The Definition of Fflur

by E. S. Carter

  I should move away and go back to my room, but I remain here silently and wait. Less than a minute later, I hear a dull thud and imagine Galen stood mirroring me on the other side of the door. I lean closer, laying my cheek against the cool, solid surface and my voice cracks as I whisper, “I'm sorry, Gal.”

  My heart begs me to push down the handle and offer him my comfort, but I listen to my head instead.

  He'll find me when he's ready.

  With heavy legs, I make my way downstairs and into the empty kitchen. Part of me thinks that maybe I should leave tonight and go back to Dad's early. I'm intruding here. Unwanted. Impotent.

  The pain in this house is strangling, and I feel like I’m adding to it. A burden. An extra noose around everyone’s necks.

  I know I told mum I'd be here to support her, but maybe they need time to process all this on their own. Maybe they need to regroup without awkward observers.

  I sit in the chair that Mum had sat in when she told us about Max, rest my head in my hands, and for a few seconds I wonder if I should pray. We've never been a religious family, so would it be wrong to pray now?

  If there is a God, would He look down upon me and believe me unworthy because it takes a possible death sentence for me to reach out and ask for His help?

  Despite my musings, I'm aware that someone has walked into the room and I lift my head enough to see the doorway hoping it might be Galen.

  It's not. It's Max.

  He seems surprised to find me here, my hands pressed together and resting on my forehead in prayer.

  “Hey, Fflur,” he greets with a fake cheer in his voice before tilting his head and grimacing when Galen once more begins blasting his now favourite death metal. Max’s eyes meet mine, and I’m struck by the pain they hold. Not in the physical sense, but more like… guilt.

  “Can I make you a snack or even a sandwich? Maybe you’d like some tea? Or, I know, an ice cream float. Galen used to beg me to make him those when he was smaller.”

  He’s nervous, rambling and unsure. It’s awkward to experience because Galen gets his charm and confidence from his dad, and right now, Max is… lost.

  I hop up from my seat.

  “How about some tea? I can make it,” I rush out, grabbing the kettle and filling it to the brim before flicking the switch. Then I take two mugs from their hooks, add a splash of milk to both and a teaspoon of sugar to Max’s. I do all this in a manic frenzy, my legs buzzing with excess energy, my hands moving faster than my brain can command them, and my breaths sawing from my chest as if I’ve just run a marathon.

  It’s inevitable when I drop the carton of milk, and it hits the slate tiled floor, splashing over my bare feet and hems of my jeans as it sprays an arc of liquid over the cupboard doors before it glugs out the remainder of its contents.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Down on my knees, my hands futilely scrape over the floor, uselessly scooping the milk towards the now empty carton’s spout, and I make even more mess.

  Max crouches beside me, a stack of tea towels in his hands.

  “It’s just milk. Don’t panic. Take a breath. We can clean it up no problem at all.”

  He uses the towels to soak up the mess I’ve made while I sit back on my heels and allow the first tear I’ve shed in a long time to spill from the corner of my eye.

  Time passes in silence. I’m not sure I even blink as I watch him carefully mop up the milk, gather the sopping towels in a pile, and wipe down the cupboards. When the task is finished, he lifts his head and eyes just a shade darker than his son’s lock with mine.

  “Don’t cry over spilt milk, Flower.”

  His words, the tender expression on his face, and the use of my once beloved nickname draw a harsh sob from my chest, one that I barely rein in with a full body quake.

  “I’m not crying about the milk,” I confess hoarsely.

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.

  “I know.”

  He gently leans forward and pries the sticky and empty carton from my grasp, before offering me his free hand to help me up.

  “Can you do something for me, Fflur?”

  I nod, knowing at this moment I would help this man with anything.

  “Be there for him, even if he pushes you away.”

  Another tear easily follows the tracks of the last as I nod once more.

  Here, with sticky milk hands, ruined jeans, and tear-filled eyes, I finally let go of everything I held against this man.

