{Cary}

Pete was making pancakes. Cary could smell them cooking as he packed his meagre belongings into his backpack and straightened up Jon's room. When he was finished, he stood still and took it in: the light falling silver through Jon's bedroom window, the sound of Pete moving around the kitchen, the knowledge that he was completely safe here—and the fact that he had to go. He took all the memories of the past two weeks with Jon's family, folded them carefully and put them away where they would be safe. He needed to be hard again like he had been before.

He and Pete ate in silence. Cary couldn't think of the words that would tell Pete what staying here had meant to him. In the end, standing in the hall with his backpack in his hand, all he said was, "Thanks for the pancakes."

"Can I please hug you?" Pete asked.

Cary looked at him a moment. Pete wasn't as big as his father, but he still had 60 pounds and three inches on Cary. He gave a stiff nod and held still while Pete put his arms around Cary's shoulders. His face was pressed against Pete's shirt—Jon's dad smelled like laundry soap and pancakes. Cary gulped a breath and put his free arm around Pete. Pete didn't squeeze too hard or hold on too long—or maybe it was just that Cary didn't mind. It felt like being folded in the warm weight of a good coat on a winter day.

When Pete let go, Cary drew back and turned aside, looking out the window at the street. He couldn't figure out what to do with his body after a hug like that. He was also cracked and leaking. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shook tears out of his eyes. They were no good to him where he was going.

Beverly's silver BMW sedan slid up in front of the house. She leaned on the horn and didn't get out. Cary ducked his head and shouldered his backpack.

"You're welcome to visit any time. You know that right?" Pete asked. "You have my cell number?"

Cary nodded. "Thanks, Mr. White."

Pete's smile looked strained. "You're welcome, Cary. See you around, okay?"

Cary went out of the house and down the walk, the chilly spring day making him shiver and hunch his shoulders in his shirt sleeves. He felt the tie between him and Pete stretching until, somewhere on the road between Pete's house and his father's, it would snap.

His mother gave him a narrow look when he slid into the passenger seat beside her, her lips thinning as she raked him over from the top of his head to the cuffs of his hand-me-down jeans. She was wearing a jacket and blouse, her silver-blond hair twisted up off her neck as if she had come straight from work. Cary expected to feel something, getting into her car to live with her again after two weeks of having nothing and nobody. But no feeling came.

She threw the car into drive and pulled away from the Whites'. She was angry. It wasn't hot like his father's anger, but cold and hard as ice. Cary put his eyes on the dash. He didn't miss her like this. Her silence covered the interior of the car like frost, and goose bumps chased over Cary's arms.

When they pulled into the curving drive outside their home, he felt an unexpected wave of panic. He pressed back in his seat, snatching sideways looks at the towering house, feeling as if thick darkness was pressing on the inside of every window, making the walls bulge out toward them. He'd been inside when light had glinted on the chandeliers and glass sculptures, gleaming on the dark wood furniture and the slick paint stroked over massive art canvases, but his hammering heart denied that light was possible here.

"I cancelled an appointment to retrieve you," his mother said. "I'm going back to work. If you're not here when I get back, I will call the police." She dug in her bag and held out a key, looking hard at him as he took it. "Have I made myself clear?"

He nodded. The house was in the corner of his eye, and his hand was sweating around the key.

"Then do me to courtesy of saying so," she said sharply.

Cary lifted his chin. "Yes, I understand." His voice sounded thin and unsteady, and his stomach tightened even more. He had to get his shit together.

She made a motion with her hands like she wanted to push him out of the car. He got the car door open, but then he couldn't sort out his feet and almost fell out in his hurry. He stumbled onto the front walk, and she pulled away, sand from her tires spitting against his jeans.

He put his backpack on his shoulder, keeping his eyes down and away from the stone face of the house. He went around to the side entrance, swaying as the sidewalk seemed to heave like a stormy sea. He opened the door to the boot room, and the inside smell filled his mouth and nose, closing his throat: lemon cleaner, garlic and pipe tobacco. The smell of his father. He steadied himself against the door frame, biting the inside of his cheek until the copper taste of blood burst in his mouth.

