Soundtrack: 'Lost in my mind- The Head and the Heart

{Cary}

Miss B.'s office door was the same institutional green as all the other classroom doors in the building. It was partly open, so Cary knocked and went in. The smell of vanilla and honey filled the room, and a lamp on the desk with a printed scarf over the shade made up for the lack of window. This office was bare compared to the room where they had met at King George-he guessed she wasn't here every day. But there was a comforting jumble of familiar objects on her desk: a beeswax candle, a pair of earrings looped together, a handful of shells and smooth stones, and a small Lego figure he thought was Harry Potter holding a wand.

Miss B. looked up and smiled when she saw him. A bright scarf barely held her puff of hair in check, and her lips were a shocking shade of pink today-so bright they made Cary blink.

"Cary, sit down. Good to see you here."

There was one squishy armchair among the assortment of office chairs, and he dropped into it. "Hey, Miss B." Usually he waited for her question, whatever she wanted to talk about today.

"How are you settling in back here?"

He shrugged, taking a short breath. He'd been able to stay on the surface of things all day, avoiding thoughts about his mom or Liam, or anything deeper than getting his course schedule and finding his locker. But he knew her well enough to know he wouldn't be able to continue that here.

"Do you do adults-as well as kids, ever?" he asked.

"You mean, do I have clients I counsel who are adults? Yes, a few."

He put his eyes on the top corner of the room, where it was safe and blank. "I want to talk about my mom."

There was a pause. He'd never offered to talk about anything before.

"What would you like to talk about?" she asked.

He fished around for where to start. "I guess you might not know-he hurt her sometimes. Too. And I think she...was afraid a lot. She got kind of-" He rubbed the side of his face, frustrated. He could see it, but he couldn't think of the words-like a doll, lovely and fragile and hollow.

"Do you want to draw it?" Miss B. asked.

"No," he said shortly. He was going to need to learn how to use words for the trial. "She made-a shell. A pretend place she lived where we were happy. So she wouldn't have to see-me. Getting hurt." He stretched his shoulders back, his chest tight and painful. "I think she is coming out of that? When I saw her yesterday, it seemed like she was more of a real person." He closed his eyes a moment, remembering her smile as she crossed the patio toward him. Like she really saw him. The gap in his front yawned open and he crossed his arms tightly over it. "I don't think it's going to work for us-even with that. There's so much-so much shit behind us. I don't think she can. Love me." He tried to squeeze his chest closed, to squeeze past that thought. "She says she's seeing a counsellor and...she has Liam. And I want to know...if you think...if she can be a mom to him. That she wasn't to me."

"Can you tell me about seeing her yesterday?" Miss B. probed gently.

He pushed his feet against the floor, ducking his face away from her. He was going to break in here if he talked about that. "What for?"

"It might help you to talk about it."

He made a dismissive noise.

"It would help me," Miss B. said. "You're asking a thoughtful question and I'd like to give you a thoughtful answer. I don't make quick judgements about people-you know that."

He swallowed against his tight throat and did what he could to piece together the story of his birthday dinner for her. He got out a few short, choppy sentences in the wrong order, and then he got stuck.

"She wanted to give you the key to her house-to live with her again?" Miss B. asked.

He jerked his head up and down.

"Is your father there?"

"No," he said tightly. "She said just me and my brother and her. If I stopped the trial."

"Did she say why she wants you to stop the trial?"

He twisted his body away from her, hunching his shoulders, seeing his mother's face pleading with him. "I guess because-it's hard for her. To have to look at what he did. I think she... knows now. That I told the truth. It's just so much worse-dragging all our shit out in front of everyone in court. It's so fucking-embarrassing." His voice dropped so low it almost disappeared. "And I can't stop it. All I wanted was for her to be safe. And happy." He shoved his hand next to his face, where tears were giving him away. How many times had he covered up his bruises, helping around the house and giving her hugs because he didn't want her to have a bad day?

"What happened then?"

"She left." His voice was soft and flat. "She don't want to see me no more." Miss B. handed him the Kleenex box and he blew his nose noisily. "Shit," he said roughly. "All I do anymore is cry." He arched his back, dragging in a long shaky breath.

"I would have cried too," Miss B. said. "That sounds very painful."

Cary slumped back into the chair. He was wide open, and there was nothing he could do about it anymore. He kept his face turned to the side, his hands tight on the worn upholstered arms of the chair, expecting this to hurt.

"What did you do last night after that happened?"

