[FIC] Don't Worry (i'm okay now) (Part 2/8)
Jimmy Kirk didn’t remember the first three years of his life, nor did he particularly want to. What twelve year old wanted to be told about that time when he pooped all over himself or peed in his mother’s face as she was changing his diaper?
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most between the ages three to six were days spent in the sun as he followed Sam through the cornfields, getting lost watching the stars twinkle up above him, and the old, red car that had sat in the garage gathering dust.
He’d asked Sam about it once, and why it sat rusting in the garage, and if no one was using it why didn’t Mom just get rid of it and buy a new hovercar like the one Johnny’s parents had? Sam had told him to mind his own business and that he’d find out when he was older. So Jimmy had shrugged and figured this was just another weird grown-up thing like the weird lip-sucking thing Sam did with Pamela from down the street in the barn when Mom was working in the shipyard.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most between the ages six to ten was going to school and being so bored. He’d taught himself how to read when he was around four or five, watching as Sam did his homework and read the instructions out loud. He’d watched old 20th century movies with subtitles on and repeated the words as he read them, forming whole sentences from disassociated letters. He remembered dragging a kitchen chair to the living room when he was eight and standing on his tippy toes so he could reach the books and take them up to his room. He’d spent hours running his fingers through the old parchment and sounding out the words, repeating them over and over until the sentences suddenly made sense.
Winona Kirk had finally caught him in the act when he was nine years old. He’d been trying to get a book from the top shelf and had slipped, his body banging against the bookshelf before he and the books had come crashing down to the floor with a thunderous noise. He’d sat on the floor, blinking his eyes dazedly, and had jerked backward when his mother had run into the room with an old style shotgun in her hands, blond hair disheveled and a robe thrown on haphazardly.
She’d looked at him sitting in the middle of the books and had blinked, confused. “Jim?”
He’d given her a small smile, hand going to his throbbing head to rub it, but as soon as he’d touched the back of it his fingers had met with something sticky, and he’d pulled them back, staring at his blood red fingertips. Suddenly it was as if a switch had been toggled on and his entire body had begun throbbing, the back of his head the loudest of his injuries. He’d whimpered softly and had looked at his mother.
“Mom?”
At the sound of his voice, Winona had sprung into action, dropping the shotgun and falling beside her youngest, long fingers probing and prodding him, gently running over his head and snapping away at his pained whine.
“Sam!” Winona had yelled as she’d picked up her son and had made her way toward the front entrance. “George Samuel Kirk, I know you’re awake in that bedroom of yours! Stop jacking off and get down here!”
Jimmy shut his eyes tightly at the sound of her voice and buried his face into the crook of her neck, trying to visualize the night sky and ignore the throbbing pain shooting up and down his body, pounding in time with his heart.
“Mom!” Jimmy heard his brother yell indignantly as his bedroom door slammed open. “Stop trying to embarrass me! It won’t work!”
“Samuel!” Winona cried again. Jimmy reflexively tightened his grip on her shirt and let out a small whimper. Winona started and smoothed her hand down her son’s back. “Sorry, sweetie,” she mumbled in his hair. “Sam, put your shoes and jacket on, we’re going to the hospital,” she continued, voice low but carrying up the staircase.
“What? What happened?” Sam asked as he pounded his way down the stairs, grabbing his jacket and tugging his shoes on. “Mom. Mom, why is Jim-”
“Hush, Sam,” Winona cut him off. “Grab his jacket, and let’s go.”
They’d spent five hours at the emergency room that evening. The final verdict had been some bruises and a concussion. After that, his mother had sat him down at the kitchen table, made them all some milk with honey and asked him what he thought he’d been doing. So he’d spilled his secrets, telling her how all the books in his room were too easy, and besides he’d already read them all. Winona had looked at him thoughtfully then, and nodded.
“Finish your milk, Jim. You’re sleeping in my room tonight,” she’d said.
Jimmy had had half a mind to object but decided against it. His head still hurt and he didn’t think he’d much enjoy getting on her bad side tonight (if he wasn’t already). The next morning, Jimmy stayed in bed all day, his head throbbing and his ribs aching, but at least his mother was no longer waking him up every two hours. That night, when he’d finally felt more human than he had all day, he joined Sam and his mother for dinner. As he’d descended the stairs, he’d stopped at the bottom and stared at the new bookshelf on the other side of the room. It was short, maybe a head taller than him, and crammed full of books he’d never seen before. He’d made his way to it and moved his hand reverently over the books, staring at them and wondering where they had come from.
A hand in his hair startled him and he looked up into his mother’s face. She smiled at him and sat down next to him, pulling a book out. “These used to be your father’s,” she said, still looking at the book. “He’d have wanted you to read them,” she continued, offering him the book.
Jimmy had taken it in his hand and stared at its worn out cover and old parchment paper, ready to embark on a journey that would take him to the second star on the right and straight on till morning.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most between the ages ten to eleven was his mother’s sudden happiness. It wasn’t that Winona Kirk was depressed, or sad, or sometimes so angry that she refused to look her youngest son in the eyes, but it’s just that sometimes, she was; or, she had been. One day Jimmy had come home from school to find her humming and twirling, a bowl in her arms as she mixed a batter together. She’d looked up at the sound of the door opening and smiled at him, the most brilliant smile he had ever seen.
