After Dad left, Joe got up from where he'd been sitting silently behind me and went to shut the door. Dad had left it half-open, probably on purpose. Then he came to sit beside me again. "Eat anything yet?"

"Not hungry," I answered, trying not to let my residual feelings overflow at him. "Thanks for coming in," I added more calmly, carefully laying down on the bed. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

It's hard to tell, sometimes, whether Joe is playing innocent, pretending to be dense, or genuinely not understanding me.

"What made you decide to come in and give me moral support?" I rephrased the question.

"Oh. I heard what you said about Mom- you kinda raised your voice a bit, and I was just in the bathroom. Cleaning out the tub."

I nodded and wondered at his diffidence. It was like he was going out of his way to make sure I knew he hadn't been eavesdropping. "Well, I'm glad you did," I assured him, placing my hand on his for a moment. Not so much for a 'thank you' as an _expression of closeness. He smiled, but didn't say anything, which seemed odd. I'd expected him to ask me what was going on, but for several minutes there was only the sound of the rain beating on the roof and the wind whipping it against the window. "What's on your mind?" I asked at length.

Joe looked at me, his brow creasing in a slight frown. He was wearing a faded yellow and white t-shirt that showed his summer tan; not as dark as usual for him, but at least he had more color now than he'd had two weeks ago. His faded black jeans were splattered with darker spots; water from the tub. His hair was getting long, almost covering his eyebrows. Mom would be after him to cut it soon. Somehow, he looked younger than fifteen, sitting there and obviously thinking hard.

"It's hard to explain," he said at last, rubbing at the side of his chin. "It's kinda- I want to help, but- I mean, if you don't want to talk about it- but I don't really know what's going on. And if you don't, that's okay, I understand, but if you do- I mean, it's not that I'm curious- like, I don't want to be nosy or anything. But- well, I am curious, kind of, but that's not why I'm asking. Except I'm not asking, 'cause I'm not sure I should. But I don't want you to think I don't care, either."

I closed my eyes for a moment, not sure whether to laugh or groan in frustration. "I got that last part, and I can say for sure that, whatever else, I know you care about me," I offered, re-opening my eyes. "But I'm afraid the rest of it didn't make any sense to me at all."

Joe sighed and ran both hands up his face and over his hair, then let them drop with a grimace. "Bleach, yuck."

"Great, now you'll be a bleached-blond… Spit it out, little brother, and then explain it. Don't explain it while you're telling it."

"Okay…" He took a deep breath. "Okay, I want to help. But I don't know what will help. So if you want, I'll leave you alone- I mean, by not asking any questions or stuff, not by actually staying away from you. But if I do that, I don't want you going around thinking, 'oh, he doesn't care what's going on with me, he's not interested'. But then if I do ask questions and you don't feel like answering- I don't want to be all nosy and have you wishing I'd just let it go and saying it's none of my business anyway." He stopped, took another breath, and asked rather plaintively, "Did that work any better?

"Somewhat," I said slowly, feeling my way through it. "You're trying to decide whether to ask me what's going on or not."

"Right, but not 'cause I'm curious- maybe I am a little, but mostly I just thought, you know- if you need to let off some steam or something. But I know you like keeping stuff to yourself, mostly, and then vent about it later, so…I just don't want to be sending mixed messages."

I had to laugh at that. "Kiddo-"

"I know, I know! I'm not very good at it, am I?"

I sat up. "Joe, you may have mixed your message a bit, but I do appreciate you asking in the first place. And you certainly did cover all the possible aspects of the situation; I thought I was the one who dealt with multiple perspectives of a single problem."

"I've been trying to branch out on that lately," Joe explained seriously. I tried not to laugh again, but it felt good and I couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry, I know it's not really that funny," I managed, a moment later. "And it is good to try and see different aspects. All you need to work on is conveying them."

"Should I try again?" he asked dolefully.

"No, I've got it. You want to know what form of moral support I need; someone to sit with me and just be there, or someone to lend me an ear so I can get it all off my back. And you're trying to avoid the catch-22, too. The 'if I say something, I'm intrusive, but if I don't say something I'm indifferent.' Yeah?"

Joe gazed at me, his _expression somewhere between admiring and rueful. "Yeah," he said. "That's exactly it."

I considered for a moment. It was definitely not like Joe to be so wary, hesitant, circuitous, and I thought I knew why he was doing it now. My temper had been unpredictable lately, and he was probably worrying about becoming the focus of it. But I wasn't going to do that to him. "I don't mind telling you what's going on," I answered slowly. "But I'm not going to be venting my feelings and frustrations on you. I told you how rotten it makes me feel when I do that, and I've done more than enough of it this summer as it is."

"But that's what brothers are for-"

"No, Joe. It's not. I know you want to help, and I really appreciate it- but letting me holler at you, take all my anger and- and negative feelings out on you- it's not right. Heck, brother, we talked about this just the other night, when I got on your case for not telling me about Callie's phone calls. Bad enough I've been picking on you without meaning to; the last thing I want to do is pick on you deliberately."