He held still a moment then turned his bare arms up, revealing his skin, whole and unmarked. "I drew. Not on myself. And I-cried." His voice frayed a little on that word. "Mrs. White prayed for me and she...kissed my head. Like she does her kids before bed."

He heard her draw in her breath and slid her a sideways look. Miss B.'s face was lit up by the curve of her pink smile. "You've come a long way, Cary. Can you imagine making that choice four months ago?"

He studied her expression, frowning. The light of her smile was shining, warm and kind, all over the open front of his chest.

"You're wondering if your mom can change? You've changed. You've become someone who can work through pain and sadness with your creative gift. That's amazing."

He shifted, dropping his eyes. No one talked to him like this, and he didn't know what to do. It wasn't even true-she was acting like he had his shit all together, but he could see the seams and just how cracked and broken he still really was.

Miss B. was quiet for a bit. "So, your question-can your mom be a good mom after being hurt and being a hurtful person? It sounds like she's trying to work through her stuff. That takes time-you know that as well as I do. But it seems like she's trying. Maybe this isn't the end for you two."

Cary shook his head quickly. He couldn't afford to think like that. "I'm just asking for Liam. She got hurt too many times by me-and now I'm wrecking everything she cares about." He paused, really thinking about that for a moment: what if his mom changed her mind and reached out to him again? His stomach was shaking with tension like he was braced for her to just run him over with her car.

He curled his shoulders and wrapped his arms around himself, making spit for his dry mouth to try and get that out in words. "Even if she-changed her mind and said let's try..." Something was rising like a wave, pressing on his chest, lapping at his neck. "I don't think-I can." His voice was thin. "I got hurt. By her. Too many times. I know she's my mom, but...how many times am I supposed to let her-?" Darkness swallowed his head and there weren't words there anymore. The basement was as real as the armchair, the concrete cold under his body, his head buried in his arms so he couldn't see the darkness or the gurgle and swish of the pipes as she ran her evening bath somewhere far above him.

There was a small pop, and the smell of lemons and vanilla registered like a bright note of colour in a black-and-white photo. "Cary," Miss B. said from a distance. "Tell me where you are."

He pushed his feet into the floor and pressed his fingers into his arms, trying to bring the room back. "Office," he said with difficulty. "With you."

"Did something happen with your mom that you're remembering?"

He ducked his head, trying to take slow breaths. He thought of burying his face in Split-lip's shirt, the dark and the warmth and the sound of his heart beating. "She left me. In the basement. Days sometimes. And nights." He was shivering and his lips were numb. "It's fine. It's done. I'm here."

There was a pause. "That sounds like a very scary experience."

Cary surged to his feet, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "We done? I'm done." It took a couple tries to find the doorknob because it was still so dark. When it gave under his hand and the door opened, the pressure and the darkness lifted a little. He stood there in the partly open door with his head down, catching his breath.

"We're almost out of time," Miss B. said quietly. "I'd like to see you again on Friday."

He shivered all over and slid her a sideways look, keeping his hand on the doorknob. She had her fingers woven tightly together, her elbows on her knees. She made a smile when he looked at her, but there was a pinched line between her eyebrows. "Can you tell me what your plan is for the rest of the day?"

He took a careful breath, easing his shoulders back. "Don't worry, Miss B. I never cut at the Whites." He held the pieces of his face in a neutral mask. Saying that made him want to cut, worse than he had in weeks. Cutting would attach him to the present moment, bright and sharp. And she thought he'd come a long way.

"Humour me," she said wryly.

He set his feet a little wider to steady himself. "I'm just going home. To the Whites. Helping with supper. Going for a run. Same as usual. I'm okay."

"Okay," she said slowly, holding his eyes. Sometimes he thought she saw right through him. "Do you think you could try something for me? Something silly. Is there something fun you could do...something you enjoy that you could do to just-be kind to yourself today?"

He looked silently at her. Nothing came to mind.

"Because here's the thing. Sometimes there's nobody else to do that for us. And we still-need kindness." There was an awkward pause while he tried to think what she meant. "What do you like to do to relax?"

Times with Jon came to mind, biking around in the light-dappled quiet of the ravine, the patter of Jon's conversation punctuated with his easy smile. Cary lidded his eyes. They were a long way away from that now. "Nothing, I guess," he muttered.

"Drawing?" she offered.

He shrugged.

"Well...try something that's just for fun. Tell me how it went on Friday."