“Hi Jimmy,” she’d chirped. “How was school?”
“Good…” he’d replied, unsure what he should be expecting from all this. “Mom, what’s-”
She cut him off with a shushing sound. “Go put your things down and come back here to help me finish these cookies.”
Still stunned, he’d done as he’d been told and when he’d gotten back to the kitchen, Sam was seated at the table, staring at their mother as if she’d suddenly grown another head. Brown eyes looked up to meet with bright blue ones and Jimmy had shrugged at his brother’s obvious question. They’d spent that afternoon filling the house with the smell of chocolate chip cookies baked from scratch.
As they’d sat around the kitchen table eating the cookies for dinner, Winona had looked at her children with a twinkle in her eyes and a smile tugging at her chapped lips. “I want you to meet someone,” she’d said. “I think you’ll like him,” she’d continued.
The next night, Frank had come over.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most about age eleven was the slow, putrid stench that had slowly descended upon the Kirk household and coated everything within it with what seemed like death, darkness, and disease. It had started innocently enough: Frank had come over for dinner one night, then another time a few nights later, then brunch on Sunday morning, and then one day he’d been there early in the morning before school started, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him and working on a PADD. At first, Sam and Jimmy had smiled and nodded, happy that for once their mother had been all smiles and twirls instead of half grins and sad blue eyes.
But there was something wrong with the man that Winona Kirk didn’t seem to see. It wasn’t anything overt that the boys could call out on, just something that was there, festering, growing between Frank and them. It was a body shove as they passed each other in the hallway, an indecipherable look as he stared at them from across the kitchen table, a ringing command couched in a request as he told one of them to get him another beer from the fridge as he draped his arm across Winona’s shoulders, claiming her. It rankled Sam more than Jimmy; Sam who had known George Kirk and had had a father.
Days became months, became a year, and one day Winona came back into the house, her smile brighter than either boys could ever remember seeing, a gold band shining with the reflection of the sun as it streamed through the window. She made a big pot of hot chocolate and congregated with her boys around the kitchen table. She’d handed each of them a cup of cocoa and looked at them seriously.
“Frank asked me to marry him,” she’d finally said after a moment of silence, right hand twirling the gold band that had not been there a few hours ago. “I said yes,” she’d continued, “but I need you to know that it’s not a sure thing.” Sam and Jimmy had looked at each other, eyes wide in silent communication. “I need to know you’re both okay with this.”
“Mom?” Jimmy had finally ventured, unsure what exactly his mother was asking of them.
“I could never replace your father. No one could, and no one will,” she’d said. “But Frank… Frank makes me happy. But I need to know that he makes you happy. If you… I won’t marry him if you boys don’t… I won’t…” She fell quiet, eyes lowering to stare at her engagement band.
Jimmy had watched her desperately, unsure what to do. He’d turned wild blue eyes toward his brother, waiting to see what Sam would say, what he would do; whatever Sam did, Jimmy would follow. Silently, he’d watched as Sam’s gaze darkened and the older boy had put his hand over his mother’s, covering the ring.
“Mom,” he rasped, licking his lips as he tried to buy some time as he thought about what he wanted to say. “You deserve to be happy, Mom. You deserve… Please be happy,” Sam had whispered, hazel eyes staring at his mother, refusing to look away as imploring, calculating blue ones met his and held them.
“Jim?” his mother had asked, turning to look at him.
Jimmy had licked his lips nervously and nodded, blue eyes boring into his mother’s. “I want you to be happy.”
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most about his Mom marrying Frank was how it had finally given her the chance to get out of Iowa and back into space where she could be closer to George Kirk. It was how the tension that had existed between Sam and Frank had exploded once she was gone for good. It was how Frank had looked at the red corvette gathering dust in the garage with something vile and greedy gleaming in his eyes. It was how Frank had pushed and pushed until Sam had finally broken and not even Jimmy’s pleading and begging had changed his mind. It was how Frank had ordered Jimmy to clean and wax the car so he could sell it to the highest bidder.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most about that day when he had stolen the car was the high he’d felt thrumming through his veins as the car had sped faster and faster toward an infinite horizon. It was the wind in his hair and the sun in his eyes and the blur of colors in his peripheral vision. It was how the road ahead had seemed clearer, and everything had felt more alive. It was how he had felt more alive (untouchable, invincible, unbreakable). It was how he had imagined that instead of a car, he was in a ship, and instead of cornfields he was flying through the stars. It was how he had discovered the rest of his life.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most about after he’d been taken to the police station and booked was Frank’s livid face, purple in his anger, and the fact that there had been no one in the house to stop him from beating Jimmy within an inch of his life. It was the fact that Frank had called Winona before he’d come to pick up Jimmy and woven a tale of lies and deceit that sealed Jimmy’s fate before he’d been given a chance to tell his mother what had truly happened. It was the fact that Winona had believed Frank unquestionably and given him free reign of Jimmy’s punishment without even listening to her son. It was how when he’d gotten home, a satchel had been packed and Frank had told him Winona and he thought it was best if Jimmy stayed with her brother on Tarsus IV.
What Jimmy Kirk remembered most about ages three to twelve was… Well, he’d much rather forget ages three to twelve.
(Part 3/8)