Joe looked startled for a second or two; then he lowered his gaze and nodded slightly. "I just- I want to help somehow, and I thought…"

"You do help," I told him, putting my arms around him. "You do- you're the only part of my life that hasn't changed beyond recognition. It's like- it's like I'm in the Sleuth and the sea's all stormy and the waves are throwing the boat all over the place. And you, Joe, you're the pier, the strong, solid wood that I can tie the boat to and ride out the storm. Now am I gonna pull out an axe and start chopping away at the pier? Not very likely!"

He lifted his head and looked up at me, and his blue eyes were incredibly eloquent. I smiled and leaned down till my forehead touched his, and felt his hand brush the back of my head. "I'm glad you told me that," he said in almost a whisper. "I feel so- helpless sometimes. I'm glad I've managed to help, even if I'm not quite sure what I'm doing that's done it."

"Just be you," I answered quietly. "Be my brother, that's what I need more than anything."

"Oh, well, you couldn't get me to stop doing that if you tried for the next millennium," he retorted, smiling suddenly and sitting up straight. "That's my specialty; but if you wanted a great-grandfather, I'm afraid you'd be out of luck."

I laughed and gave him a gentle cuff; it really did feel good to laugh again. "Not to mention you'd have to grow a long beard, get a bunch of wrinkles, walk with a cane, and talk in a creaky old voice," I teased.

"Well, I'm working on the beard part," he began, rubbing his cheek ruefully.

"Be grateful. Shaving every day is not all it's cracked up to be," I retorted.

"I'm not talking about every day; once a month would make me very happy."

"This is one of those, 'be careful what you ask for, you'll likely get it' things," I mused. "Once you've got it, you'll begin to wish you hadn't. And then, it will be too late."

"Oh, gloom and doom, why don't you?" Joe snorted, gave me an unexpected squeeze, and then slid off the bed. "Back to the tub and the bleach and…yick. And you-" He pointed at me. "You eat something, okay? I can feel your ribs, and that's not good."

"Blame the liquid diet."

"How's the pain?"

"It hasn't been bothering me much. I took your advice and had only half a tablet, and it seems to be doing the job. But it's probably why I'm not hungry."

"If I go get you something, will you eat it?"

"Persistent, aren't you?" I commented, propping the pillow against the head of the bed and leaning against it.

"My middle name. Just a glass of milk? Chocolate?"

Joe knows my weak spots- too well.

"And you won't even have to stand over me with a whip," I agreed, smiling.

"That's just as well, since I don't remember where I left it," my brother remarked, and trotted out of the room. He came back a minute later with the glass of milk, well saturated with chocolate syrup, handed it to me, then went to finish the bathroom. I drank the milk, left the glass on the nightstand, and went down to the bathroom to watch him. I was tired of the gloomy view from my window, tired of brooding, and even a little tired of resting, if that wasn't a contradiction. Besides, it didn't seem right to be laying around while everyone else was doing chores.

And if Mom can't find me, she can't try to make me talk to her.

As I'd expected, Mom did try to talk to me a little later that afternoon. After Joe finished scrubbing the bathroom- with a bit of help here and there from me- we went into his room and started getting that into order. I was wiping off his bookshelf and remarking about dust elephants when Mom rolled the vacuum cleaner in and suggested he use it. Then she saw me and said blandly, "If you're willing to help out, Frank, you could dust in the dining room." I wasn't entirely willing, but decided that protesting wouldn't do much good. Starting another argument over the fact that I didn't mind helping Joe but wasn't inclined to assist Mom seemed rather extreme, even if it was only reverse-favoritism. I nodded, taking in Joe's frown, and followed his mother out of the room and down the stairs.

The dining room doesn't get much sun; there's no windows in that part of the house, and the wall between it and the living room blocks the light from the front windows. It does help that the table, chairs and sideboard are all of light wood, but even so you have to turn on the overhead light to do just about anything in there. I did this, then took the rags and furniture-polish can from the table and got to work. The table has ornate legs; the chair legs are more plain, but the backs of them are individual rungs and the dust gets between them. The sideboard and table are easy, just flat tops, but the oak China cabinet in the corner is a pain- all those shelves and scrollwork to wipe down.

I was kneeling on the floor beside the corner cabinet, nearly finished, when I heard the vacuum go on upstairs. A bare minute later, Mom came into the dining room and walked straight over to me, crouching opposite me. I scowled, realizing her timing was deliberate; if we did start raising our voices, Joe would not hear and come hurrying down to defend me.

"Frank, I think we need to talk."

"I can't." I gave a final swipe of the rag, put it down, and reached for the polish-cap.

