Karen Rose - Have You Seen Her?

Friday, September 30 }7:30 P.M.

Steven pulled into his driveway and simply sat for a moment, trying to quiet the riot in his mind. He was having a devil of a time focusing on anything. His brain would flip from Brad to Samantha Eggleston to Jenna Marshall's violet eyes and her soft voice telling him to have courage. Then back to Brad and the whole damn slide show would begin again, accompanied by the rhythmic throbbing in his head. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

Brad. His son who had changed before his eyes. His son who was the most important person in the world right now. His son who needed him. His son who had responded to every overture in the last month with hostility and a defensive wall Steven had found unscalable.

A knock on his car-door window had him nearly jumping out of his skin. But he had to smile at the little freckled face whose nose was currently smushed against the glass, whose mouth was distorted into a terrible grimace by little fingers. Steven narrowed his eyes, then responded with a horrific face of his own, his eyelids pulled back, every tooth exposed, then stuck out his tongue.

They held their individual poses, each waiting the other out until Nicky folded and pulled back from the window. There had been a long time when Nicky couldn't play. He still rarely laughed and never slept through the night. Steven could only hope soon they'd reach the end of those horrible days, never to return. He climbed from the car and pulled his baby into his arms, hugging him tight. Nicky pushed against him, struggling against the hug and Steven immediately loosened his hold. It had been that way since "the incident" six months ago. Physically unharmed, his son's spirit had been broken. Steven missed Nicky's giggles and spontaneous laughter.

But he missed Nicky's hugs most of all.

Steven hoisted his littlest boy high.

"Sorry, baby."

Nicky pursed his lips. "I'm not a baby."

Steven sighed. "Sorry, I forgot. You keep doing that growing thing, no matter how many times I tell you to stop."

Nicky lifted a brow. "The book didn't work either."

Steven chuckled. It was their favorite parley these days. He'd threaten to stunt Nicky's growth by putting a book on his head and Nicky would grab the heaviest book he could carry. His little arms were growing stronger-last week he'd grabbed the thickest dictionary on Steven's shelf. "I'll just have to get a bigger book."

"Can't. Aren't any bigger in the whole house, Daddy."

'Then we'll have to go to the library." He lifted Nicky to his shoulders and jogged toward the house, bouncing Nicky all the way. "Duck," he said just before they passed through the front door. Inside, Steven drew a deep breath. "Smells good. What was for supper?"

"Pot roast with mashed potatoes." Nicky wiggled until Steven set him on the hardwood floor. "Aunt Helen saved you a plate. She said you were going to get fat from all that fast food."

"And wasn't that just so kind of her," Steven said dryly.

Nicky poked him in the stomach. His still very flat stomach. "She said you'd never be able to catch a pretty wife if you got fat."

Steven rolled his eyes. Catching him a wife was Helen's mission in life. He crouched down and motioned Nicky to come closer. "We guys got to stick together. Warn me true. Does Helen have a new lady lined up?"

Nicky covered his mouth with both hands. And winked.

Steven laughed aloud even as he dreaded this latest battle with his aunt. A tenacious matchmaker, she never gave up. He ruffled Nicky's red hair. "Benedict Arnold."

"Who's that?"

"A traitor." Steven straightened and looked around, seeing neither of his other two sons. "Where are your brothers, honey?"

"Matt's playing video games." His face fell. "Brad's in his room."

Steven looked up the stairs, wishing he knew what to say when he reached the top. "Can you do me a favor, Nicky? Can you tell Aunt Helen I need to take a shower and head back out?"

"But-" Nicky started, then sighed. "Okay, Daddy."

The beleaguered acceptance hurt more than a temper tantrum. He was spending more and more time away from home these days. "Nicky, what do you say we go fishing next weekend?"

His baby's face brightened marginally. "Promise?"

Given the Eggleston case, that might be a hard promise to keep. "I can promise to try."

Nicky looked away. "Okay. I'll go tell Aunt Helen."

Wishing he could make an honest-to-goodness promise that he could keep, Steven watched his youngest drag his feet on the way to the kitchen. Wishing he weren't so bone-tired, he climbed the stairs and knocked on his oldest son's bedroom door. "Brad?"

"What?"

Steven closed his eyes at the belligerent reply. "I need to talk to you, son."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Steven's temper simmered and with an effort he slapped a lid on it. "Tough. You're going to." He pushed open the door and entered, closing the door and leaning back against it. His eyes took a ride around the room, looking for anything that was out of place, not sure what he'd do if he found it. But everything looked normal, with the exception of the unmade bed and his unkempt son sitting against his pillows, his dirty high-tops perched unapologetically on the rumpled blanket. Brad's dark hair was dirty and uncombed, his face heavy with dark stubble, his bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. Clean and kempt, Brad was the spitting image of his mother. At this moment his son looked like an extra from a biker flick.

Steven pulled the chair from Brad's desk and straddled it, resting his chin on the chair's back. Brad's stare had gone from suspicious to hostile. "We need to talk, Brad."

Brad shrugged sarcastically. "Can I stop you?"

"No." He met his son's turbulent gaze and held it until Brad looked away. "What's going on here, Brad?" he asked quietly.

Another shrug. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Steven swallowed, let his eyes roam the room, taking in the familiar posters from Brad's favorite horror movies. Steven wasn't certain why his son wanted to stare up at Anthony Hopkins sporting a wire muzzle when he woke in the middle of the night, but Brad apparently did. Should he comment on the football that lay idle in the corner, suggest they throw a few? He drew a breath and let it out. No, he'd tried all those things already, in one form or another. He had to confront this head-on and pray for wisdom. And courage. The picture of Jenna Marshall's face filled his mind and this time he held on to it as long as he could. Courage, Steven .

"Dr. Marshall called me today."

Brad's head whipped around, a look of unholy rage lighting his eyes. "She had no right ?"

"She had every right. She cares about you. Brad." Suddenly weary beyond measure, Steven closed his eyes. "So do I."

"Yeah, right," came the muttered response.

Steven opened his eyes abruptly to find his son's arms folded tightly across his broadening chest, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on nothing at all. Steven bit the inside of his jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Brad huffed a mirthless chuckle. "It means… yeah… right."

"What's happened to you, son? One month ago you were bright, happy, clean . Now you're failing chemistry, for God's sake! How many other classes are you failing where the teachers haven't called me? Where they don't care enough to stay an hour late on a Friday afternoon to tell me how low my son has dropped?"

Brad said nothing and Steven felt his frustration building.

"Just tell me the truth, Brad. Are you doing drugs?"

Brad stiffened, then deliberately turned only his head to stare coldly. "No."

"And I can believe you?"

One corner of Brad's mouth turned up in a surly parody of a smile. "Obviously not."