He made his feet step into the house and put his back against the wall beside the door. He waited there, his eyes closed, listening. His body was tense and nauseous with the instinct to flee.

There was nothing. He let the door handle go, and the door shut softly. He's not here. He made the shapes of the words in his head as if his pounding heart could hear them. He can't be here. I'm going down the hall and upstairs to my room, and there isn't any danger. If there is, I can run. Nothing is broken anymore. I can run as fast as I know how.

The trouble was, his body knew that he'd tried that before.

He stayed close to the walls and kept his eyes on his feet, shuffling over the hardwood. He told himself the same thing over and over: I live here now because it's safe. It didn't feel true, and Pete's face came back to him when he had said Cary could come back to visit—the way his forehead creased and the corners of his mouth drew down. Pete had not been happy that Cary was coming back here.

That didn't mean anything, though. The facts were that the house was empty and his father was not coming home.

Cary's body refused to believe it. He was shaking and doubled over by the time he made it to his bedroom. He shut his door and put his weight against it, covering his mouth against the urge to throw up. The memories of all the times he was afraid and helpless and hurt under this roof beat against his stomach like the wings of birds trapped in here with him. He squeezed his eyes shut, grasping at all the broken pieces of his thoughts, feeling them slide and cut, looking for the one thing that was whole and steady in the mess.

Jesus ... Where are you?

And then something like Pete's hug folded around him, settling his stomach and holding him still. Cary took a breath and opened his eyes to look around his room.

It was bigger than he remembered and spotlessly clean. All his things were still neatly in their place. The light fell through his window onto the bare carpet, bright as silver.

Cary straightened carefully and let his hand fall. He had missed his room, the orderliness and the space. Jon's room was crowded with both of them in it, and messy even when it had been just Jon's room. Cary went to his bed and sat on the edge, then opened the drawer of his bed table. His second drawing book and some pencils were inside.

When he opened his closet, his eyes grew wide. He'd been wearing the same pair of hand-me-down jeans every day, and he'd forgotten how much stuff he had here. He ran his hands over the row of sweaters, shirts and pants. He needed a sweater that was warm and pants that fit. He started to pull out clothes on hangers, sorting things that didn't fit anymore into one pile, and things he didn't need, like the suit his father had made him wear to university functions, into the back of the closet. He lost track of time, and when he was finished, there was a stack of clothes to hand down to Jon, and two pairs of pants, three shirts and a sweater folded and packed in the bottom of his backpack. Ready to run.

He thought about that while he put the clothes he'd been wearing in the laundry basket and turned on the shower. The weather was almost warm enough to run. There was a bridge—a couple bridges—that offered dry shelter if you could carve out a space for yourself among the others there. He still had his knife.

He dried off and dressed in his own clothes. On the other hand, having his own shower was nice. And a bed. He could practically live in this room—he'd done it before.

Cary's phone buzzed. He flipped it over on his bed and picked it up. "Yeah?"

"Hey." Jon's voice sounded tight. "My dad said you went home with your mom?"

Cary glanced around his room. "Yuh."

"That completely sucks! Are you even going to be okay over there?"

It just took a second to find the words that would put the lid back on Jon's anger and worry. "Yeah, I'm fine. This is my home. Your house is way weirder than here." His stomach was still rolling gently, and he tipped the phone away from his mouth to breathe out slowly.

Jon was quiet for a moment. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

"He's gone. So there's nothing to worry about, okay?"

"Okay." Jon sounded steadier. "I'll be praying for your sleep, okay?"

Oh shit, nighttime in this house. Cary shut his eyes, frozen for a second so he couldn't make his mouth say the things a normal friend would say.

"See you tomorrow," Jon said.

"Yup," Cary managed, and hung up.