"Sure." He felt stupid saying he would. "See you, Miss B." He could give her that much, anyways, the promise that he would keep showing up, fumbling through one day and then the next even though it was too dark to know if he was getting anywhere at all.

///

He stayed numb and disconnected on the bus ride home, looking at passing streets without seeing them. When he stepped in the front door of the Whites', the air inside felt warm against his frigid skin. He took off his shoes and tidied the bags in the entryway, noting that Jon's shoes and coat were still neatly where Cary had put them after he gotten Jon into bed the night before last.

Bea was standing on a chair next to her mom in the kitchen, a large apron folded and tied twice around her small waist. She looked up from liberally scooping chocolate chips into the mixing bowl and her soft little face lit up in a smile. "Hi, Cary. You're home!"

"How's Jon?" Cary asked.

Mel's smile was a more tired version of her daughter's. "He's kept some fluids down today, and some toast. It seems to be quite the stubborn bug."

Cary's mouth went dry, wishing he didn't have to lie. "I guess this might take a week...and a bit...to get over."

"Oh dear-other kids at school have had it too?"

He nodded, looking aside. If he counted himself, that was at least telling the truth.

"How's your day, Cary?" Bea asked. "I'm helping momma make chocky-chip cookies for supper."

"My day was okay." He couldn't put any life into the words, even for her.

Bea said, "Momma, can we have spoons to lick?"

"Sure honey," Mel said distractedly, standing with the fridge door open like she couldn't make sense of the contents. Bea scooped two spoons full of the raw cookie dough, chunky with chocolate chips, and held one out to Cary.

Cary frowned. "What's this for?"

She laughed. "For eating, silly. Haven't you had this? It's the best part of making cookies."

He took the spoon, eyeing it suspiciously. "Anything I can do to help with supper?"

Mel sighed, thumping the fridge closed. "There's nothing fresh for a salad and Pete has the car at work until five-thirty. I guess we'll have to make do with frozen corn."

Cary munched on the cookie dough, savoring the texture of the butter and sugar and the bitter crunch of the chips. He paused, feeling as if he'd abruptly dropped into the pocket of the present moment and could think clearly again. "I guess you could take my car."

Mel brushed a hunk of hair back from her face, her eyebrows knit together worriedly. "Your car?"

He shrugged, avoiding her look. "My mom gave it to me. For my birthday. It's parked outside."

She wiped her hands on her apron and untied it, the worry clearing from her forehead. "How wonderful for you, Cary-and you get your license tomorrow."

He trailed after her down the hall and out the front door.

Mel laughed and clasped her hands together when she saw the car, hunkered by their curb. "Oh! We thought our neighbors had guests staying the night. What a good-looking car. How many kilometers on it?"

He fisted his hands deep in his pockets. "Don't know. I probably don't get to keep it." He took a short breath, touching her face with his look for just a moment. "But you should use it while it's here. I'll just find the keys."

She found him in his tiny bedroom, digging through his laundry pile. He had been seriously out of it when he had come back from their aborted dinner yesterday and had no memory of what he had been wearing or where he had put the keys to his mother's gift when he had gotten home.

"Why don't you think you get to keep it?" Mel asked from the doorway.

"She gave it to me before she knew-I can't stop the trial. She used to-give me shit when I kept quiet. And this time I can't." He didn't have that many pairs of pants-he went through all their pockets twice. He sat back on his heels. "Shit. Where'd I put those keys."

There was a pause. "You were wearing Peter's dress pants," Mel said. "They're in my room."

She came back with the keys in her hand, a mischievous quirk in her mouth. "I think the Whites' supper taxi is a go."

He straightened, relieved. "Hey, if you're at the grocery store can I add some...baking supplies to your list?" He didn't look at her, rubbing his sweating hands on his jeans. "I think I'll make some poppy seed muffins for Jon. And everyone. Because the counsellor says I should do something that's just for fun today." He snapped his mouth shut, realizing he'd started to babble a little there. Jesus, if Mel knew her son was coming off an opioid addiction, it would crush her.

"How kind of you to think of that," she said. "Of course."

He kicked his laundry back into a pile, hiding his face. How kind of him to think of ways to take the edge off Jon's craving while he went through withdrawal. How fortunate he personally knew a thing or two about that. His ears burned even after she left, feeling like the worst houseguest in the world.