"What do you mean, you can't? Obviously you're talking-"

"I can't," I repeated, averting my gaze. "I can't take anymore. First Joe came in and wanted to talk; then Dad came in and wanted to talk; now you want to talk. Typical of your selfishness, both of you- all you and your husband care about is getting your opinions into my head, no matter how upset or stressed-out I might be feeling. No one bothers to ask if I want to talk, or if I'm able to handle it. I'm not. I'm about this far from emotional overload-" I held up my hand, fingers practically touching, "and right now the only solutions I see are convincing people to leave me alone or leaving myself. And if I walk out that door again, Mrs. Hardy, I'm not coming back. I didn't want to come back last night, I don't want to be here now, and if it wasn't for Joe, I wouldn't be."

It felt so good to get that out of my system- all the anger and misery and spite that I'd refused to dump on Joe's unsuspecting head. I didn't look at my aunt, only stood up with a wince, the rags in one hand and the furniture-polish in the other. I heard her sigh, though, and wondered with some surprise if she was going to let me get away with that. "All right," she murmured, standing as well. "When you feel you're ready to talk to me, you come and tell me and we'll try to work this out."

"What if I don't want to?" Now I glanced at her, wondering how far I dared push this. "What if I decide I'm perfectly happy with things as they are?" She didn't answer, only closed her eyes, shook her head and turned away. I waited till she'd reached the doorway, then asked casually, "Where are they, anyway?"

"Who?"

"My parents- where are they buried?"

Laura's shoulders hunched as if I'd hit her and she replied without turning. "Stan and Phoebe are buried in New York City, not far from where we used to live." She was out of the room before I could ask where that was. I went to put the cleaning stuff away, musing over the possibility of checking out that whole line of thinking.

The rest of the week passed in a superficially normal manner, but there was a lot of tension under everyone's surface. There was no trouble at all between Joe and I, but between me and Dad- and even more between Laura and I- there was a lot of awkwardness and uneasy formality. Joe, reflecting my own feelings, was fairly relaxed with his father, but quite stiff with his mother.

I struggled quite a bit with the 'labels' that week, unsure how to address the adults in person and in my mind. I had thought of them as Mom and Dad for so long that I tended to automatically use those words; I had to consciously correct myself to think Aunt and Uncle or Fenton and Laura. Verbally, I avoided the whole issue by not addressing them with anything but 'you', 'he' and 'she', and wondered if that would be my final solution. I actually had more trouble thinking of Dad as anything but 'Dad'; I remained angry over the way he'd failed to enlighten me, but there was no doubt in my mind that he did love me. Maybe a bit too passively, since he let his wife play favorites and only 'talked' to her about it, but when I backed myself into a corner on that, I was forced to admit that there wasn't much more he could have done. I couldn't change her; neither could he.

Physically, I improved a great deal. I managed to start eating solid food, had much less trouble in the bathroom, and even stopped using the prescription painkillers. That, in turn, left me more alert and energetic. I was really starting to feel like myself again- whoever that might be! Oh, I knew I was still a Hardy- but which one; that was the question.

I spent as little time as possible in the house, choosing instead to get back in touch with my friends. Their company lifted my spirits a lot and they included me in their activities as much as possible. That went even further towards lifting my spirits than feeling physically better did.

"I'm still not a hundred percent," I admitted to Phil Cohen, the Thursday after my return home. It was late afternoon and we were sitting in the grass on the baseball-field sideline, watching the gang play. I fanned myself with the glove I'd brought in case a foul ball came my way; August in Bayport is always a scorcher. If there'd been a tree in sight, we'd have been under it; as it was, I rather wished I'd brought a beach umbrella. The baseball cap I was wearing didn't seem to be doing the job. "But I'm certainly getting there." I picked up the bottle of ice water that was lying in my shadow and took a long, cool sip.

"You look better now than you did Monday," he agreed, lifting his glasses to wipe the sweat from underneath. Phil will participate in the games when we need to even out our teams, but he prefers to watch; his nearsightedness affects his coordination just enough to make him a pretty indifferent player. None of us are obsessive about winning, but he still seems to consider himself more a liability than a teammate.

"I was drugged up Monday. I'm finally off that prescription," I explained. "Codeine is pretty powerful stuff- at least for me." My friend nodded, and then we both paused to heckle Biff, who had pitched a wild ball. "Biff, they're supposed to swing at the ball, not chase it down with a butterfly net!"

"Maybe we should tie it to his wrist- save poor Chet from having to run around so much!"

"Sounds good to me!" Chet, who was catcher at the moment, puffed.

"Put a sock in it!" our buddy yelled back. "My thumb slipped."

"His thumb slipped? That's a new one," my brother remarked. Joe was presently playing third base, which was ten feet or so from where we sat. His white t-shirt was smudged with dust and grass stains and sweat-marks, and his baseball cap was on backwards. In that respect, he looked exactly like everyone else; it had been a pretty active game, despite the heat.

"He was probably trying for a screwball," I suggested.

"Hey, Biff, was that your screwball? No wonder it screwed up!" my brother yelled.

"Can it with the puns, brat," I suggested, trying not to laugh as a general groan rose from the field. "You'll start a brawl."

"You started it." Joe glanced over his shoulder at me and grinned, adjusting his cap.