Cary put the back of his hand against his mouth, swallowing. There was nothing to be afraid of here anymore. He took a careful breath and smoothed his hand over his stomach. His clothes smelled different than the ones from Jon's house. He guessed Jon's mom used a different kind of soap.

The clock on his bedside showed 5:15. Time to play his part if he was going to have a hope of surviving here. He tugged down the cuffs of his sweater and got to his feet. He doubted he could eat, but eating wasn't necessary—just pretending to eat, pretending he was fine, pretending they were a happy family. Some things didn't change. He put his backpack under his bed for when he might need it and left his room.

His mother still wasn't home. He went out to the garage to look for her car, but her space was empty, and his father's space was empty beside it. He had a disorientating moment where he pictured his father in an orange jumpsuit, shuffling in a line of other men to get his food from the cafeteria.

Of course, his father wasn't in jail right now. Cary had no idea where he was while he waited for the trial to begin. The restraining order just said he had to stay at least 100m away from him and Liam. He could be anywhere--a hotel. A friend's house. Did his father have friends?

A noise in the house behind him made him start, and he went back down the hallway, peering warily through all the doorways. "Hello?"

The hairs on his head prickled as he heard himself calling into the empty dining room in his dream the night before.

Someone stepped into the hallway, making Cary jump, then sag against the wall. "Phillippa."

The nanny's fine, dark brows drew together, puzzled. "Master Cary? What are you doing here?"

"My mom came and got me," Cary said. He imagined what his mother must have told her about his absence, and the idea of trying to tell her the truth made him tired. He turned aside. "Do you know when she's back for supper? I was going to cook."

"I don't know." Phillippa said. "She is a busy lady."

"How's Liam." It came out low and flat, like it wasn't a question, and he didn't feel sick waiting for the answer.

"He's a growing boy." He heard the smile in her voice. "Very happy. He's just down for his nap."

He checked her face, wishing he knew whether Liam had missed him, whether he missed their father already, and whether Cary had screwed him up because of what he had done. "He had some ..." he spread his fingers over his ribs, where he'd left bruises on Liam from holding him so tightly. He couldn't finish asking the question.

"The bruises all heal." Phillippa gave him a considering look. "Is harder than you think to break a baby."

"I'm so sorry." He just sounded like he was reading a line he had rehearsed, and he hated that he couldn't put more into the words. "I never meant to hurt him." There was an expectant silence, and he dug the heel of his hand into his eye. "He was hitting me, and I didn't want to drop him. I didn't want him to get hurt. So I held him too tight. He was angry with me. Our father. It was an accident."

"It was an accident that he was hitting you?"

Cary made a dry noise. "No." He wanted out of this conversation now. "It was an accident that Liam was in my arms when he started to swing." His shoulders sagged. "You don't have to ... you don't have to say anything. I know you don't believe me."

"There are men like that in every country, Master Cary."

He searched her face. It was inscrutable as bronze, just a flicker of heat in her black eyes. She nodded her head, like he had spoken. "When you go all of a sudden like that, and I see the bruises on the little one, I look to find another employer. The day of my interview, the police come and take Master Douglas away. Your mother collapse. Then she raise my salary, so I stay. I clean the blood out of the dining-room carpet, and I pray to my God for you."

She drew closer, tipping her face back to look at him. She put three of her fingers on her cheek, the place where he had the faint shadow of bruises on his face. "Are you hurting still?"

He was caught off balance. He had not expected kindness here. "No. Mostly—healed." Her intent look made him turn aside and tell her the truth. "But it's hard to be here. With everything ... that happened." He spread his hand on the wall. He felt like the house had absorbed years of his fear and pain, and now the walls gave it off like an odour. His mouth tasted like concrete, and it was still hard to breathe.

"I am sorry for you," Phillippa said. "I pray for you every day."

He caught his breath. "I'm fine. Thank you." They stood there awkwardly in the massive hallway. "Are you hungry?" Cary asked. "I was going to make spaghetti."

She smiled. "I came down to make supper. It is my job every night."

