'd been watching some sort of sports program. Blythe took in the dust on the shelves, the broken tortilla chips on the floor, and the three stained coffee mugs on the table next to the couch. Greg said he was fine, but when prompted twice, he told her that the Lysol was under the kitchen sink. She spent a few hours making his home livable again and cooked him a beef stew that she hoped would go right to his heart and to his bones. Life goes on, heartbreaks and heartaches. Greg was having a rough time of it, but it had only been a year since his illness. He was doing fine, despite the obstacles that God had given him.
As she looks back over the years, she realizes that Greg has run into a lot of obstacles. He never fit into the straight and narrow and eventually, the other drivers on the road can no longer avoid his wild swings. Greg's aim is true to himself, but to no one else. Everyone goes into the guardrail and there are sparks and bent metal and damage on every end.
There was something else her father said to her once, as he'd passed her a news article about two teenagers involved in a fatal car crash. She'd been out on the road again with him that morning and they'd bickered and argued about turning too soon before an oncoming car. Her father said that bad drivers always have to start somewhere- usually with a bad teacher. If that child's father had been a better teacher, he'd have never made the mistake that he did. Her father refused to let that happen to her and he pushed her to perfection. It was a lesson that she probably took too lightly.
Blythe was far too easily pleased with Greg and with John. Her lessons have gone unheeded because her methods were faulty. She thought she was doing the right thing by allowing time and circumstance to run its course. She didn't take into consideration that the course itself had no barriers and no limits to its chaos. Greg does what he wants, when he wants, to get what he needs.
When Greg walks down the aisle and stares at David out of the corner of his eye, Blythe knows. She never taught him this and he didn't learn it by her example. Blythe hadn't looked back at her son during this long trip together, but John's gaze never wavered. It's his eye, his influence that Greg has followed despite the hostility. Like his father, he's earned respect and he demands truth. He's been pushed and pulled and broken and built up again into this roughed up version of John without the uniform and the discipline. Greg has become John's son, but he was never hers.