HIDING - every scar has a story

39. How he is.

{Cary}

When Cary woke up the next morning, his mind was mercifully blank. He rolled onto his back, registering Jon's room, his posters and comic books, and Jon himself asleep in a nest of blankets on the floor. This was the safest place Cary knew: this room with that person in it. He wanted to put the blankets over his head and hide here the rest of the day.

The gears of his thoughts started to grind and anxiety stroked his stomach. He remembered getting turfed from the shelter, the surreal car ride through the rain, and Pete believing him. One conversation—one phone call had set in motion the thing that would wrench his family apart. Whatever hope he'd had of making a life with his mom and his brother—he had to bury that like a dead thing. At the end of this the police would come for his father, and his mother would never forgive him for that. The only thing he'd been good for was how much he could take and still stay silent.

He put his hands over his face, trying to keep breathing. His knuckles were swollen and hurt to bend. He'd punched the hell out of something last night. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. The cuts were bumpy and tasted like blood. The kid at the shelter must have decked him a couple times too. All Cary could remember after pushing off the wall was a haze of red and then three shelter staff hauling him off.

He sat up carefully, closing his fists. That fight was another thing to shove into the basement with the other scary shit and close the door. He did that as best he could. It hurt more than it used to. He got up, dug his clothes out of the laundry hamper and got dressed, shivering at the damp touch of his shirt on his skin. He straightened the blankets and folded the pyjamas on top of Jon's bed.

Jon never even woke up, sleeping with one hand flung above his head and his mouth open. Cary filled his pockets with his smokes, his cell phone and his pencils, and then he slipped into the hall.

It was spring break; Jon's sisters were on the couch in the family room, wrapped in blankets and watching cartoons. He ducked his head and went to the kitchen. Jon's dad and mom were there, reading the newspaper with the remains of their breakfast on the table around them. Cary stopped in the doorway, frozen. There was no place to hide here, and he'd left his jacket in Leonard's room.

Jon's mom looked up first. Her smile dimpled her cheek: Jon's smile. "Morning, Cary. Can I get you some breakfast?"

Cary shook his head. He darted a look at Jon's dad. Pete looked tired.

"How are you holding up?" Pete asked.

Cary stared at him, swallowing. He had no idea how to answer that.

Pete sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. "I spoke to Child Protection this morning. They're sending someone this afternoon."

The impact of that set him back on his heels. This was really happening. Today. He turned his face aside and edged out onto the back deck before Pete could ask him any more questions.

It was cool and misty. A heavy dew bent the blades of grass in the backyard. The sun was just touching the lumber frame of the garage, turning it from grey to yellow. Cary took out his cigarettes and lit one, watching the sun slide up the two-by-four ribs. It seemed like forever ago that he had spent his afternoons building that garage with Jon and his dad and been happy. He had been right; happiness didn't belong to him.

Jon found him curled over his knees and sat down on the steps next to him. "Morning." His hair was standing up, and he still had his pyjamas on under a hooded sweater. Cary took out his cigarettes to light another for himself and offered one to Jon.

Jon waved it away. "So are you going to be able to go back to your mom and Liam after today?" he asked.

Cary shook his head once. "She won't take me back after this. I'll go with the social worker wherever." Wherever they put fuck-ups like him.