Cary hesitated. "Then can I ... can I go look at Liam? Will I wake him up if I go into his room?"

"He is your brother. You do not need permission. You will not wake him up if you are quiet," Phillippa said.

Cary nodded. "I'm always quiet." He went back up the stairs, feeling lighter than he had on the way down.

Liam's room smelled different than the rest of the house, of baby powder and faintly of sour milk. Cary slipped inside the door. Daylight seeped through the weave of the curtains, and the room was full of soft blue and purple shadows. Cary crept to the crib and looked in. Liam was sleeping on his side, a blanket rolled at his back to keep him propped there. His hand was open on the mattress next to his soft cheek. Holding his breath, Cary touched a finger to the palm of Liam's hand. Liam's fingers closed reflexively, and he sighed. Cary drew in a breath and crouched down so they were face to face. The feeling inside of him was too big for words.

He was still there when he heard the thump of the front door closing, and his mother's feet tapping up the stairs. He made himself small, hoping she wouldn't look in and find him here. Her feet passed the door, and he got quickly to his feet and went out.

Phillippa had filled the kitchen with the smell of lemons, olive oil and bread. She gave him a fleeting smile over her shoulder, her eyebrows drawn together. "He is sleeping still?"

Cary nodded. He couldn't say anything about that. "Should I set the dining room?"

She jerked her chin at the double doors. "Look for yourself."

Cary's mouth went dry. He set his hand on one of the doors, pushing it open an inch, then stepped into the doorway to stare.

The mahogany table was gone, and the carpet was torn up. The chandelier was swathed in a white sheet, glowing like an enormous Chinese lantern in the cavernous space. He almost laughed. The room from his nightmares was gone.

He set plates and cups at the counter in the kitchen instead. He hesitated. "Do you eat with her?"

Phillippa shook her head, glancing at him. A few black hairs had escaped the clip at the back of her neck, and the steam made them curl at her temples.

Cary eased his shoulders, wishing he could join her upstairs instead of sitting across from his mother for however long it took her to finish her meal. He was having trouble staying in the present moment. The last time he'd been in this room, his father had hit him so hard he thought he might not get up again. The physical memory of his shoulder jammed under the counter, and Liam twisting and screaming in the hot cave his body made was as real and close as the smell of tomato sauce. He set his hands against the edge of the counter, running his fingers over the smooth, granite surface. His fingertips found a crack the size of a single hair and explored the length of it while Phillippa's fine, gold bangles swayed and rang faintly as she stirred. He just needed to keep breathing.

"This looks nice." His mother's hand on his arm and her voice behind him made Cary jump. He bit the inside of his mouth and tightened his grip on the counter.

Beverly went to the double doors and opened them. "Did you see my little project? The painters are coming tomorrow to strip the walls." She smiled as she surveyed the room. She had let her hair down, and her face looked relaxed. She seemed to be in a better mood than she had been in the car.

"Nice," he said. What did he know?

"There's real cherry wood under all that beige. I'm restoring it to what it was when I first married your father. A jewel of a room." She made a face at the walls. "Beige. What a mistake." When she turned and actually looked at him, her smile thinned a fraction. She looked away and poured herself a glass of wine, turning her attention to Phillippa. "How was the little man today?" his mother asked.

"Very good, Mrs. Douglas." Phillippa sounded older and more formal than she had a minute ago. "He had an extra-long nap this afternoon. I think he is recovering from his cold."

"Lovely," his mother said. She swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. Her eyes were distant. She seemed to be thinking of other things.

Cary dropped his eyes to his fingers on the counter. His head hurt from not enough sleep, and this house pressed on him until he felt bent to the breaking point. He didn't have the energy to try to figure out what his mother was thinking and how to make her happy again.

"I think I'm not hungry," he said. He let go of the counter and pushed himself across the room to the hallway. His mother might have said something, but he couldn't hear.

