Page 5 of Second Story

“Don’t leave them all alone with what they could have said or done to help you.” I make a desperate offer. My anger turns to pleading. “Come back. Talk. I promise I’ll listen.”

I only realise I’m knee-deep in the sea, my boots waterlogged and heavy, when I’m close enough to see those tattoos are actually a mess of healed flesh instead of ink work. Waves lick at old wounds as the man I yelled at stands stock-still. He’s carved from scarred and moonlit marble, and I have to tear away my gaze to glance over my shoulder. The van is where I left it, door still closed, as this also tears from me. “Don’t you fucking dare make me leave my brother. I’m all Lenny’s got.”

He turns then, and in the instant it takes to grasp that this is no stranger, a familiar voice rasps, “Isaac?”

“Joe?”

No.

I shake my head and back off.

My brother’s first-ever school welfare worker follows, wading slowly at first, then faster. Each splash showcases how those scars on his back extend to his midriff. They also give me a close-up view of him bollock naked.

That’s a lot.

So are all those scars.

I already knew Joe had some on the back of his hands and more on his forearms. Lenny used to trace those with the tipof a finger whenever Joe made a welfare visit. He’d explore the ruined skin that Joe’s sleeves usually covered. Even rest his head against Joe’s pitted forearm, using it as a cushion during meetings with social workers, so trusting.

But hasn’t trust always been our family failing?

Wasour family failing.

I straighten my spine, repeating a silent promise: Not anymore and never again. That trust ended the night he walked away from us.

“Isaac,” Joe almost sighs. “Of all the places—” He stops himself. “How have you been?” He grabs his boxers and wrestles himself back into his underwear. I guess. I don’t stick around to find out. I march up the beach and harden the heart that used to melt each time Joe paid us a visit.

“Isaac?” he asks from much, much closer. “I asked how you’ve been.” My elbow gets hooked by one of those big hands that Lenny used to turn over to trace what looked like hardened lava. Now I take a turn at erupting.

“How am I? What about Len? How about you ask me about him? Actually, don’t.”

I yank my arm free and stalk away.

Just as quickly, I turn back, and thank fuck my old school librarian isn’t around to hear what would probably sound like weakness. The real truth is that I have to say this. “But I did mean what I said. Don’t…” I point at the sea. “Don’t do that. Nothing’s so bad that you need to?—”

“I was only going to swim.” He touches the edge of the scars that made such an impression on my brother that he had me draw them onto his action figure. Tonight the real version of Lenny’s Silver Man says, “I knew the water would be cold without a wetsuit. That I could wait until tomorrow and hire one. But I miss swimming without people staring. Without kids crying. Without having to cover up.” He frowns, and hisconcerned face shouldn’t still do it for me. Nor should moonlight slicing his face with all these brooding angles.

I back off in a hurry rather than let him see that it does, only my waterlogged boots are heavier than I expected, and I stumble.

Joe can move fast for a big man. Not that he’s taller than me. Heightwise, we’re matched, but his reach is longer—massive, like his shoulders—and so is the bare chest he hauls me against. “Listen to me, will you?”

“No.” I pull free, my T-shirt adhering to his damp skin like I once wanted to cling to him. I quickly add more distance. “You listen to me.” I cast one last look back at the van before facing the man who needs to hear this truth. “You walked away from Lenny. Now I’m walking away from you.”

I stride away then.

Each waterlogged step is heavy.

So is the stone at the centre of my chest where my heart used to clench each time Joe acted as if he cared about us. It had to toughen up in a hurry. I do the same on the way back to the van, where I wince as soon as I turn the key in the ignition, only not due to the van headlights spotlighting someone who once could have been a hero for me as well as Lenny.

I can’t care that Joe watches me leave like I watched him walk away from us the night before a judge banged a gavel and locked up the wrong person. And I don’t wince because he has to hear my van let out a coughing death rattle. I only care that Lenny isn’t frightened.

Too late.

He startles out of sleep. “Mum?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” I reach for him, patting blindly. “I’m here, Len.”

“Mum?” he asks again, ever hopeful.

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