Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 60

    Brandon trailed reluctantly behind his family up the long, circular driveway to his house, which loomed over him; dark, empty, and vaguely threatening.

    His children each carried a suitcase - Ammon struggled valiantly to control two rolling suitcases at once, and the sight only increased the anxious nausea tearing his stomach apart. They're having to work like this...for me. Because of me. I should be carrying my own shit, and they know it.

    He stumbled on the tiny ledge of an uneven flagstone and gasped, falling to his knees and slamming his hand onto the stone, his head bowed over his stinging knees.

    Suitcases clattered to the ground and the pitter-patter of frantic feet reached his ears. Before he had even fully registered his fall, before he could even think about getting up, a small hand wrapped around his bicep.

    "Daddy! Daddy, you okay?"

    God damn it...Henry. My baby. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, a lump growing in his throat. His stomach sank further as other little hands joined his youngest son's - and other little voices.

    "Dad, are you okay? These rocks are killer." Gunnar knelt in front of him, his suitcase fallen sideways to the flagstones, abandoned. His clumsy fingers fumbled for Brandon's legs, checking for blood, and carefully turned over his hand to examine his palm.

    An icy, invisible boa constrictor wrapped around his heart at every light touch from his son. Just like...like I used to do for them, when they fell.

    A larger hand rested on his back, and then his oldest son - not even in high school yet...Ammon, what are you doing? What am I doing to you? - whispered in his ear, his voice pitched for Brandon's ears only. "It's okay, dad. We were probably walking too fast for you, huh? I'm sorry. We're just excited, we'll go slower. Are you okay?"

    Too much - too many - stop, stop, stop. He wrapped his arm around himself and lost the battle with his tears, a fight that had been doomed from the start.

    "S-Stop," he whispered, and suddenly he felt all three of his boys draw back from him, startled - Brandon could practically feel the hurt oozing from each of them at that one word. Ammon spoke up, his voice tremulous and pained.

    "Daddy, we're just - we wanna help. We can help you."

    Ammon never calls me 'daddy' anymore, he thinks he's too old for it. The word drove the snake to wind even tighter around his heart, squeezing it painfully.

    "Don't. P-Please...stop," he repeated softly, swiping angrily at his tears. He could feel the pain that lurked quietly in his head, always battering faintly against his brain, beginning to increase once more. "J-Just - just wait."

    Eyes closed, digging his fingernails into his thigh, Brandon heard Tana pacing around uncertainly somewhere in front of him - back and forth, over and over. The sounds of the night were all around them - softly croaking frogs, trilling little crickets, the rustling of leaves in the slight evening breeze.

    Finally, he felt strong enough to continue and opened his eyes, heaving himself to his feet. Ammon hovered close behind him, and he felt a sudden iron grip around his hips as he wavered on the flagstones.

    "It's okay, dad, I've got you," he whispered, and Brandon closed his eyes, fighting the lump that returned so easily to his throat. He brushed his son's hands away and nodded toward the door, beckoning him onward. Ammon hesitated, opening his mouth for a moment, and then nodded and retrieved his suitcases from their places on the driveway.