Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Five - Liam

With a heave, I sling my backpack over my shoulder. In one hand, the small bouquet of roses I picked from our backyard and in the other my guitar case. As I pass Dad's room, I almost don't notice that his door is open. It's never open anymore.

But today the door is open. Just a little. And as I creep closer, I see him through the opening on his knees beside his bed. His arms stretch out over the bed and his face presses against the comforter. I can just barely make out his voice – enough to know that his words are a prayer.

I've never seen Dad like this. Usually when he prays, he's more composed. But not this time. His shoulders sag, but every now and then they shake and I wonder if he's crying.

The thought takes me by surprise.

I make for the stairs, but then I hear my name and my heart sinks with the fear that I've been caught intruding on a private moment. But when I turn around, he's resumed his prayer. Then, I realize that he's praying for me.

Leaning closer, I hold my breath and strain to listen.

"Bring my sons home. Show them who You are again. Show me who You are again. Heal our family. Heal us..."

My heart rips in two and I'm almost indignant that he's praying for me, but I know I have no logical right to this anger and it quickly turns to grief; grief that in my breaking I might be breaking him too.

The door creaks when I lean too close and my heart jumps. I spin away from view just in time.

"Liam?" he asks from his place by the bed.

Pressed against the wall of the hallway, I clamp my eyes shut and keep quiet.

When he returns to his prayer, I breathe a sigh of relief and tiptoe down the stairs and into the kitchen. I drape the strap of my backpack over the back of one of the dining chairs and lean my guitar case against the table. At the pantry I rummage for the box of Frosted Flakes. When I find it, I pour myself a bowl and pull myself onto the kitchen counter, swinging my feet as I chew.

The house is quiet. It's always too quiet. Ever since Mom died. That's when everything fell apart. Ezra, my older brother, left for college only a few weeks after her funeral. He came around for the holidays his first couple of years, but it's been a long time. Six years since he left. Three years since we last saw him. I guess he's too busy with his new friends because he never seems to have time for me anymore. Dad and I don't talk much these days either. After Mom passed, he threw himself into the church. He's at the office every day, studying and praying I guess. But me? It only took six months for me to stop going. And either Dad was too tired or too broken to force me to go.

This is our life now. Dad works and prays. And I lose myself a little more each day.

When the cereal is gone, I bring the bowl to my lips and drink the last of the milk, then hop down off the counter. It's show time.

When I was younger, I loved the first day of school. I couldn't wait to see my friends or to go to band practice. And, honestly, I actually enjoyed most of my classes. But that all changed the first day of Fourth Grade when we lost Mom. Now, every year the first day of school just reminds me of that all over again. It's a good thing I only have a few first days left. Maybe after high school things will change.

On the back of my brother's old Harley, I roar into a parking space and dismount. My backpack and guitar case weighing on my back, I practice a smile.

No one can know the secret behind the smile.

As soon as I step onto the sidewalk in front of Reagan High School, Theo is at my side.