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My father’s hands wore their way right through his gloves through thirty years of doubt and love, thirty years of drought and flood. Trussing grid rode steady, moving in straight lines, traveling from work back to the farm, from the quarry to the morgue.
We grow into our father's shoes, into our father's barstools, fill the roles we're born to play. This is one phase we won’t grow out of. I'm still saying this will never happen to me.
- Filmmaker - My Black Lung
He’d never thought about his father much. As a kid he’d been too angry. As an adult he just didn’t see the point in wondering about the man who’d skipped town the day after he was born. At least, that’s how Liz told it. She’d always been a little more jaded about it, a little sadder. Neither of them had been old enough to remember him, old enough to even notice he was gone until it didn’t even matter anymore.
He finds himself standing in the bathroom staring at himself in the mirror. He’s wondering if he looks like his father. Liz looks like their mother, at least what he can remember of her. She’d been half way out the door his whole life, and one day she’d just never come back in. His mom had been pretty, with dark hair and a tiny waist. She had been angry too, always blaming them for his father leaving.
She’d taught him how to roll cigarettes before he’d started kindergarten. She’d taught him how to hide his addiction, how to bury it. She’d taught him how to hate, how to spite. She’d taught him that sex is a weapon, that women will use sex to get what they want from you. She’d taught him he was useless, that he shouldn’t expect to be anything more than she was. She’d taught him how to use, how to abuse and how to destroy.
She’d taught him how to ruin every healthy relationship he could have ever hoped to have.
He can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if it would have been different if his father had been around. Would his father have taught him how to play catch? Or how to mow the lawn? Not likely, from the stories his sister told him. His life would have been much the same. He can’t help but fantasize sometimes.
His father had taught him everything he ever needed to know about himself without even trying. He wasn’t relationship material, he wasn’t husband material. He wasn’t father material, hell he could barely handle being an uncle. His father taught him exactly what he he needed to know. How to handle it. His father taught him how to run.
He’d tried to be more, he’d tried to stand up and be something. He’s a good cop. He tried so hard to prove he wasn’t dirty no one bothered to talk to him anymore. He’d learned something from Linden too, he’d learned how important this job was. It wasn’t fucking narcotics anymore. These people are real. Kallie, Bullet, Rosie Larsen. These young girls, caught up in something they couldn't possibly understand. She’d taught him that justice is the most important, above everything.
You’re just a product of your environment. You’re just a combination of the five people who affected your life the most.
He’d even tried to be a good boyfriend, he’d apologized for yelling and Caroline had forgiven him. She said it was okay, they’d just had a fight. And he’d thought she meant it but as the weeks wore on he could tell she didn’t see him the same anymore. She blamed it on not being able to see him as much, she blamed it on timing and needing space. He knew the truth, no one wanted an ex-junkie boyfriend who drank a little too much. It had taken everything in him not to run when it started to get serious, just in time for her to run when it finally did.
He’s standing in front of the mirror and he’s staring at his face and his hands and he’s wondering, where did he get his hands from? What did his father’s hands look like? Were they strong and big? Were they long and thin, like his? What would it have felt to be held by them? Punished by them? He wonders if his father even remembers him. Does he think about them? About him and Liz? Does he wonder how they turned out? Would he be proud? Would he be disappointed?
It’s funny to think how he grew up swearing to never be like his father, how could you avoid being like someone you’ve never met? But he did, he swore he’d be better. He promised Liz he’d be around her and his nephew. He’d take care of them, he’d sworn up and down he’d be there. And he was, just not in the right way. He was there alright, taking money out of her purse and coming home tweaked out of his mind.
He’d be gone for days and then he’d show up, hungry and tired. He’d eat all her food, sleep on her couch. He’d steal from her and it would start all over again. He’d been so focused on not being their father he’d become their mother, in the worst way. He used her. And when he realized what he’d done he finally became his father, and he ran.
He took off in the middle of the night. He lived on the streets for a while, he blended in, just another faceless junkie in the crowd.
He hadn’t been surprised when Liz didn’t believe he could get clean. He hadn’t been surprised at her lack of support when he’d joined the academy. “You barely made it through high school, Stephen,” she said. It wasn’t condescending, it was true. He proved her wrong, half-wrong anyway, and he’d become a cop. Narcotics division. It takes a junkie to know a junkie, he guesses.