  He doesn’t deserve it. He’s been through enough.

  A sound from the doorway gains both our attention and we turn to see Galen watching us, his face devoid of any emotion except for the pain in his lawn green eyes.

  Max leans in and kisses my forehead, before turning to deposit the wet towels in the washing machine. He then washes his hands, grabs his mug of over-brewed tea and walks towards his son.

  He doesn’t say anything to him but squeezes his shoulder once as he leaves the kitchen.

  “I got your note,” Galen says once Max’s footsteps can be heard climbing the stairs.

  “I meant every word of it. I'm always here for you. Always.”

  I stand before the boy that’s been avoiding me for days. The boy that said spiteful things to my face because he was hurting. And I let him see my truth.

  I let him see the tear tracks on my face.

  I let him see my chest torn open and bared for him to abuse or to seek comfort.

  “He's going to fight it. He's going to win,” he declares determinedly, and I'm not sure if he's convincing himself or me.

  He takes a single step into the room, bringing him closer to me but not close enough. “I'm sorry for pushing you away.”

  “Don't be. There’s no need for apologies. I'm here when you need me, whenever you need me.”

  I step towards him until we are toe to toe, and he sees my intent before I even know what I'm doing. With sure but shaky movements, I wrap my arms around his waist, and he drops his head to rest between the crook of my neck and shoulder.

  Wetness slips under the neck of my t-shirt and trickles to gather at my collarbone. I say nothing but hold him tighter, pulling his now trembling body flush against my smaller frame. As if in response to my arms locking around him, he lets go of the hurt he’s tried to hide, and a flood of tears hit my skin and follow the same path.

  I don't know what I can say to ease his pain. I don't know what I can do to soothe his hurt. So, I say nothing, and I do nothing. Except hold him.

  I wish I had a flower.

  I wish I had one in my hand to give to him, so I could tell Galen to expel everything that blackens his soul and let the petals absorb it, let them take it away. Because when I do that, everything is okay.

  But I don't. So, I hold him. I hold him, and I don't let go.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  We’re home.

  The car journey always seems longer on the way back from one of Max’s treatments, like some unknown force wants to draw out his discomfort and make him suffer unnecessarily.

  Mum looked shocked when both Rhys and I asked if we could come and support Max during his chemo, and, as yet, neither one of us has missed a single treatment. Max didn’t look shocked, though. He smiled like he was waiting for it to happen all along.

  He was waiting for us to finally accept him as family.

  I think the ride home is worse than sitting through treatment. At least there, we get to take his mind off things by playing silly games like Guess Who? Or Boy, Girl, Fruit, Flower. But so much hinges on getting him home before the side effects of the medicines kick in—traffic, roadworks, and whether Mum allows Galen to drive. We’re always quicker when she does let him because she can’t concentrate on the road long enough, her eyes are always on Max in the front seat. Whereas Gal is focused, and gets us home in what feels like half the time.

  Today, Mum drove.

  By the time we
get home, Max is already struggling with nausea, and he needs Galen’s help to get out of the car and to the front door. Galen’s arm is wrapped around his dad holding him up and offering him support while Max leans into the embrace, face pale, eyes closed tight.

  Despite being outside, the air surrounding us is heavy and oppressing. Every one of us a prisoner to the worries in our heads. It’s the same routine as always when Max comes back from one of his chemo treatments. We each try and bear this burden with him and each end up feeling like we’ve failed him.

  When Mum finally has the front door open, we all give a sigh of relief. That is, until Max steps into the hallway and the smell of this morning’s breakfast, although faint, hits him straight in the guts and he begins to heave uncontrollably.

  Mum and Galen move fast as Max forces apologies through the wracking of his body.

  “I'll grab a bucket.” Rhys rushes around us and darts towards the kitchen.

  He's not quick enough, though, and the bitter smell of bile engulfs us as the meagre contents of Max’s stomach splashes on the tiled floor entryway.