"What is it with today's youth?" Phil inquired lazily. "Wearing their hats backwards, making smelly puns- think there's a connection?"

The crack of a bat distracted me from replying and I watched as Leroy Mitchell- Dave Mitchell's older brother- sent the ball flying. "Ohh, it's gone," my brother sighed, craning his neck to watch. It soared over Jerry Gilroy's head by more than two feet and landed somewhere in the un-mowed grassy area beyond the playing field. "This guy is good."

"It's practically my major," Leroy agreed, jogging up on his way around the bases. "How's the peanut gallery?"

"Enjoying the show," Phil replied. "And the chance to criticize with impunity."

"Ditto. And thanks for mentioning peanuts, now I'm hungry," I joked as Leroy rounded the turn and headed for home plate. Jerry had finally found the ball, threw it to Biff, and resumed his position.

"Speaking of that," Phil remarked, sitting up straight, "you're back on solid food now, right?"

"More or less," I agreed as Tony Prito came up to take his turn at the plate. "I can't quite handle carrots and chips and stuff, but soft food is okay."

"Pizza, maybe?"

"I could deal with pizza!"

"Then pick a date, and we'll have our bash," Phil began, breaking off as Tony's hit came zooming right at us. I was just raising my glove when Joe darted a few steps to his right, caught the fly ball with ease, and flung it back.

"Just because I made a pun is no reason to start lobbing things at me, Prito," he joked. "And just 'cause Frank started it is no reason to try and bean him, either."

"Reason? I need a reason to test your reflexes?" Tony pretended surprise.

"Just for that, you can charge us half-price instead of full price for the party," Phil suggested, raising his voice slightly and getting everyone's immediate attention.

Amid yells of 'yeah!' and 'right on!' and 'awesome!', someone inquired, "When?"

"Saturday night?" I offered, smiling and feeling the sudden glow of unconditional acceptance. Saturday would give my system even more time to heal; I should have no trouble with the spices or sauce.

There was a general consensus that Saturday was perfect. As the ball game continued, Phil watched silently for a few moments, then glanced at me again. "Gonna tell us what happened?" he asked quietly. Joe heard and threw a worried frown at me before turning back to watch Biff's next pitch.

"Thought it was all over the news," I stalled, taken off guard.

"The official version was," my friend agreed. "You got shot by an unknown party or parties. Not much more than that. Case?"

"No, sheer random bad luck. Wrong place, right time," I explained, sighing. "Well, I guess I can fill everyone in. Didn't know it had been, um, trimmed down."

My friend nodded and said no more, but after that I found it hard to concentrate on the game. What was I going to tell them? How much did they really need to know about the chaos in our family? Would I be able to tell them anything at all, beyond the bare facts? How could I explain that Mom and Dad were not really my mother and father? And even assuming I could, why should I? How much of the truth was I ready to share? True, these guys were my best friends, but they had never been my confidants. Joe was my confidant, when I needed one.

Looks like I need one in a hurry... No- tonight'll be soon enough, I have a couple days to think about it.

I dragged my attention back to the game, resuming my 'peanut gallery' role, knowing my pals would notice if I suddenly went quiet and withdrawn. A few minutes later, Joe's team went to bat and he gave me a brief, inquiring look as his teammates started for the batting cage. I nodded, signifying that I was okay and he wasn't to worry. We could talk about it later, in private.

When we got home after the baseball game, Joe took a shower while I went to my room to lie down and think. I hadn't made much progress, twenty minutes later, when Joe came quietly into my room. He sat down on the edge of my bed, wrapped the towel he was using to dry his hair around his neck, and gave me that raised-eyebrows-head-tilted-silent-question look of his.

"I really don't know what to tell them," I replied. "I mean…"

"How much to tell them," Joe offered.

"Yeah. Y'know, details are one thing, but talking about our family is a lot different. We never have said much about it when there's trouble. Maybe 'cause there isn't an awful lot of trouble," I mused aloud, tucking my arm behind my head.

"Say again?"

"Like we don't go talking about arguments or anything, when there are arguments. Whether it's between Mom and Dad or anyone else. There aren't, very often- at least, not compared to some kids, whose parents argue like every day- but it's something we don't tell the gang about."

Joe regarded me with a thoughtful frown. "I don't think I see the connection between our parents arguing, other kids' parents arguing, and your birth parents," he said doubtfully.

"I'm not that far along," I explained, sighing. Apparently it was my turn to not make myself clear. "I'm trying to figure out how to explain that the reason I got shot was because I stormed out in the middle of an argument. You know that's happened before- but our friends don't."

"Oh!" Joe settled onto the bed, cross-legged, and let his towel drop to the floor. "Now I see. It's going to be a bit of a shock to 'em, to hear that, since we never mentioned any sort of family squabbles before."

"Exactly.

"Well- it's not like we're the only ones. You know- we all know that Jerry despises his parents, but he's never explained why, just changes the subject every time it comes up. So I don't think anyone'll get after us for not mentioning that we argue with 'em sometimes, or that they argue with each other."