It must have been so easy for Skinner to use it all against him. Sure, he’d been clean for two years and he’d gotten it together, mostly. But so many people missed that. Once a junkie, always a junkie. The ex-narc officer and the missing meth. He’s glad his sister never caught wind of it, she’d have never believed him.
There’s only one person in the world who would have. The one person in his life who saw through his past. She had enough issues of her own, maybe she didn’t have time to focus on his. He knew how much he needed her, needed someone who knew him but didn’t judge him.
He’d figured it out that day on the pier. He’d been so convinced he couldn’t make it right, so convinced he’d never be more than anyone’s expectations and then she’d been there. Standing on the sidewalk, calling his name. He’d known then, somehow, in that moment that she was everything. She hadn’t given up on him. She hadn’t written him off. She’d been what she’d always been, she’d been his way home.
He’d tried to forget his past, he’d done a good job. No one questioned his judgement. Reddick was too busy not caring to even really ask and no one else knew. He was the guy who solved the Rosie Larsen murder and uncovered a whole underground political scam. He was a hero. He’d let Linden fall to the way-side. Partly because she wanted to and partly because he didn’t want to admit how much he needed her, how much it scared him that he needed her.
She’d needed her space and he’d needed a chance, a chance to be something more. He needed a chance to prove to himself he could be something more. He’d needed a chance to prove he wasn’t his father. He wasn’t a product of his environment. He wasn’t a product of the people who left him behind and he wasn’t a product of the expectations of those who stuck around.
He had to admit though, having her around was better.
He walks out of the bathroom into the living room. She’s sitting on his couch, flipping through the channels on the tv and absently eating popcorn, “there’s nothing on,” she says, smiling at him.
“There has to be something on,” he says, “it’s shark week, Linden. There’s always somethin’ on during shark week.”
He sits down next to the popcorn bowl and she settles on the Discovery channel. She leans back, watching the show with mild interest. He watches her, the way her hair curls around her ear and the way she cocks her head to the side when she’s trying to see exactly what they are talking about. “Why are you staring at me?” she brushes her hand down the back of her neck.
“I wasn’t,” he says awkwardly.
He finds himself staring at his hands again. The soft pads of his fingertips, the sharp edges of his knuckles. He runs a finger along the lines on his palm, tracing them. He wonders if you’re born with the lines on your hand, do they stay they same? Do they change as you get older? Are you simply a product of your genetics?
Is he destined to be a runner? Is he destined to give up? To walk way?
Hands are made up of twenty seven bones, two muscle groups, a handful of blood vessels and capillaries. Carpals, metacarpals. Intrinsic muscles, extrinsic muscles. They’re the main structure on the human body for physically manipulating the environment. For touching, for feeling. These twenty seven bones and two muscle groups are the main way people feel their way around. They turn the pages we learn from, they touch the people we care about, they bring our food to our mouthes and they unlock the door to our shelters.
They’re just hands, he tells himself, just flesh and bone and blood.
Is he destined to be alone? Are his hands destined to shut the door behind him?
“Did you see that?” Linden looks over at him.
He shifts uncomfortably and reaches for the popcorn, “yeah, cool right?”
“Are you okay?” she asks, concern masking her face.
He nods, not trusting his voice and he forces himself to choke down some of the popcorn. She settles back beside him. She’s close enough he can smell the green apple of her shampoo and the clean smell of fabric softener on her sweater. She’s smells fresh and clean, she smells like everything he will never be. He just sits there, for a second, and breathes her in.
He’d never told her, how much better he felt when she was around. How he invited her over to fill the emptiness that had developed when she wasn’t there. He’d never told her that he needed her simply because she knew him, she knew who he’d been, who he’d become. And she’d never cared any more or any less about him, regardless of what had surfaced. He needed her because she needed him in the same way.
It’s funny to him, how much he’d hated her at first. This short, blond woman with bad taste in sweaters that wouldn’t leave him alone to work his case. He’d come to learn, she had to see it through. She had to see them all through. It’s what had brought him back to her when they’d found the murder so similar to Trish Seward. She has to see every case through to the end.
“You hear from IA yet?” he shifts, trying to take his mind off of how good she smells, so close to him.
