(Now) Brody: Special Agent Finn

This is the bonus post for last week, sort of.  If you haven't already read yesterday's post on the regular storyline, don't miss it.  

Warning:  This post has some tough stuff in it.  If you might be sensitive to reading about the death of a family member and would rather skip it, you won't miss anything important from the main storyline. 

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I looked at my watch.  It was after 7 already.  I looked at my list of things I had hoped to accomplish before leaving and decided to wrap up what I was currently working on and do one more thing, then take off for the night.  No sooner had I turned back to what I was doing when my phone rang.  I glanced at the screen and when I saw "Private" I answered quickly.  A lot of my clients' numbers showed up that way.

"Good evening, Mr. Adler."  I recognized him immediately.  That calm, confident, smooth-as-silk voice could only belong to someone that worked for the U.S. Government.  When I didn't say anything, he continued.  "This is Special Agent Finn, from the Miami field office of the FBI.  We've spoken--"

"Yes," I cut him off.  "I know who you are."

"Well, Mr. Adler," he continued smoothly, "I'm sorry to be the one to have to deliver this news, but your father's body was found this morning."

He certainly didn't sound sorry.  He sounded just as-- "Wait, what?" I asked suddenly, as his words finally sunk in.  "You found his body?  So...he's dead?"  

"I'm afraid so.  And I'm sorry you had to find out over the phone.  Normally we prefer to deliver news such as this in person, but given the circumstances, I made the decision to give you the news sooner rather than later, even though that meant we had to do it over the phone."  He was completely unruffled.  Calm, smooth.  I wondered if they taught people that in the FBI academy.  How To Speak Like a Government Agent 101.  "I realize you probably have some questions, but I'm afraid that I've given you all the information that I can for now.  Would you like me to inform the rest of your family, or would you prefer to do it yourself?  You might want to give your father's attorney a call as well."

My mind was reeling.  On a surface level, I understood his words.  Their meaning was clear.  But they weren't quite sinking in.  They rested in limbo between conscious understanding and unconscious realization and it seemed as though they were blocking the rest of my brain from being able to function normally.

"Mr. Adler, I realize this is overwhelming news.  Would you like me to inform the rest of your family, or would you prefer to do it yourself?" He repeated the question in a perfectly patient tone, but I imagined that he probably rolled his eyes and sighed silently in his plush Special Agent office 1700 miles away.

"I'll do it," I snapped.  I didn't want his offensively unperturbed composure anywhere near my mom or sister.  I guessed I'd have to call Ken too. 

"That sounds like a good idea," he replied placidly.  "I'll contact you when I have more information for you.  Good night, Mr. Adler."  And then he hung up.

The first feeling that hit me after he hung up was a rush of anger.  Anger at Special Agent Finn, at my dad, at myself, at everything and nothing.  When the initial surge faded, I realized I needed to make some phone calls.  I picked up my phone and dialed the numbers easily.

I was surprised when Liv answered cheerfully.  I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the screen.  I hadn't really thought about who I was calling, I just called.  When I told her what happened, she immediately said she was coming to get me.  I could picture her hopping around, pulling her shoes on with one hand, the phone in the other.

When I hung up with her, I dialed again, this time paying more attention to the numbers.

"Two hour time difference, my dearest brother," Jen said in greeting.  I looked at my watch and realized it was close to 10pm in Philadelphia.

"Sorry, Jen," I said.  "But..."  I stopped.  I hadn't thought through how I was going to do this.  I didn't have words for it, and the last thing I wanted was to come off as compassionless as Special Agent Finn.

"Brody?" Jen asked.  "What's going on?" She sounded nervous now.

I took a deep breath.  "Jen, the FBI agent that was working on Dad's stuff called me.  He said...they...well, they found...goddamnit!"  I bit out the curse harshly after stumbling over the words too many times.

"Is he dead?" Jen asked softly.  Thank God for my sister's perception.  "Brody?  Say something."

I realized it had been several seconds since her question had been asked.  "Yeah.  ...Yeah, he's dead."

Jen was silent for a concerning amount of time, then said, "Did you tell Mom?  Or Ken?"

"No, you're the first person I called."  That wasn't entirely true, but I wasn't sure how Jen would feel about me telling Liv before I told my family.  "I was going to call Mom next.  And Ken..."

"Let me help," she said gently.  "I'll tell Ken.  Tell me what you know and I'll call him.  He probably won't answer, but I'll try."

"I don't know anything else.  Special Agent Finn isn't the most helpful guy."

"Okay.  I'll call him anyway.  You'll call Mom?  Are you going to head down there?  I assume there are things to get in order.  I can meet you down there and help."  I had never been so thankful for my sister's detachment from our father.  She was able to be reasonable and logical right now when I couldn't be.

"I can call Mom," I confirmed, sounding a lot more confident about that then I felt.  "I'm going to try to get a flight out in the morning.  I'll let you know."  

We hung up, and I dialed my mom's number with shaking fingers.  Get a grip, I thought to myself as the phone rang.  Delivering the news to my mom didn't happen any easier or more gracefully than it did with my sister, but I was relieved when it was over.  My mom immediately requested to join us in Miami.

"Why?" I asked bluntly.  "You didn't love him anymore."  It came out far more harshly than I intended, but in that moment I didn't even care.

"You're right," my mom said, not even phased by my attitude, "But I love you, so I'm coming.  And don't you dare argue with me." 

"Fine," I huffed.  "But if you're coming, I'm paying.  I'll book the tickets.  And don't you dare argue with me." 

"I wouldn't dream of it."

