Chapter 19 Mac
Chapter nineteen
Mac
The nurse spoke too fast about wound care while I scribbled notes on a pharmacy pamphlet. My handwriting reminded me of a seismograph readout.
"Change the dressing twice daily. Watch for redness, swelling—"
"I've got it." Eamon was politely impatient.
"Sir, these instructions—"
"He'll follow them." I looked up. "I'll make sure."
She handed me the discharge packet. "Keep the follow-up appointment. First physical therapy appointment is next week."
Eamon reached for his shirt one-handed. I took it from him without asking.
The flannel was soft, borrowed from Michael because they cut off Eamon's clothes in the ER. I worked it carefully over the sling, bunching the sleeve.
His skin was warm. Alive.
"Other arm."
He lifted it. I guided the sleeve up and started on the buttons. My hands shook.
"You need anything, you tell me. No stoic bullshit."
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll tell you."
The nurse left. We stood in the beige room that smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria turkey, Christmas muzak drifting in from the hallway.
"You ready?" I asked.
"To leave the hospital? Yeah."
I helped him stand. He braced himself with a hand on my lower back. I leaned into it.
I signed discharge papers while a nurse wheeled Eamon to the entrance. When finished, I jogged ahead to bring the car around.
Eamon waited under the overhang. He moved like every joint needed oil, but made it to the car without help.
"Seatbelt," I said.
"I know how cars work."
He managed it one-handed. Leaned back. Closed his eyes. "Let's go home."
Home. Ma's house. Not his apartment or my condo. The family's home.
I pulled away slowly. The roads were slick, while the plows struggled to clear them.
"You okay?"
"Shoulder aches. Head's fuzzy, but I'm here." He closed his eyes. "Going home for Christmas."
Snow swirled in the headlights. Lake Union materialized through the white—dark water, with Christmas ship lights strung between moored boats.
We'd been on one of those ships and kissed under the lights.
A couple of weeks ago. Felt like another lifetime.
"Thank you," Eamon said. "Being there. Every day. I didn't know how to let someone—"
"I know. Me neither."
The traffic crawled. The entire city moved in slow motion.
"Your family knows we're coming?" Eamon asked.
"Ma's been texting hourly." I glanced at him. "You nervous?"
"Terrified."
"They love you."
"They barely know me."
"They know enough." I reached out and squeezed his hand. "Ma embroidered your stocking two weeks ago. Before the shooting."
His breath caught. "She what?"
"Your name. Red thread. It's hanging next to mine on the mantle."
He stared out at the snow.
We turned onto Ma's street. Every house blazed with lights. The McCabe house was modest—lights around the living room window, a wreath, and every interior light burning.
Cars packed the curbs. I parked two houses down.
"Ready?" I asked.
He looked at the house. Light spilling from every window.
"For what?"
"Family. All of it. They're claiming you whether you're ready or not."
Snow caught in his hair. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear.
"I'm ready."
We got out. The snow fell harder. I took his elbow. We strolled slowly, crunching up the sidewalk.
The porch steps creaked. I reached for the door.
Eamon caught my wrist.
He kissed me. Soft. Quick. Tasting like snow and hospital coffee.
I opened the door.
Warmth and noise hit like a wall of chaos.
Ma got there first. She stopped three feet away, hands up like touching Eamon might break something.
"About time you came home." She stepped forward and reached around him, avoiding the bad shoulder. "This is where family comes for Christmas."
His good arm wrapped around her.
Marcus beamed over her shoulder. "Merry Christmas, brother."
Brother. Eamon just nodded.
Family packed the entryway. Michael and Alex. Marcus and James. Matthew and Dorian. Miles and Rowan. Everyone talking over each other, the smell of ham and cookies competing with the smell of wet wool.
Claire stood near the stairs. Watching. Still.
Our eyes met. She nodded once.
"Enough." Ma clapped. "Eamon needs to sit. Everyone move."
The crowd parted. I guided him through. The living room looked like Christmas had exploded—lights everywhere, garland wound through the banister, and the tree sagging with ornaments.
Ma had set up the couch like a recovery station. Pillows arranged. Afghan folded. Water bottle next to Eamon's pain medication.
"Sit," Ma ordered.
He lowered himself down. I grabbed the afghan.
"I'm not an invalid."
"Humor me." I tucked it around him. "You want the pillow?"
He grabbed my wrist. "I'm okay. Sit with me."
I sat. Close.
My cousins sat around the room. "Well." Ma settled in her chair. "Now it feels like Christmas."
Someone turned on the gas fireplace. Outside, snow piled against the windows while inside, conversations layered over each other.
