Chapter Text
James’ wife died in her sleep.
What a perplexing thing it must be for those who knew her. At night she went to bed kissing her husband good night, in the morning she did not wake up.
At the funeral Peter stood awkwardly in the corner as if wanting to blend in the shadow. He saw James stood with his back too straight, thanking the guests with a wet smile while his son Norman whimpered in his arms.
“Peter,” at one point James finally recognized him among the crowds and Peter regretted not leaving sooner. “You came.” He fixed Norman in one arm then reached to touch Peter’s shoulder.
Peter discreetly evaded him. “I’m just about to leave.” He turned to walk away, but James pulled him into a hug.
As soon as their body pressed together, James cried. James, his estranged brother who never bothered to contact him for years, the quirky delinquent who rip their family apart, sobbed into his shoulder. The child in his arm began to wail, gaining everyone’s attention.
Peter froze. All eyes were on him, suspicious and accusing as if he was the source of this tragedy. The wife’s family. James’ eccentric-looking friends from whatever avant-garde clubs he joined. Some colleagues. The neighbors, their faces as unrecognizable as any.
It hit Peter that he was the only one from their side of the family who bothered to come. The only person James knew all his life, to whom he could spill his sorrow after days of holding back.
“She’s gone, she’s gone! Oh God, Peter … she’s gone—”
James’ body shook with the ferocity of his sob.
Norman wailed, his cherub cheeks reddened in exertion.
Peter regretted ever coming at all, wishing he could just be as steel cold and detached as his family always be.
.
.
.
It was four months since then when suddenly Peter got a call from an unknown number.
Peter ignored it at first, letting it go all the way to voice mail. But they kept calling, and calling, and calling until the incessant ringing gave him a headache.
“Good evening, Peter Ratri here. May I ask who’s calling?” Irritated as he was he couldn’t left behind the courtesy his mother had drilled him with all through his childhood, often with punishment as catalyst.
A relieved sigh from the other side. “Good evening, Mr Ratri. This is Isabella Grace from Grace Field Daycare. I’m calling to inform about your nephew, Norman.”
Peter frowned. What did Norman’s daycare had to do with him? “Yes, is anything in the matter?”
“Mr Ratri, Norman’s hasn’t been picked up yet, and our daycare closes at 6 p.m.”
Peter glanced at the clock. Six thirty. Damn it. He knew where this was going and he didn’t like it.
The woman, Isabella, kept talking in her crisp, professional voice. “We’ve been trying to reach Mr James Ratri for an hour now, but he seems to be unavailable. You’re in Norman’s secondary contact list, so—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ma’am,” Peter made sure each of his polite syllable was dripping with rancid undertone, “I was not made aware of this arrangement by Norman’s father. I’m afraid I can’t pick Norman up.”
What the hell was wrong with James? Peter didn’t even know where this Grace Field daycare was. He didn’t even know Norman was signed up in a daycare, or any other aspects in his life, for that matter. And James had the gall to involve Peter in this mess, expecting him to what—cover him when he had no time to pick up his own son?
Peter regretted picking up the phone. Really, every decision was worth regretting when it involved his older brother.
“Mr Ratri, please understand. We are still trying to contact Norman’s father as we speak, but we have our policy. We don’t do an overnight nor drop off service.” There was an edge of a threat in that statement.
Well go on then, leave the brat on your porch. See if you dare, Peter rolled his eyes. Like they would risk their business with child neglect like that.
“Mr Ratri,” Isabella’s voice turned soft all sudden, “Please. Norman is sick. He has a fever. He needs to rest at home, where he feels most comfortable. Please, we need your cooperation.”
A change of tactic, Peter knew. This Isabella woman might be smarter than Peter reckoned her to be, deliberately leaving out the information about Norman’s sickness in her first attempt as a weapon to guilt trip him.
Not that it’d work. It was James who needed to be guilt tripped on, not him.
“Please, Mr Ratri,” Isabella coaxed, “Norman needs you.”
Peter sighed, massaging his throbbing head. “Fine. Where’s the address, again?”