After I hung up with my mom, I texted Jen to let her know that Mom was coming and that I'd give her our flight info when I had it.  She texted back that she hadn't been able to reach Ken, but she'd booked us two hotel rooms already.  She offered to share with Mom, which I appreciated.  I had a feeling I was going to need my space over the next week.

Next up was Dad's attorney.  He gave me the news that Dad's house had been foreclosed on and the bank was giving us one week to get personal items out of the house before they auctioned it.  It didn't even occur to me to wonder how the bank already knew about his death.  I was still on the phone with him when Liv walked into my office.  I hung up, frustrated by the attorney's urgency in pushing me to get down there as soon as possible, and turned to Liv.  I thought that having her here would be calming, but it made me feel manic.  For some reason, as soon as I looked at her, all the things I needed to the do in the next 12 hours and the next week swam into my consciousness and I started to feel anxious.

She sat with me while I did the things I needed to do, and didn't even bat an eye when I told her I was leaving.  Her only concern was if I was okay to drive down to my mom's house.  I wished that I could appreciate her more right now, but I just couldn't.

I stopped at home and packed quickly, robotically.  I left when my suitcase was full, not even paying attention to if I had enough underwear or the proper clothes for Miami right now.  I could buy anything I didn't have.  The only thing I made sure to pack was a pair of gym shoes, some shorts, and a couple t-shirts.  I was halfway out the door before I realized I still had my suit on, and I left my suitcase on the porch and the door half open to go inside and change.  I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and a hooded sweatshirt in my room with the lights off.  The darkness felt safer.

I don't remember much of the drive.  I got to my mom's in one piece and I guess that's what mattered.  My mom pulled the front door open before I could even get out of my vehicle.  I quickly texted Liv before I got out, so I didn't forget.  Then I walked towards the door and my mom.  She hugged me tightly and I tolerated it, but I really just wanted to be by myself. 

"Have you eaten?" she asked me as she ushered me inside.

I paused.  "I don't know," I answered honestly.  "I can't remember."

She looked concerned.  "I'll make you something."

"Fine.  Can you just...can you give me some time?  I'll eat something in a little while, okay?"  She leveled a very mom-like stare at me, and I relented a little.  "Please.  I promise I'll eat before I go to bed.  I just need to blow off some steam, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed.  "I'll see what I have."

I went downstairs to the room where Mom still kept my old punching bag and the treadmill. I went straight for the punching bag and quickly wrapped my hands.  I didn't need to injure myself on top of everything else that was going on.  I beat the shit out of the bag until I could barely lift my arms anymore.  I bitterly reflected that the last time I did this was after I had threatened to cut my dad out of my life--to pretend he was dead--if he didn't start treating Liv with respect.  As I thought about how I wouldn't have to pretend now, I began to laugh.  I wasn't really sure why I was laughing, and it stopped as I pushed the thought from my head.

I briefly considered going back upstairs, but I could still hear my mom moving around.  Instead, I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt, wiped off my face, and started up the treadmill.  I ran until my legs hurt just as badly as my arms, and then a little bit longer just for good measure.

I listened carefully once I stepped shakily off the treadmill.  I didn't hear my mom anymore.  She must have gone to bed, which meant it was safe for me to go upstairs.  There was a note on the counter.  "There's some chicken and rice in the oven, salad in the fridge.  Please eat.  I went to bed, but I'll be ready to go by 7.  I love you.  You can wake me up if you need anything else."  I disregarded the food and went up to "my" room.  I grabbed some clean shorts and a t-shirt and then got in the shower.  I stood under the hot water until it wasn't hot anymore, then dried off, got dressed, and headed back towards the kitchen.

I opened the oven, and the smell of lemon and garlic hit me.  I suddenly realized how hungry I was, and pulled the plate out.  I opened the fridge and pulled out the salad.  While I was shutting the door, a bottle of tonic water caught my eye.  I grabbed it too, then found a lime in the fruit bowl and the gin in the liquor cabinet.  Gin and tonic, the only alcohol besides wine that my mom drinks.  Whatever, it would do.  I made myself a very generously poured drink, then sat at the island to eat.  

I ate quickly, and drank even faster.  I got up halfway through to make myself another drink.  As an afterthought, I added just one more splash of gin at the end.  And another.  I frowned as I took a sip.  "Tastes like a fucking Christmas tree," I muttered before taking another drink.

By the time I had my dishes in the dishwasher and was walking up to my room, I had a decent buzz.  I had hoped it would help me sleep, but all it did was make my thoughts uninhibited.  I fought off the thoughts of my dad that entered my head, but it was useless.  Some were happy memories:  learning how to throw a football as a kid and going to his games.  Some were less than happy: the dinner that Liv and I had with him, and the night he showed up at my house asking for help...the last time I had seen him alive.  Eventually, my brain settled on a loop of the threats I had made to him to protect Liv from his assault of intrusive, disrespectful questions.  Over and over I remembered myself telling him, "I will pretend you're dead, and I won't be sorry."

Not quite aware of what I was doing, I reached for my phone.  I dialed numbers that I still remembered by heart, even though it had been months since I'd last dialed them.  His voicemail picked up right away, and I started to shake when I heard his voice.  When it beeped, I said in a shaky voice barely louder than a whisper, "I should have helped you when you asked.  I didn't think I'd be sorry, but I am.  I am sorry."  I stopped then, wondering what the hell I was doing.  He'd never hear this.  He'd never know I was sorry.  I hung up the phone and laid in the darkness, staring in the direction of the ceiling.  I dialed the numbers one more time, and this time, as I listened to his voice on his voicemail message, tears began to gather behind my closed eyelids.  When it beeped I hung up, curled my body around the phone, and cried for the first time since Heather had died.