She shrugs, popping another piece in her mouth, “they’re still debating it. It’s harder because there were ‘no witnesses’, she air quotes the last two words.
“I thought it would be better that way,” he glances at the TV in time to see a shark dive deep into the water, some poor unfortunate fish hanging between it’s teeth.
“It’s fine,” her smile wobbles, “I’m running out of vacation time. Especially considering I didn’t have any before they put me on this leave of absence.”
“You can crash here anytime,” he offers, “I’d take the couch.”
“Thanks, Holder,” she cringes as the shark grabs another fish.
The words are coming out of his mouth before he can stop them, “your crib, it’s got two bedrooms right? What if I moved in? We could split the rent, you know, til they get you cleared.”
She drops her hand into her lap and looks at him like he’s been speaking Chinese this whole time and she’s just realized it, “you want to move in with me?”
He swallows the lump in his throat, “you know, just an idea,” he mutters. He’s picking at his nails and trying not to meet her eyes.
“Where did that come from?”
He shrugs.
"Are you serious?" she asks as she grabs the remote and turns the volume down.
“I already lost you once, Linden. I don’t wanna lose you again,” he holds out his hands to show them to her, “we’re the same, don’t you see? You a runner, right, Linden? I’m a runner too. I was born a runner.”
“Is this about Caroline? I thought you said she was the one who left?”
He shakes his head, “this has nothin' to do with her. This is about me and you,” he says, “hold up your hand.”
She looks at him skeptically before she holds up her right hand, palm facing him. He reaches forward until his left hand is pressed against it. Her hand is soft, and small compared to his. He can feel her warmth moving through him and he spreads his fingers slowly until each of hers falls into place.
“I been thinking about my dad,” he says.
It’s her turn to shake her head, “running out isn’t contagious. I’ve never seen you run. I’ve never seen you back out on anything.”
He smiles lightly, gingerly turning her hand in his, “I been thinkin’ maybe my dad ran cos he didn’t find a reason to stop. I stopped runnin’ the day I met you,” he whispers softly.
He pulls her forward, knocking the bowl of popcorn onto the floor, until she’s laying on top of him. He reaches up with his free hand and brushes a strand of hair out of her face. She stiffens at first, her eyes darting around like she’s looking for a way out of a trap, before she softens and leans into him. He wraps his free arm around her waist, anchoring her to him.
He holds up their hands and twists them so he can see hers, “do you ever wonder,” he asks, “how you ended up the way you are?”
She rests her head on his chest, looking up at their hands, “I know how I ended up the way I am,” she says. He can’t tell if she’s trying to appease him of if she’s actually comfortable being so close to him. He can’t remember her ever being this close. He tugs at the hem of her sweater, twisting it in his hand.
“That’s not what I mean, well not entirely,” he fumbles, trying to think of how to say it. He lets go of her hand and holds his up so she can see it, “are these my father’s hands?” he asks her, “am I just like him?”
“You’re nothing like him,” she says as she reaches up and runs her finger along the ridge of his thumb.
“How do you know?” he hates how small and vulnerable his voice sounds.
She twists herself so she’s laying on top of him, her head hovering, “I just do,” she says, “you don’t run from your problems, Holder, you face them. You always face them. It’s why you go to those meetings and why you’re still here. You can tell yourself whatever you want, but you’re not a runner.”
He slides his hand around to the back of her neck and pulls her in. Her lips are softer than he expected. She tastes salty from the popcorn. He runs his hands through her hair, letting them get tangled up in it. She’s hot and she’s cold and she’s everything he’s ever needed. He slides his tongue along her teeth, urging the kiss deeper. He’s losing himself in her, letting her smell and her taste and her touch take him over.
She smiles at him when she pulls back and she lays her head down on his shoulder. She reaches over and takes his hand in hers, turning it over, “it’s just a hand,” she says, “it’s yours.” She lets both of their hands fall to his chest. He looks at her hand, small and strong in his, holding him steady and he breathes out slowly. He strokes her hair lightly and turns his head towards the TV.
If you'll be there when I need you, then don't say you're leaving now. I'm up in arms until you reach me breathing through this blackened lung. If the minutes start like days and the moments feel the same, will you be there with open arms to save me?
- Filmmaker - My Black Lung