One Year Later
Ouroldhousesmellslike a childhood memory.
Steam from Ma’s cooking fogs the windows and clings to the air.
I hover in the foyer, pretending to study some family photos, already itching to bolt.
It’s the first family dinner since Da’s accident where every chair will be filled. I haven’t walked through the front door since I left for school after I was thrown down the stairs. The others continued to live here, Brennan, Seamus, Cillian. Connor, of course, has been on tour but his bedroom is still intact.
My brothers have all maintained some connection to our parents. Padraig and I? We call Ma once a week, or so. Otherwise, we’ve been ghosts in our own house.
I’m not sure why I agreed to come tonight. I’m expected to sit at a table where he’ll be.
The man who almost killed me.
Ma barks at Brennan and Seamus to hurry up and set the table. Ma and Connor bring out platters of food. Roast chickens, mashed potatoes, mounds of vegetables. My stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything. Padraig hovers, staying close like he always does when he’s afraid I’ll start to fray.
On my way to the dining table, I walk through the living room. Not much has changed. The couch still dips where we used to pile on after school. Da’s recliner is positioned to the side, the place he passed out most nights after the accident. From here, there’s a clear line of site to the stairs, and the landing where I crumpled into a heap.
I close my eyes and feel it again. The shouting. The reek of whiskey. His breath in my face. Slurred hate. Words that still scrape my skin when I let them.
“You’re a fucking disgrace.”
“Liam.” Padraig’s voice cuts through the memory. “You good?”
I nod once. He sees through it, but he won’t push. Not yet. We move toward the table. I slide into a chair across from Brennan, who’s half-focused on his mobile. Seamus, who’s fucking twenty years old all of a sudden, to his right.
How did my wee brothers become men?
Connor sits at the head of the table. He’s been the man of the house since Da fell apart. It’s still difficult for me to comprehend how honorably he handled the burden he never asked for. He was two years younger than Seamus when he gave up everything for us.
Kept me and Padraig safe.
“Cillian!” Ma calls. “Dinner!”
Our middle brother strolls in with a beer in hand. Pops the cap like it’s nothing. Something about his casualness rubs me the wrong way. Padraig notices too. His eyes flick to mine. No words pass between us, but the implication is clear.
Pretending this family gathering is normal is a fucking joke.
My entire body tenses when I hear the sound I’ve dreaded most. A wood cane tapping against the hardwood floors.
I don’t lift my eyes. Not yet. I feel him. Each step carved from pain.
“Good evenin’, lads,” Da mumbles.
Out of an abundance of caution, I keep my gaze fixed on my plate.
Da’s chair scrapes. He lowers himself down with a grunt. No one says anything until Ma claps her hands and shovels a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Seamus’s plate.
“Boys, eat,” she snaps. “You’ll waste away if you don’t.”
Connor does what he always does. Holds the family together with sheer force of will. Forks clink. Voices try for lightness. My body stays rigid. I chew, but even Ma’s home cooking tastes like ash.
The rest of the crew digs in. Cillian takes a slow sip of his beer, watching me and Padraig across the table.
“So,” his eyes gleam, “how’d it feel opening for Connor and LTZ? A little humbling?”
Padraig smirks. “If by humblin’ you mean sleepin’ upright next to a crate of cymbals, then yeah. It was a real groundin’ experience.”