Ma rose. "Before this gets too chaotic—I have something."
She stepped up to the mantle and took down a stocking. Held it out to Eamon.
She'd stitched EAMON in red thread—a small shamrock below in green.
"Made it two weeks ago," Ma said. "Knew you'd be here. Knew you'd be ours."
His hand tightened around mine hard enough that my knuckles ground together.
"Ma, I—"
"You're family." She pressed it into his hand. "This is how it works."
He held it as if it were fragile, thumb tracing the letters—the shamrock.
Something rustled inside the stocking. He reached in.
His hand came out holding a key. Brass. Still had the little cardboard tag from the hardware store dangling from it.
"Made that two weeks ago, too," Ma said quietly. "Figured you'd need it."
He stared at the key. Then at Ma. Back to the key.
His hand closed around it. Tight.
"Family has keys," Ma said.
He trembled. I leaned closer. "You okay?"
"No." His eyes were damp. "But in a good way."
Claire moved. Set something on the coffee table.
A pot. Small. Asymmetrical. Crackled glaze. Warped rim.
It was the one I'd thrown in her studio.
"You saved it," I said.
"I fired it." Her voice was level. "It's unbalanced, but it still holds water."
She looked at us.
"You both survived the kiln."
Eamon picked it up. Turned it slowly.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"It's honest." Claire sat back.
From across the room, Miles raised his wine glass. "Welcome to the family. Fair warning: we're loud, we meddle, and therapy is both my profession and my hobby, so you're going to get a lot of unsolicited psychological insights. It's basically like having a very annoying superpower."
"Miles," Ma warned, but she was smiling.
"What? He should know what he's signing up for. Informed consent is important."
Eamon's mouth twitched. "Noted."
"Good. Also, you got shot protecting my cousin, so you're automatically everyone's favorite for now. Enjoy it while it lasts."
Ma ushered everyone except Eamon and me into the dining room. She produced food from nowhere—Ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, and rolls.
Eamon stayed on the couch per Ma's orders. I brought him a loaded plate.
After dinner, someone found cards. A game of Spades disintegrated into accusations of cheating.
"You're counting cards," Marcus said.
"That's called having a memory," Michael shot back.
Eamon watched with an expression I couldn't read. Like seeing something he'd only heard about.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He leaned back carefully. "This is what it looks like."
"What what looks like?"
"Family. The kind that stays."
My throat tightened. "Yeah. That's what this is."
Someone suggested a movie. Ma announced It's a Wonderful Life. No one argued.
They dimmed the lights. I shifted so Eamon could lean against me. His weight was warm and solid.
I didn't watch the movie. I watched my family.
Marcus sat close to Ma's chair with James seated on his other side. Michael on the floor, Alex's fingers in his hair. Matthew and Dorian pressed close. Miles and Rowan by the tree.
Claire in the corner chair. Shoes off. Feet tucked under her.
Everyone home.
"You're not watching," Eamon murmured.
"I'm watching something better."
The movie ended.
Ma stood first. "It's almost midnight."
"Already?" Matthew stretched.
Ma checked the mantle clock. "Everyone outside. We're doing this right."
"Doing what?" Rowan asked.
"Midnight. Family tradition." Ma pointed at the door. "Coats. Move."
Cold slammed into us. Wet, bone-deep. The whole family crowded onto Ma's small porch—fifteen people in a space for four.
Eamon stood beside me, gripping the railing. I stayed close, providing a windbreak.
Church bells started from the east. St. James, then the downtown cathedral, and then others joining in across the city. Layer after layer of sound, like the whole city was singing.
"Merry Christmas, everyone!" Ma's voice cut through.
Everyone started talking at once. Ma grabbed my face and kissed my forehead.
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."
She moved to Eamon. Hugged him carefully.
Miles clapped his good shoulder. "Welcome home."
We all filtered back inside, stamping the snow off our feet at the door.
I caught Eamon's elbow. "One minute."
Everyone else was inside, and the door closed behind them.
Eamon leaned on the railing.
"I thought I was here to protect you," he said quietly.
"You did."
"But you saved me right back." He looked toward the window. Inside, someone gestured wildly. "You and your family. This whole loud, messy, perfect family that decided I belonged before I believed it myself."
"You do belong."
"I know." His voice cracked. "That's—I never thought I'd know that again. After three years of working alone. I thought that was the permanent arrangement."
I moved closer. Our shoulders touched.
"You were wrong."
He turned toward me, snow in his hair. "Yeah, I was."
I kissed him. He cupped my jaw with his hand. Held me there.
"Merry Christmas, Mac."
"Merry Christmas."
Through the window, half the family watched.