As soon as he shut the door to his room, Cary found he could draw a full breath again. He went to the corner of his bed and slid down the wall, tucking his cold hands against his body under his arms. There was a square of light falling through the window. He rested his cheek on his knees and watched the light travel along the wall and bend around the shelf over his desk. He couldn't bend like that, without effort.

Dinner with the Whites, their laughter and conversation, came out of the box he had sealed it in, and Cary closed his eyes, his breath hitching while he let himself imagine he was there now instead of here. They were an addiction, and he never should have let himself get hooked. This—this empty, fucked-up house—was his home.

There was a tap on his door, and he put his face on his knees, silent. He didn't need to hear whatever it was his mother thought she needed to say.

"Master Cary?" Phillippa said. "I brought you supper."

After a long moment, he said hollowly, from behind his knees, "You can come in."

She came in and shut the door behind her. His head was too heavy to lift. He heard her cross the room and set the plate on the desk. Then he felt the disturbance of air as she dropped to a crouch in front of him. She was quiet for a long time.

When she spoke, her voice was low and sounded like music. "I come here from a hot, green country—nothing like here. I leave my brothers and sisters and mother there. I leave my heart there to come here."

He lifted his eyes to hers. Up close, she looked younger than he had first thought. If she had showed up at his school, he would have put her just a grade ahead of him.

She lowered her eyes. "I live here now. My home is cold and flat and brown." He recognized the way she said home—it was the way he thought about this house. Just the place his body inhabited. Not the place where he could let down his guard and rest.

She touched his knee lightly, just for a moment. "I live here too, Master Cary."

It wasn't the same. But it made him feel something that she had tried. "She's not here," he said. "You can just call me Cary." He unfolded, and she stood with him. The food on the desk actually smelled good. He thought he could eat in the safety of this room. "Thank you for supper."

She nodded and slipped out.

He thought about leaving while he ate. He could grab his backpack and be gone in a minute. He saw himself using the key he still had to let himself into the Whites' house and make a bed on Jon's floor for the night.

He put the clean side of the butter knife against the inside of his arm, pressing hard enough to leave a white mark on his skin when he released. He did it again, seeing if he could press hard enough to break the skin. If the knife had had any kind of an edge, he would be bleeding. He wasn't allowed to think about the Whites anymore.

He was too tired to run tonight anyway. He got into his bed and dragged the blankets up over his clothes, intending to just lie down for a minute. He was asleep in less time than that.

When Cary woke up, it was fully dark. He started up, scrambling to the corner beside his pillow. It took a moment of straining to see in the dark before he put together that he was in his room, but his father wasn't. He slumped, rubbing his face.

He got up and changed into pyjamas. He brushed his teeth and climbed back into bed.

When he closed his eyes, the playback started—the highlight reel of his relationship with his father, when he could never say the right thing or duck fast enough. It was like his brain wanted to analyze the thing frame by frame in case there was some moment between the two of them talking in the kitchen, and his father's fist driving into his cheek, when he could have sidestepped the fight, turned his father's anger into good humour, and saved them all. He tossed and turned until his blankets were a sweaty knot around his legs. He finally sat up, curling himself into a ball on the edge of the bed. His body ached like he wore a fresh set of bruises. He missed the sound of Jon's breathing, and his voice in the darkness.

Jon had said he would pray for him—Cary had forgotten to pray. He made the creaky hinge of his tongue work in his mouth and said the words of the prayer out loud, as much as he could remember.

"Jesus, spread your tent of peace and love over me while I sleep ... please. Amen."

He felt a little better. He lay down on his side and drew his blankets tightly around his shoulders. When he shut his eyes, he thought of the night sky swinging above the whole world: Phillippa's hot, green home, Jon Whites' little house, and his own bedroom, and the way Maker God kept the whole brilliant mobile of space turning above them.

He slept the night through and woke up at first light. Astonishment dawned slowly, like the pink flush of light in the sky outside his window. He was back in his father's house and the nightmares had not found him.

He felt Jesus saying, I told you so.