"Yeah, but once I go into detail of what the argument was about…" I paused as Joe winced. "That could have an adverse effect on certain relationships."

"Talk English," my brother requested. "Please."

"You need to pull out your dictionary and start expanding your vocabulary; you'll need it for the SAT's next year," I remarked out of the blue.

"I'll worry about that next year. What're you getting at, 'adverse effect'?"

I hesitated. "If people learn that Mom's favoring you and ignoring me- well, not ignoring, but you know- if they think that, they might…I dunno, try to compensate for it somehow. Like leave you out, or…well, maybe I'm jumping at shadows," I finished lamely, seeing the comprehension darken his face. "But when you say 'favoritism' to people, you can get some pretty strong reactions. And I don't want that."

"I don't think I want that, either," Joe allowed. "Strong reactions aren't always reasonable reactions- and I would know," he ended ruefully.

I smiled; he certainly would. Joe's very intelligent and thinks things through carefully- unless his emotions are involved. "And then there is the problem of my- first parents," I went on, closing my eyes. "Though…that's actually easier, I'm not sure I'm ready to share that with anyone."

"You've hardly had time to get used to it yourself." Joe's voice was quiet and compassionate. "And really, it's not their business. And that," he concluded, suddenly grave, "could have a seriously- adverse- effect."

I considered that for a moment, frowning. If I told the guys I was actually Fenton Hardy's nephew, that my real parents were dead, that Joe was my cousin- how would that have a bad effect? "I don't quite see that," I ventured.

"It'll change how they see us," my brother replied, shrugging. "And that might alter how they relate to us- I mean, how they treat us."

I nodded; he had a point. Of course, they might not necessarily see us as anything but the guys they'd been friends with for years; but then again, they might. "So that's out," I decided, but almost immediately wavered. "Except-"

"Except?"

"Wouldn't it be better for me to tell them, than to risk them hearing it from anyone else? And anyway…I wanted to know the truth; shouldn't I assume they'd want to know, too?"

"Well…" Joe scratched the back of his neck, thinking. "First, who's going to tell them? And second, that's very different- you should've been told the truth because it involved you."

"And it doesn't involve our friends?" I protested.

"Not directly." Joe shrugged, then looked down at me. "Well, I don't think so, but that's just me. Anyway, if you're not going to tell them about the fight, there's no need for 'em to know what was at the root of it."

I was quiet for a while, musing. "I wish I didn't always see both sides of something," I grumped at last. "Makes it hard to settle my mind on a decision."

"At least you're open-minded," Joe encouraged me, and I smiled at him.

"I guess that's one point in my favor. Thanks, brother. I guess I need to give this a lot more thought before I try to decide anything, but thanks for trying to help."

"Anytime." Joe touched my arm briefly, then bent down to pick up his towel. "The hot water should've recovered by now, if you want to get into the shower."

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"What would I be trying to tell you?" Joe's blue eyes were wide and innocent; no one in the world looks as angelic as that kid when he makes the effort.

"Just wondered if there was a hidden message somewhere."

"You need a mystery to solve," my brother teased as I sat up. "You've been deprived for so long, you're seeing clues and secret codes in perfectly ordinary things."

"Occupational hazard," I agreed, and got up to go shower.

I continued to brood over the problem all the next day, weighing the pros and cons, changing my mind every hour or so, giving up in frustration only to start worrying at it again. This made me moodier and more withdrawn than before and I think Dad knew there was more bugging me than usual, for he tried to get me to tell him about it. I thanked him, but refused, saying I needed to work it out myself. Of course, that was the problem: I wasn't working it out, just going in circles! But since I knew his advice would run alongside Joe's- to do what felt right to me- I didn't really see the need to go into it. He seemed a little sad at my response, but accepted it and left me alone.

By bedtime Friday night, I was in a stew over my inability to make a decision. It was such a simple matter, on the surface; why couldn't I decide? It wasn't like me, and I sat up for a while after everyone else was asleep, trying to figure out why I kept going in circles.

When the realization hit me, around two in the morning, it was a lot like having a flashlight get turned on in my face: blinding and uncomfortable. The reason I couldn't decide what to tell people was because the situation was still hanging wide open. I had pretty much resigned myself to re-accepting Dad as 'Dad', and of course there was no difficulty at all with my brother, but I was still avoiding Mom like the plague. I couldn't possibly explain that situation- not even the fact that we'd had a raging argument- until I'd come to some conclusion on how I felt about it. I needed to face the woman and deal with her feelings and mine; only then would I be able to decide what, and how much, to tell my friends.

I decided I'd do it in the morning; that would leave me the afternoon to steady myself and reach a conclusion about what to say at the party Saturday night.

I didn't sleep very well that night.

"Um…"

Mom turned in her chair and smiled wanly at me. "Hi."

Hi. Not 'hi, honey', not 'hello, dear', just 'hi'.

