We had an impromptu band meeting that night. Tom would continue playing until he had to leave or until Sebastian returned, whichever came first. Although we talked business briefly, the real reason we’d gathered together was because one of our own had fallen. It didn’t matter that he was the new guy; he was one of us. But more than that, they knew he was special to me. Even Tom, my beloved friend—Tom, without a hint of a sad smile—hugged me and said Sebastian was a lucky man who just had to get over himself and accept the gift I was offering him.
Of course, I cried again.
Dad called shortly after dinner to update us on Sebastian’s condition and what little information he could get about what had happened over the last twenty-four hours in the Jeffries’ apartment. “Lots of bumps and bruises. A broken nose, another black eye, and a couple of loose teeth. Lucky guy didn’t lose any though. His collar bone isn’t broken, but he took a really bad hit on that shoulder. There’s a nasty lump on the back of Sebastian’s head and a couple of bruises over his shoulder blades from when his dad snuck up behind him. Didn’t hit him hard enough to knock him out, so Sebastian was able to wrestle the club away from him, but he is suffering from a concussion. Really bad headaches, nausea, the works. I still don’t have any news on what happened at the apartment, but there’s an officer coming in to talk to him in about an hour. Hopefully, I’ll know more then.” I could hear the weariness in Dad’s voice as he talked over the speaker phone so we all could hear. “They’re keeping him here overnight at least to monitor him, but it’s possible they’ll release him as early as tomorrow.”
Release him to where? Where would he go? Would he be willing to come home with Dad? To stay here with us? Or would he maintain his ‘no visitors’ notion and go hole up in the apartment he shared with his abusive father?
It was all more than I could stomach, and I had to step outside for a few minutes. Unsure of whether I was going to hurl or pass out, I headed all the way out past the patio onto the lawn, just in case. I dropped to my backside in the grass and put my head on my knees, my eyes closed. Behind my eyelids, I painted a picture of Sebastian the way he’d looked on Friday night, his guitar slung low, his hair flipping forward as he bobbed his head in time to the music, his eyes on me. The smile I’d grown to love; the one that started slow on the right side, widening as it lit up his face, as though it were on a dimmer switch. I mentally turned the dimmer up, up, up, until all I could see in my mind was his joy-filled face looking at me.
I lay back on the grass, not caring about getting itchy, but kept my eyes closed, not wanting to lose the image I’d conjured in my mind, even to count the stars. But I felt God beside me anyway, and I knew the stars were there. And I knew they all had Sebastian’s—and Foster’s—names tonight. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, God.”
Jordan found me a few minutes later and stretched out beside me, his hands linked behind his head, his elbow bumping playfully against my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
“I’m okay,” I assured him.
“Counting stars?”
I turned sharply to look at him. “How do you know about that?”
“You’re not Dad’s only kid, you know. He shared some of his favorite things with me, too.” Jordan chuckled quietly. “Promise not to laugh?”
“Promise.” For some reason, I didn’t mind that my secret wasn’t so secret.
“You know how that verse says God names each star? Well, I think each one of those stars is given the name of a particular living person. Not really a guardian angel or anything like that, but a symbol of hope. A light in the dark. A symbolic beacon shining down on our way home, even when all seems lost.” He guffawed softly. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before. Sounds pretty silly when I put it into words.”
“I like it,” I said simply. “It makes perfect sense to me.”
We lay like that for a few more minutes, and then headed inside together.
Mom had me help her whip up a huge batch of brownies to go with the hazelnut gelato Ani had her dad deliver in her stead. Mary stayed behind with Juno and Pete, who was still dispirited and mopey, following closely on her heels everywhere she went now that I was gone.
“Foster isn’t doing so well,” George told us. “The hit he took to the ribs caused some pretty significant bruising on his lung on that side and has developed into pneumonia. If he’d gone in earlier, they might have been able to do more, but at this point, they’re not sure he’s even going to make it through the night.” George assured us he’d check in again first thing in the morning and let us know what he found out.
