Page 10 of The Story of You

ChapterFour

Silas

Ithought I’d experienced freedom once, running through tall blades of grass, my five-year-old fingers trailing over tiny silk-textured wildflowers that leaned in my direction. My swift feet plodded one foot in front of the other. The giggle burst from deep within me for no reason. I tumbled and got back up. A warm breeze carried sweetness across my nose and lifted my golden locks. But his voice was there then too.

“Butterfly. Butterfly, that’s too far.”

I’d reached the boundary of the invisible glass wall of the bottle he held me in. I turned around, barreling in the other direction and toward him. He caught me when I jumped. He let me go when I squirmed. I ran again, uninhibited by anything, the dirt kicking up under my feet. It was glorious.

“Let him go, Aleksander,” Mama said. She held Darius in her arms.

“It’s too far, Helena.Silas!”

I beelined for him, trusting him to catch me when I catapulted into his arms. “Did you see? Did you see me, Daddy? I can run fast and far.”

“I saw. Please don’t go so far away from me, butterfly.”

I laughed. “Never.”

Never.

* * *

Silas

We lived in a charming house in a suburban area of Markstone Pennsylvania. When I was eleven and Darius was seven, we’d ride our bikes around the neighborhood with the other kids until Mama would call for us from the door to come in for dinner. The streets were lined with maple and dogwood trees and white picket fences. In the front yard stood a single black cherry tree and a well-used swing set.

Father was the local hospital’s prized cardiac surgeon. He gave the largest donations to several children’s charities every year. He always gave us more than we needed and took us on vacation a couple of times a year. His flaxen blond hair waved across his forehead, above his brows, complimenting his green eyes. He was always tanned. Tall. He carried himself with supreme confidence.

“A Randall is always sure of himself, Silas,” he would say. “We make the rules.”

I was proud to be a Randall. I was proud to be his son. My every decision would take me one step closer to being just like him when I grew up, I was sure of it. Nothing was better than his praise. Nothing. My gaze sparkled at him. Darius made fun of me for being Father’s lost pet.

As a couple, Mama and Father were forever fascinated with each other. Lots of stolen kisses. Touching. Cuddling. Mama beamed at him. He worshipped Mama. Whatever she wanted, he got it for her. It wasn’t unusual for me to come upon them in the living room, her feet in his lap and him massaging them even though he’d also had a long day at work. He told her she was beautiful morning, noon, and night.

And how could he not? She was beautiful. A blond Snow White. Nature knew it too and it wasn’t uncommon to find her in the yard surrounded by wildlife. She danced and folded laundry to Cyndi Lauper, The Cure, and Tears for Fears.

As parents they were perfect. Mama would greet us after school with fresh fruit muffins, she helped us with our homework and the house rang with our laughter. Father ran a strict home, but nothing out of the ordinary for the time. If anything, he was fairer and more understanding than other parents on the block. We were expected to get good grades and do our chores, but we earned a generous allowance, and we were always rewarded for our achievements. They raised us to be polite, kind, and helpful. People noticed and commented on what nice boys the Randalls had.

The neighborhood adored them. People wanted to be them. Every day was a good day to be a Randall.

* * *

Silas May 1984

The night Oliver was born, Darius and I waited up in my bedroom too excited to sleep a wink. In the morning, we waited at the window so we could see the car pull up with Mama, Father, and our new brother. No one would bring us to the hospital. Mama was too exhausted. The cancer diagnosis had come near the end of her pregnancy. We were told the baby would be fine. Since the due date was so close, Mama refused the harsh cancer treatments, postponing them until after the pregnancy. The physician said she would be okay. She agreed to schedule a C-section for her due date and then either way he would be here by that day.

Father was beside himself. He made those decisions in our home. He wanted Mama to begin treatment immediately. Nothing he said could make her though. Submission requires compliance. A Top can’t have what’s not freely given, only a fragile facsimile.

I was caught in the middle. I was only fifteen and didn’t know enough to form an opinion. I knew Father worried over her. Mama worried for the baby.

Darius was eleven. He acted out. Mother was his favorite person. He hadn’t wanted the baby in the first place and claimed “it” caused her to get cancer. Father spanked him a lot and sent him to his room with increasing frequency, but it did little more than piss him off.

As if aware of the ruckus, Oliver arrived two weeks early just so she could start her treatment. But relief was fleeting when I saw her leaning heavily on Father as he escorted her into the house.

I always tell Oliver Father placed him in my arms, but it’s a metaphor and it sounds nicer than what happened. He was an afterthought.

“Go get the baby, Silas. You’ll need to take care of him while I help your mother,” he said.