I hesitated, not sure how to handle my request, and finally just blurted it out. "You, ah- said that when I was ready to talk to you…" I let the sentence trail off, taking a calming breath and wishing my stomach would settle down. Then I wished Joe was with me; I had a feeling I would be a lot less tense if he was there. But I'd asked him to give us some space, fearing another explosion of tempers if he got involved in this discussion, and he'd reluctantly agreed and gone into the basement to mess around down there. Dad was off at his downtown office, checking in with his associates, so Mom and I had the place to ourselves.

"Oh!" Mom brightened and set down the whatever-it-was that she was sewing. "Yes, of course, Frank. Come sit down."

I nervously did so, perching on the edge of one of the old cane-bottomed chairs and trying to control the fluttering in my stomach. Before I could think how to start, Mom began earnestly explaining her point of view. "Your mother was one of my dearest friends," she started. "We met in college and became very close, and I was delighted when she became my sister-in-law. It seemed to make us even closer, being family to each other. Your fa- Stan, was a delightful young man and I grew fond of him, too- he was quieter than Fenton, but had such a sense of humor. We often went out as a foursome, the way you and Joe do with Iola and Callie." She paused, smiling faintly. "I was a little jealous when Phoebe told us she was pregnant, and teased her a bit about practicing before the wedding. She took it in good humor, of course, and teased me back for not-"

"Can we not go there, please?" I interrupted, feeling my face burn.

"Ah- oh, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you." Mom shook her head, her cheeks flushing. "Well, you were born, and I stayed with Phoebe and Stan after they brought you home. She'd had a more difficult time than expected and it took her a few weeks to recover her energy. We lived in the same apartment complex, so it was simple enough to help them out, and Fenton often came with me. As much to see his nephew as his twin." She stopped again and heaved a giant sigh. "You- I guess you heard how they went out and Fenton and I stayed home that night, since I wasn't feeling very well. I thought it was stomach flu... We started to get worried when midnight passed and there was no sign of them. Fenton was pacing, I'd never seen him so disturbed. Around one a.m. he began calling hospitals, convinced that there'd been an accident. Nothing. Then he tried the theater and when there was no answer, he slammed down the phone and said he'd drive over. And he did. The police had to drive him home, he was too stunned to drive himself, and when they brought him in, I truly thought Fenton had lost his mind. He wouldn't respond to me, so I did the only thing I could think of and brought you out of the crib and made him hold you." She looked at me, her eyes shining with tears. "And it worked, Frank. It brought him back from that terrible emptiness. He held you as often as he could over the next few days, and all through the funeral. He never once looked at the coffins, just focused completely on you."

I stared at the floor, thinking of that and feeling more sympathy for my father than I ever had before. But I also felt supremely self-conscious; I wasn't comfortable with the thought of Dad being so...fragile, and more, I didn't like the implications much. But I wasn't sure how to voice them; they seemed so petty and mean-spirited. A baby isn't much of an individual anyway; he's pieces of his parents, until he grows up enough to develop a personality. "Because I was me?" I asked at length, breaking the silence. "Or because I was his twin's son?"

"At first, because you were all he had left of his twin," Mom agreed quietly. "But after he closed the case, he began to talk about whether or not we should keep you, whether it would be fair to me- and you. We knew by then that I was pregnant, and he pointed out that most women didn't have another baby when they already had a four-month old, and that it would be difficult to have two baby sons to tend to while he was out at work. He said since I would be the one doing the majority of the child-raising, it was for me to decide." She paused again, picking up things from her desk and then putting them down again randomly. "From the way he spoke, I knew he was seeing you as his child, so-"

"So you did do it because you knew he wanted to?" I asked, feeling miserable.

"No- I never would have suggested raising you if I wasn't willing, Frank!" She leaned forward as if to touch me and I recoiled a little.

"Well, that's what you make it sound like. Some obligation you had to fulfill, because of your friend and your husband." I sounded surly, even to myself.

"For your sake first, honey. And for my sake, too. For a long time, I thought you were the only child I'd ever have. I thought I was barren." Mom paused for a moment, and I looked at her in surprise. "We tried for so long, and I never- that's why I was a little jealous of Phoebe. I was grateful to have you, and I loved you for yourself, as the son I wanted so much to have."

I felt a chill go through me. The son she wanted. "And then you had Joe."

"I had Joe, and it was a miracle, but it was a miracle with complications. It was a terrible pregnancy and I was so afraid I'd miscarry. I nearly did. I almost lost him even before he was born. He was nearly six weeks early as it was, and so small…but he was a little fighter, from day one. But I've never gotten over that fear of losing him, Frank. And he's so reckless! He has no caution at all, he leaps into things without ever thinking about getting hurt. So I- I hold onto him a little harder. You've always been level-headed and sensible and I never worried that you'd do something dangerous and get yourself hurt or killed; I feel more comfortable in giving you space and freedom than I do him. Felt," she amended with a sigh. "To come so close to losing you- it tore me apart to see you so hurt, and it made me realize that being careful and sensible is no proof against being injured- or killed. I wake up from dreams that one of these wretched cases of yours will be the death of one of you…"

She had a good point, but I wasn't nearly as interested in safety considerations as I was in the other thing she'd said. "So I was right- you were ready to settle for me until you had Joe. I was acceptable until you had a kid of your own and then I got to be secondary, because he was really yours. And you almost lost him, so you gave everything to him- all your worry and affection and attention and favor- and you left me nothing but scraps!"