While we waited for an update from Dad, Marauders took over the living room and watched Rush’s thirtieth anniversary tour DVD, over two hours of blow-your-mind rock and roll by some of the world’s finest musicians. Although we knew we’d never achieve that level of skill, as a band, it was a favorite to indulge in, and we always got inspired just watching them work their magic. We didn’t even bother with the fortieth anniversary DVD—this one filled our cups every time.
Dad called to tell us he was on his way home. “Sebastian’s on some strong pain meds and was finally sleeping when I left, if not comfortably, then soundly.” Jon, Sly, and Corny left shortly after Dad’s call, sensitive to the fact that he might be worn out after the events of the day. I promised to fill everyone in if there was anything else to tell.
Dad arrived just after midnight to find Mom, Jordan, Tom, and me waiting up in the living room. He accepted the cup of hot white tea my mom brewed for him and settled into his recliner as though it were nine PM and time to watch his favorite History Channel show. We gathered around him, a macabre version of kids waiting for a story.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Dad said, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face with one hand. “When the police got to the apartment, they found Sebastian passed out on the floor near the front door, a baton like the one police use in his hand, as though he’d either been guarding the door or was trying to get out. His dad, barely a scratch on him, lying on his bed, gagged, with his hands cuffed to either side of the metal frame. On the coffee table was a metal box—one of those cash boxes without the change tray—and in it was a loaded gun that hadn’t been shot.”
“Whoa,” Jordan said. “Was the gun Sebastian’s?”
Dad didn’t answer directly, but took another sip, and then continued. “According to Sebastian, after his altercation with his father and the baton, he dropped Foster off at the dog park just like Foster said. Then he headed home to gather up his personal belongings, hoping to get there before his dad. He almost made it, but when he came out of his bedroom the last time, his father was standing in the middle of the living room with the gun aimed at his head. He held Sebastian hostage all night and all the next day. His dad was drinking, and every time his father would start to get sleepy, he’d take it out on Sebastian. Initially, just yelling at him, but as the night wore on, between the booze and rage and fear, the attacks got more and more vicious until at one point, he hit Sebastian in the face with the butt of his gun. That’s how he got the broken nose.”
“Why didn’t Sebastian fight back?” I asked, sick at heart over what Dad was telling me. But I knew it was a silly question. His father had a loaded gun pointed at him.
“In his own way, he did. He simply waited, knowing that if his father intended to kill him, there was nothing he could do about it anyway, since his dad had the gun. So he held on, using the pain of his injuries to help him outlast his dad, to stay awake longer. When Mr. Jeffries finally lost the battle and dozed off, Sebastian rushed him, grabbed the gun and turned it on his dad. Mr. Jeffries had laid both pairs of handcuffs on the coffee table at one point, so using those, Sebastian cuffed his father to his own bed. He went to the bathroom to wash the blood from his face so he could see to drive, and claims he doesn’t remember anything after that.”
“Oh, poor boy,” Mom murmured. I was just numb, unable to even imagine a world where a father treated his own child so horrifically.
“You know those news articles you found, Jordan?” Dad asked. “The cuffs, the Monadnock baton, and the gun were all police issue gear that had been stolen from an officer held at gunpoint in Orange County—”
“No,” I interrupted, shock and horror mingling with comprehension. “Let me guess. Seventeen years ago.”
“That’s right,” Dad nodded. He glanced back over at Jordan. “The same timeframe as those articles.”
Jordan reached over and squeezed my hand, and Dad continued.
“The officer wasn’t injured—other than his pride—but the perp got away. Until now.”
“Wait a minute.” I leaned forward on the couch where I sat. “So they think that’s the reason he skipped town with Sebastian?”
“That’s what they’re considering. But Sebastian can’t—or won’t—remember anything about that time. Or at least that’s what he says. But I’m telling you, that boy is holding something back. I’ve seen that look in men’s eyes a thousand times before; hiding that last vice, that last piece of the old identity. Just in case. There are still pieces missing. I’d bet my job on it.” No one reminded him he no longer had a real job to bet, but I felt a wave of gratefulness over that fact sweep over me. Because Dad was semi-retired, he was available to be the hero in this terrible situation where a hero was so desperately needed.