  I hurry with Rhys to grab cleaning supplies, and when I come back, Galen is stood there alone. He snatches the mop out of my hands and spins away from me determined to block me out and do it himself.

  He makes me feel useless.

  He makes me feel like I shouldn't be here.

  That he doesn’t want me here.

  Still. Even after everything.

  Mum calls down from their bedroom for help, and Rhys and I rush upstairs. He heads straight for their room with the bucket, while I grab a glass from the bathroom and fill it with cold water.

  As I reach their doorway, I watch Rhys and Mum helping Max into bed. Once settled, Rhys turns and places the bucket at the side of the bed by Max’s head, and I quietly step into the room and deposit the glass on the bedside table. When I turn around Galen is watching from the doorway, his entire body rigid, his hands fisted at his sides.

  Max settles back onto the fluffed-up pillows and releases a weary sigh. When he opens his eyes, he silently sweeps his gaze across everyone in the room, taking note of the anxiety and tension making this large space feel very very small.

  “Cheer up everyone,” Max says through his sore and used throat. “Hey, did I tell you about my aunt Diane?”

  No one replies to his random and hoarsely spoken question. Not even a shake of our heads, but he’s undeterred. “It was pretty ironic how she died. You see, her star sign was cancer—”

  Galen swallows hard, his breath seemingly stuck in his chest, and his eyes blink repeatedly. Before I can reach out to him, he turns around and dashes from the room.

  “—and she was eaten by a giant crab.”

  Mum calls after Galen, but he doesn't return.

  “Too soon?” Max asks weakly, and Mum bends to place a soft kiss on his clammy forehead.

  “Don't you worry about him. He’ll be fine. He’s a good boy. You just rest, okay.”

  Max leans back against his pillows. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes slowly closing. “I could do with a rest.”

  Rhys and I awkwardly leave the room as Mum lifts her hand and gently runs it through Max’s hair.

  My heart aches and begs me to find Galen.

  “Hey,” Rhys says, stopping me at the top of the stairs. “Go easy on him.” I nod and all but dive down the stairs.

  Galen's not in the living room or the kitchen, but I spot him out through the open patio doors.

  He’s standing with his back to me, his head bowed, and his chin resting against his chest. His shoulders are visibly shaking with the force of his silent cries.

  I don't think, I act, and I’m through the doors and pulling him into my arms before I can take a full breath.

  He holds onto me so tight that it hurts. I can feel it all; his pain, his fear, and gives it over to me willingly.

  I am Galen’s flower.

  Right here, right now, I am the vessel for his anguish.

  Against my neck, his voice nothing more than a whisper on the summer breeze, he says, “You promised me. Don't let go.”

  A few weeks later, Galen is in the TV room playing angry sounds on his guitar. He’s been in there for hours.

  We're all waiting for Max to come home from his appointment with the specialist.

  I’ve been sat in the kitchen with Rhys, trying and failing to ignore the music Galen has been playing over and over and over. The jarring, harsh and severe noise repeatedly hits me like a fist to my chest.

  When we hear the front door open, we both jump to our feet and all but run out into the hallway.

  Max steps inside with Mum, both wearing big smiles that stretch wide across their faces.

  “Galen,” Mum yells up the stairs, and the awful noise he’s been torturing us with stops abruptly.

  Seconds later, he’s pounding down the stairs.

  With all eyes on her, Mum looks up at Max and he gives her a nod of encouragement. She turns back to us and says, “The doctor said surgery can go ahead soon and everything's looking good.”

  Max kisses her cheek and adds, “He said the treatment has gone well. So, if he’s optimistic, we are going to be too.”

  Galen steps closer and wraps his dad into a tight hug—a cwtch. Home.

  Rhys and I join in until we form a circle of love, hope, and optimism. All of us embracing our unconventional family and the positive news.

  “I’d die for a cup of tea,” Max says eventually, and we all groan at his inappropriateness and pull away.

  “What?” he asks, the wide grin still present on his face. “Still too soon?”