Mom stared at me, an appalled look wiping out the anxiety in her face. "You never seem to want it, Frank! You always hold back, stay away, keep your distance! When have you ever come to talk to me or been affectionate-"

"Like Joe? When did you ever encourage me to?" I challenged bitterly. "You laugh and joke with him, you listen to him, pay attention no matter what he says- but let me try to get your attention and I might's well be talking to a wall. You take any and every excuse to leave and do something else! Going to bed more important to you than talking to me! And so is taking out the garbage!" I clenched my sweating hands on the edges of the chair and felt myself shaking with anger and fear. I hadn't wanted to fight, but there I was doing it, too upset to control myself and talk civilly. I hadn't known what a depth of anger was inside me.

"Honey, you never seem to want to talk to me. I always feel like you're just waiting for me to go away. I've wished so many times that I knew what to say to you, how to encourage you to talk to me, tell me what's on your mind. But whenever I ask, you always say, 'nothing'. I gave up asking, hoping that sooner or later you'd feel ready to tell me." My mother paused and touched my hand gently. "Frank, when you told me you didn't want to talk to me, I was positive that you never would come to me and say 'I want to talk.' I had no doubt that you'd be content to leave things exactly as they were, that you'd rather walk through fire than confide in me- even about how you felt about me!"

"Do you blame me, after what you've said and how you've acted? Would you have wanted to talk to me, if I'd said such cruel and hateful things, if I'd practically disowned you?" I looked down, willing myself to yank my hand away, but it didn't happen.

"No. No, you're right, I wouldn't want to confide in someone who hurt me and treated me callously," she replied sadly. "And I'm not blaming you for your recent attitude, Frank, not at all. I blame myself for it. Not solely for saying such cruel things, but for the situation that made them seem like confirmation of what you'd suspected."

"What?"

"When you heard what I was saying to Joe, you took it as the- the reason why I never seemed to love you."

I nodded, finally pulling my hand away.

"And that's my fault- for not making clear to you, years ago, that I do love you. Perhaps not in the exact way that I love your brother, but I truly do. Because of me, you got stuck in a mindset that says, 'if she loved me, she'd treat me like she treats Joe; she doesn't, so she doesn't love me.' And it's simply not true. Every mother in the world would tell you the same thing: you love your kids equally, but you express it to them differently, because they're different people."

There was a long, long silence as I struggled with that idea. Maybe she had a point; maybe getting a duplicate of the affection she gave Joe wouldn't have satisfied me, either. Probably it would have felt insincere…"But I'm not your kid, you said so-" I protested at last, but weakly.

Mom sighed, nodding and averting her gaze. "If I could take that back…I was speaking in a purely technical manner, honey, but it was still a denial of all I feel, and a horribly cruel thing to do. You are my son, my eldest son, and I love you very much." She paused, then added quietly, "Your father has taken me to task in the past for showing favoritism to your brother. But once I reminded him that he has praised you for certain qualities and Joe for other qualities and asked if that wasn't a form of favoritism, he dropped the issue. I do feel badly when I overlook your achievements or make you feel left out, but again, you never seemed very interested in sharing them with me. It's always your father you go to." She sighed again. "Fenton's been more fortunate than I have; he seems to have your trust and affection."

"You wanted it?" I asked, more amazed than disbelieving.

"Terribly, Frank. But I never seem to be able to win it."

"I wanted yours- not trust so much, just…affection," I admitted, my throat tightening painfully. "And I tried and tried…and nothing worked!" I would have given examples, if I wasn't so close to tears. Mom abruptly leaned over, wrapped both arms around me and rocked me back and forth. I didn't try to get loose; I needed a hug too much to fight this one off.

"I never would have guessed it, honey. You seemed perfectly content without it. You seem to get all you need from Joe, and from your father. I feel so- unnecessary in your life."

Damned if that's not exactly how I feel in your life- totally unnecessary.

"S-so do I-" I put my own arms around her, holding on tightly, feeling as though some fairy had granted a long-unanswered wish. It was a minute or so before I noticed that I was crying, and tried to keep it relatively quiet. It didn't work, of course; tears have a momentum of their own, and before I knew it, I was sobbing into her blouse, feeling her hands smooth my back and hearing her voice murmur endearments in my ear.

Even when I stopped crying, she didn't let go- and I didn't want her to. Not anymore. Up until then, the only person I'd ever let hold me during a crying jag was Joe, and I wondered if Mom knew how significant a breakthrough this was. Possibly she did.

"Frank, you are absolutely vital to me, to my life. I would suffer, or even die if it meant saving your life- just as I would for your brother," she said suddenly, taking me completely off guard. I nearly started crying again, but I wasn't sad. Stunned and overwhelmed and strangely happy- and very tired, I noticed after a moment.