James was going to pay for this.
.
.
.
Peter half expected James to already pick Norman up when he arrived. Sure, Peter would be pissed, he would cuss at himself for wasting time going here, but it was better than the alternative—the awkward trip with a sick kid whom he only met a handful of times.
But James wasn’t there. Peter was greeted by the overly relieved daycare teachers (to whom he mannerly apologized to), and then led to the infirmary where Norman was resting.
“Norman, look who’s coming for you,” Isabella whispered, nudging the boy who was fiddling with his stuffed toy weakly, his face flushed with fever.
Another thing: Peter hoped Norman would be upset to see him. They barely knew each other after all, and it must be unpleasant for a child to be picked up by a stranger when he was sick, right? If Norman threw a tantrum, if Norman downright refused to go with him, then maybe Peter could raise his hand in surrender and went home guiltless. He had done his part, just as Isabella requested. It wasn’t his fault Norman didn’t like him.
Norman blinked blearily at him. Come on, come on, cry. Tell her you don’t know me. Tell her you want your Papa—
“Uncle Petewr,” Norman lisped, smiling. His glazy eyes shone with nothing but trust, his small chubby arms raised expectantly.
“Well then, guess you can go home now,” Isabella blew kisses to Norman’s cheeks, making the boy giggled and coughed lightly.
Ah, damn it all.
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.
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Dear brother in law,
How have you been? It’s been awhile since we heard from you. James misses you, despite what he says, and I do too.
You might have heard it from other people, but I would like to tell you personally: James and I have a baby! Congratulations, you are now an uncle! His name is Norman, born March 21, blue eyes, blond hair; just like the two of you. I hope he too grows up to be as kind as you two.
How about we all have a lunch date together? It would be a good chance for Norman to meet his Uncle. And maybe you and James can catch up on things too. Brothers are better take care of each other and know of each other’s wellbeing, after all.
Waiting for your reply,
Your sister in law.
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Counting back, it had been three years since he received that message. Peter never answered and they never had a lunch date.
Norman was surprisingly small for a three-year-old. Even bundled up in winter clothes, he felt oddly light in Peter’s arms, like a grocery bag instead of a child. Maybe that was why Peter had a trouble integrating the fact that this nephew of his was already three years old, had been since his mother’s death. In his mind Norman was still a drooling toddler, his age when they first met each other.
Now that’s some unpleasant memory, Peter snorted. It was an accidental meeting. James was taking his son for a stroll in the city park, and Peter, who usually never visited the place, had decided of all day to cross it on his way to campus. What started as an already stiff greetings turned to the worse when one of them (or maybe both of them) mentioned the old wounds and other things that entailed.
Some crude words exchanged. Peter was late to the class and left with a sour mood for the rest of the day.
The second time he “met” Norman was through a video call—the boy wished him a babbled merry Christmas, probably of his mother’s insistence. Peter could hear James in the background, but they didn’t speak to each other.
The third time was at his mother’s funeral.
Peter was pulled away from his thought when Norman sneezed.
“Unggh … Uncle ….” Norman sniffled, showing Peter the dripping snot and expecting him to wipe it.
Peter groaned inwardly. He checked his pockets, never been so grateful in his life to find a pack of tissue in it. He helped Norman blew his nose and wiped it, then put the tissue back into his pocket with great reluctance.
“I’m th—thwirsty,” Norman whined, “It’s itchy, here,” he motioned at his throat.
“That’s because you have a cold,” Peter explained, patting Norman’s head to calm him. “Just wait a little longer. Three more stations and we’ll be home.”
“…’Kay,” Norman nuzzled into Peter’s chest, small hands clutching the fabric tightly. Peter continued to pat him, luring him into a light, feverish sleep.
Peter leaned back on the seat. The train lurched forward, taking hordes people in its belly, each looking wearier than the next. He searched in these crowds a familiar face, blue eyes, blond hair; feeling dread settled in his stomach as he found none.
Just where the hell James was, and why did he left Peter and Norman stranded like this?