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We went to an Abernathy cousin’s wedding at the country house that July. Tensions had been high since he left everything behind, but we were still invited to gatherings and such, and this two day long affair was no exception. There was a dizzying array of hors d’oeurves and cocktails at the pre-ceremony reception (a concept I didn’t really understand), and there I met the members of the family that weren’t there for the standard Christmases and Easter lunches. Standard, I guess.
Either because they wanted us to feel unwelcome or because they didn’t trust us not to sleep together in their good Catholic household, we were relegated to the living room on a single sized cot for the night, which I only mention because it’s relevant. You see, that summer was sweltering. I had no issue with sleeping in my t-shirt and boxers, but Francis, who was accustomed to matching sets, had to abandon his usual style due to the sheer heat, tying up his hair (which at this point he’d let grow almost to his shoulders) and reluctantly donning just his pyjama bottoms.
It was a long, uncomfortable night for us both. We were used to switching who lay on whose chest throughout the night (if we touched at all) so there was a lot of waking up and moving carefully so as not to tip the cot over. By the morning, we were on our sides, holding each other despite the heat to avoid falling off. One of Francis’ arms dangled, palm up, off the cot, and it was this that ended up being the issue. Nora, a second-cousin who was always nervous around me specifically, must have seen his arm; by the time I woke up and disentangled myself from Francis without letting him tip the cot, she had said something to someone and there was a small group of aunts and older cousins whispering to each other in the kitchen. I entered and they fell silent.
“So, Richard,” began Aunt Ruth, who seemed to be the most outspoken of the group, “How is Francis doing these days? Of course, that sort of thing can be… difficult on a relationship.”
“What?” I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, fumbling with the kettle.
“Well, you know. Nora said she saw something, and we didn’t want to assume anything…”
At this point, Francis walked in, “Assume anything about what?” His pyjama shirt was slung over his arm, and he moved to pull it on when an exaggerated gasp came from behind him.
“What happened to your neck?”
He chuckled nervously and put on his shirt as the gaggle of middle aged relatives flocked towards him in morbid curiosity. It is, of course, just a part of him, but I suppose to an outsider or someone who hadn’t seen him in a while it would be jarring: a raised, purplish line going from his hairline down to the base of his neck. “Nothing. Just had a hard time a few years ago,” he said when it became clear they wouldn’t accept a non-response. “Tried to hang myself, you know.”
I blinked. I wasn’t expecting him to just come out with it.
“That’s not funny,” said Theresa.
“It wasn’t a joke.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop. Everyone except Francis was in various stages of realisation, gaping or looking away, ashamed, or turning either white or red (as was a common trait in this family; you could always tell how they were feeling). I stood, frozen in place, glancing to him for some kind of guidance, but he just stood there, almost as shocked as I was that he’d actually said it.
The kettle started to hiss. I made us both some tea and he followed me to the dining room.
—
The majority of the day was taken up with the wedding, and we thought, or rather hoped, that it would all blow over. Around 11:30, an hour before the ceremony was set to start, Dominic (a favourite of his cousins, a quiet, wide-eyed 15 year old) asked him if it was true. Francis spent the next quarter hour explaining in detail exactly what happened: the marriage, the threats of cutting him off, the attempts, all of it, calling out Grandfather Robert specifically for his role in the whole affair. Maybe he said it on purpose, maybe he was just glad to have someone apart from me to talk to about all this, but either way he trailed off, embarrassed that he’d overshared.
Dominic gave him a loose hug, “But how can you even stand to look at him? God, it makes me sick just thinking about it,”
“Well,” he shrugged, “that’s the way it is.”
It didn’t stay a secret long. By the end of the actual reception, when people were drunk and loose-lipped, it seemed to have spread to even the groom’s side of the family, and everyone was taking sides. Generally, it was a generational split; the older members tended to favour Grandfather Robert, calling Francis everything under the sun both to his face and behind his back. But there were a few exceptions. Great-aunt Margot said she was ashamed to be his sister, and even Grandma Lucille (his own wife!) said she thought he was a bit harsh, though to be frank she hadn’t done anything at the time. The younger members were more varied in opinion. Ambrose, Isidora, and Cecilia were firmly against us, saying that not only was Francis an attention seeker for flaunting his scars, but he probably did it in the first place for attention anyway. Clara, who was the one getting married, had her own group of family members who thought it was a bad thing of Grandfather Robert to do, but it was gauche to bring it up at a wedding. Most of the rest of them were sympathetic and outraged on Francis’ behalf.
Priscilla, who was invited because of course she was, was humiliated, and told us so in no uncertain terms. With a confused Sophia in tow, she left in a flood of tears. We made an exit as soon as it was polite to, fully in acceptance of the fact that we would probably never see most of these people again. In the car, Francis was silent. About half an hour into the drive back home, I spoke.
“I’m so proud of you, you know.”
“Why? I just ruined a wedding.”
“You didn’t, they did. If they hadn’t made such a big deal out of it–”
“Or noticed it while it was happening, or stopped it in the first place,” he sulked.
“Or that, none of this would’ve happened.”
He said nothing for a while, then: “Do you think it’s my fault?”
“What, the wedding?”
“No. The fact that I’m like this.”
“Why would it be your fault?” I considered pulling over, but decided against it (Francis has always loved talking while driving, says it helps him process things without the pressure of a sit-down conversation).
“Because I did it to myself. I could’ve chosen not to.”
“You felt like there was no other option. You were in pain.”
“But that doesn’t mean I should’ve done it. I scared you, I broke Priscilla’s heart, she didn’t deserve that, and,” he gestured at himself, “look at me! I ruined myself, and for what? Because I was too lazy to get a job?”
“You didn’t ruin yourself.” I kept my voice quiet, careful, “You survived. You did so much work to get to where you are, and you’re still here. And you couldn’t see another way out because you were scared, not because you were lazy.”
“But it’s not enough,” he wiped a tear off his cheek with the flat of his hand, “I can’t even go to a wedding without people seeing I’m broken.”
I sighed. “You ever heard that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?”
He rolled his eyes and huffed. “If you’re going to be like that, save it.”
“No, no, wait. Hear me out. So I saw on TV once this documentary about this Japanese thing where when a vase breaks, they mix gold into the glue so that when it’s put back together, you can see where it was broken, and it makes it prettier than it was before. You’re like that.”
“Prettier than I was before?” Flirtation snuck back into his voice; whatever I was saying was working.
“No, repaired. The times you broke weren’t the end of the story.”
“Huh…”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes.
“Do you hate me?”
“What?”
“I mean, don’t you resent me for what I did to you? I scared you so many times, I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“No, never!” I looked at him, so small and vulnerable, for as long as was safe, then rested my hand on his thigh as I brought my eyes back to the road. “I hate seeing you in pain, but none of this was your fault. Don’t ever think that.”
“Just because it wasn’t my fault, doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”
“And just because it hurt me, doesn’t mean I resent you.”
“I guess.” He slumped into the seat and turned on the radio.
Usually, his sulking would’ve made me roll my eyes, but this time all I could do was smile, a fondness taking over. I was so lucky to have him. I was so lucky he was still here.