  Rhys breaks away first from the group hug and uncharacteristically offers to make it. Neither Galen nor I miss the raised eyebrows on Mum and Max’s faces at the gesture as they follow him into the kitchen. Mum stops in the doorway and looks over her shoulder at us to see if we’re coming.

  “I need some fresh air. Wanna come, Fflur?” Galen asks.

  I nod, and he turns to Mum and enquires, “Need anything out? We won’t be long.”

  Mum smiles at us both but shakes her head. She looks tired despite trying not to—happy, but tired.

  Galen tilts his head, indicating for me to follow him out to his car, and fifteen minutes later we are in our field. It’s now barren of dandelions, the grass trimmed short, and random buttercups burst through the green here and there, their golden yellow petals calling to me.

  Galen reaches down and plucks one before bringing the flower up under my chin.

  “Ranunculus Acris. Meadow Buttercup,” I whisper, and Galen’s eyes find mine and sparkle.

  “Do you like butter?” he asks. The innocent, childhood game of holding a buttercup under your chin and asking the question seeming less innocent with the fire contained in his eyes—a fire that speaks of deep kisses and searching hands.

  My breath hitches as the petals lightly skim my skin, but I don’t answer.

  His eyes flick from mine to the area under my chin.

  “The buttercup says you do,” he confirms, seeing the yellow glow of the flower’s petals on my skin.

  “That’s not what it says. Ask it a different question.”

  His eyes, heavy-lidded, hit mine. The question I yearn him to ask forms on his tongue and I can almost taste it.

  But instead of asking it, he blinks slowly and takes a step back, the moment gone.

  “Thanks,” he says instead, offering me the buttercup, his fingers delicately gripping the long stem. “For coming with me. Getting out of there helps.” He lets his gaze stray over my shoulder before once more catching my eyes. “Being with you helps.”

  I think I say “I’ve got you, Gal,” but I can’t be sure because my heart has leapt up into my throat, and Galen is slowly walking away through the field.

  It’s the weekend before Max’s surgery on Monday, when Galen next comes into my room.

  “Fflur?”

  “Yeah?” I say, my voice muffled by the covers.


  He sits at my side, his thigh pressing into mine.

  “I can’t sleep. Come for a walk to the brook with me?”

  I’m comfy and warm in my bed, but I could never refuse Galen anything, and ten minutes later I’m dressed and escaping into the tree line, my eyes on Galen’s broad shoulders.

  It’s chilly tonight, and a cold breeze rustles through the leaves and skitters across my skin.

  When we get to the brook, Galen stands and stares at the waters, swollen from recent rains, with his back to me.

  “I’m terrified,” he says to the rushing brook in front of him, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I take three steps until my front reaches his back and I slip my hands around his waist, my brow resting between his shoulder blades.

  “Max has got this. He’ll get through tomorrow no problem. He’s strong Gal.”

  I feel him nod, the action more to convince himself than me.

  “It’s not just about my dad’s surgery” he admits, quieter now I’m close to him.

  “What else has you torn up like this?”

  He drags in a rough breath, and his chest expands beneath me.

  “I had sex with Laurie for the first time last night.”

  My hands begin to slip from around him, and he quickly gathers them to his stomach, unwilling to let me go.

  “I needed to be close to someone. I needed that connection to another person. I didn’t want to feel alone. Laurie kissed me, told me she was there for me, and I figured it was the right time.”

  The right time.

  I go to tug my hands free, but he grips them tightly.

  “But it wasn’t. It wasn’t right. I mean, I don’t know what I expected, but I still felt alone afterwards, in fact, even more so.”

  “And why are you so upset about sleeping with her?” I manage to say without my voice cracking and betraying me. “So, it didn’t rock your world. It didn’t fix everything for you. But that’s no reason to be worried about your dad.”

  My heart aches and my head wants to say something mean, but Galen is hurting, and that trumps everything. So, I lock up my jealousy tight, and I do what I promised I would. I’ll be there for him.