"I never suspected..."

"I never told you." She sounded tired, too. "I guess there's a lot we need to tell each other, a lot we need to change. We can't do it all in one day, baby, but at least we've begun."

I nodded; she was right. But I wished somehow we could do it all in a day and make all our future days perfect. "Wish we could," I murmured.

"I'll do my best, Frank, if you'll meet me halfway. Tell me things that bother you. Don't stand halfway across the room like you don't want a hug; talk a little more about your feelings, be receptive."

"I'll try, I really will," I whispered. "But it's hard, Mom. It's hard to talk about how I feel, or show it. Even to Joe."

"As long as you're willing to try. We can start small." She hesitated, gently pressing me back and lifting my chin; I blushed, embarrassed about meeting her gaze after I'd cried so much. But I made myself do it, and immediately saw that she'd cried, too; her face was all pink and her eyes red, and she looked worn out and a little worried. "The most important thing to me now is, do you believe that I do honestly love you?" she asked slowly.

I nodded again. I didn't trust my voice.

"No less than I love your brother?"

"I-" I gulped, looked down, and mumbled, "I'd really like to say yes, but…I-I'm not quite sure on that part yet." My insides quivered. Please don't let her get mad. Not now. "Right now, as…as long as you do love me, that'll do. For now."

Her hands pressed gently against my hot cheeks. "Thank you for being honest," she whispered, her voice breaking. "We- we'll work on that first, right?"

"Right." I dragged my arm across my eyes. "Mom- the drive by? Honest, it had nothing to do with a case. Nothing at all. It was- it was just one of those crazy, violent things that happens when you're not expecting it. I wouldn't lie to you about it, really. It mighta been someone who recognized me and decided to get revenge, but I don't think so. "

Where did that come from?

"Just life." My mother sighed. "I believe you, Frank. But from now on, I don't want you 'editing' what you tell me, all right? It makes it very hard for me to trust you." She held up her hand as I would have spoken: "You were right when you said I wasn't one to talk about being less than honest, though. Your father and I should have told you about Phoebe and Stanton- kindly, not the way I told your brother- as soon as you were old enough to comprehend. Not doing so was dishonest, no matter how we felt about you. Your father doesn't agree with me, but-"

"I know. I just hope he doesn't love me only 'cause I'm his twin's son." I sniffed and she hugged me again, shaking her head. Before she could delve into that any further, I went back to her previous subject. "Mom, I- I don't think I'll ever be able to talk Joe out of taking on investigations. And I don't want to stop, either. But I promise, I'll take care of him. I don't want him to get hurt any more than you do. And we will be honest, from now on, about what happened and what sort of danger we got into. Will that help?"

I'll be content with that, for now. If something changes in the future, we can talk about it then." Mom kissed my cheek, then glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh, goodness, look at the time! I better put this away, I've got a more important project..." She opened the sewing cabinet and started putting her material and pins away.

"You mean like dinner?" I asked, smiling weakly as I registered five p.m. Mom smiled too, standing up as she closed the drawers.

"Exactly. Come help me pull something together, I need the inspiration if it's going to be edible tonight. Not that your brother would notice," she added ruefully. "You could put a tin can in front of that boy and he'd do his best to get it down."

"Especially if it had gravy on it," I agreed.

"Truly. I'm glad you're a bit more, um, refined in that respect."

"Sophisticated, that's me."

"Well," Mom began, giggling suddenly.

"What?"

"Oh, I just had a flashback of you licking out your ice-cream bowl when you were little."

"Hey, among eight-year-olds, that's the height of sophistication," I explained, following her across the living room and into the kitchen. "Licking the bowl without getting any on your nose or chin."

"I see!" Mom laughed. "Submit that to Gourmet Magazine, Frank, see if you can start a new trend-"

"But only at the very best restaurants!"

"Of course!"

"And they can stop using stars to rate with and use bowls instead!"

By now Mom had opened the refrigerator, but she was giggling so hard she nearly dropped the packet of chicken breasts. "Oh, dear, what a sight that would be," she said at last, wiping her eyes. "Ah…All right, so, what can we make with chicken that we haven't had twice already this week? Something simple."

"Cordon Bleu," I said promptly.

"Yes! And we'll use up the ham, too. My genius…pull out the Mozzarella, honey, and start on that. And we'll drag Joe down to set the table."

"Up, actually," I corrected, and went to the basement door to call my brother. And paused, smiling. My brother, my father- and my mother. It would take some more getting used to, and in Mom's case some more work…but I had my family back again and I was very happy about it.

I guess I don't really need to tell the gang anything. No point confusing them when not much is really changing.

Decision made, I reached over and flicked off the basement lights. It's a surefire way of getting Joe's attention, and almost at once, his yell of protest floated up the steps.

"Get up here, brat, and help us with dinner!" I called back, grinning.

Yeah…things were getting back to normal in a hurry.