He knocked softly on Jon's door and nudged it open. Jon was flat on his back, his fists over his eyes, the sheets tangled with his pyjama pant legs. There was a sheen of sweat on his bare chest, and his stomach rose and fell rapidly. He was skinnier than Cary remembered, the bones of his ribs jutting out of his skin. His right arm was wasted and spindly compared to his left, and that side of his chest was sunken so the bumps of his ribs showed all the way to his collarbone.

Anger stirred in Cary's stomach, but there was no one to be angry at except maybe Jon himself. "Hey," he said in a low voice, pretty sure from the tension in Jon's hands that he wasn't sleeping.

"Fuck off, Cary." Jon's whisper was strained.

He shut the door behind him in case Bea happened by in the hall. "You need anything?"

"Yeah. I do." Jon's voice broke. "You won't let me have it."

He rubbed his knuckles against the edge of his jaw. "You want me to get you fresh water? Some ginger ale?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jon's voice gained strength and volume. "My head feels like it's under an anvil while I'm on a merry-go-round from hell, and you want to know if I want ginger ale?"

Cary paused. "You talk to your mom like that?"

"The fuck do you care?"

"She's going to wonder what kind of stomach flu turned her son into a hateful asshole. Is all."

Jon's breathing rasped like a saw going in and out of his chest. He choked suddenly and curled like an insect on a hot griddle, tipping onto his side. "I'm trying. I'm trying."

Cary realized with dismay that Jon was crying.

"I feel like hell, Cary-what do you want from me? I can't-do this. There has to be another way-if I just had a little I could ease off, couldn't I?"

Cary crossed his arms tightly, pressing his fingers against his mouth, trying to think of a way to make this easier. He shook his head shortly. "Tell your parents and go to detox. I guess that's the other way. Same shitty withdrawal, just a different set of sheets. And people who know what you're going through and can help."

"No." Jon tried to kick free of the blankets, shoving himself up on one elbow, glaring desperately at him. "Keep your mouth shut, Cary fucking Douglas, or I swear-I will get my dad to send you packing." He looked wild, his hair standing up in sweat-matted peaks, and his eyes red-rimmed and blazing. "I'm his kid. Not you. He'll choose me."

Cary turned aside, his face stinging like Jon had gotten up and slapped him. He bent to pick up the dirty clothing scattered on the floor and drop it in the hamper Jon was supposed to use. "I'm going to forget the asshole you're being right now," he muttered. "And hope you kick him to the curb in a couple months."

Jon fell back on the bed. "Months?"

Cary sighed, closing his eyes. "The spinning will stop in a couple days. Months 'til the bugs are quiet." He gave Jon a look under his eyebrows. "The shitty mood-up to you, I guess. You messed up your brain, and it doesn't work like it used to."

Jon met his look, his eyes glassy and dark with pupil. "I didn't mean to. I thought I was good." The last word broke a little and he put his hands over his face again, his fingers shaking. "Some ginger ale," he finally whispered. "And close the curtains. Please."

Cary drew the curtains together over the bright slice of daylight, then brought Jon a cup of ginger ale, bubbles sparkling on the sides of the glass. He set it on Jon's dresser and got down on his knees next to Jon's bed.

"What are you doing?" Jon asked.

"Praying for you, asshole," Cary said. He felt as if he was carrying Jon, his shoulders and arms straining with the weight.

"You still do that?" Jon's mouth twisted.

"Yeah, I still do that. You're the one who taught me."

"It doesn't work. In case you're wondering. So you don't need to bother."

He clenched his fists on his legs, looking at the angry, bitter shell that was left of his friend. "You're just saying that because you fucked with your mind and now you can't hear him." He hadn't even coherently formed the thought before it was coming out of his mouth-and then he was sure it was true.

Jon drew in his breath like Cary had stabbed him. He lifted his hands, shading his eyes while he looked at Cary from that shadow. "You hear him?"

Cary sighed. "Yeah. Since you prayed for me in the garage. I saw him-in the basement. Getting the shit beat out with me." The hair on the back of his neck prickled a little as the memory pressed in. "He keeps-showing up in the worst places. When I'm most wrecked. He's there."

Jon's laugh sounded like Cary had just leaned on the knife and twisted it. "Telling you what a fuck-up you are? To get your shit together?"

His whole body was coiling with tension, like he could take on this stuff Jon believed and beat it to the ground for him. "No. He's crying with me. He's bleeding."

"Must be fucking nice," Jon covered his eyes again. "That's not what he says to people like me. With no excuse to fuck things up. Like I have."

Cary's throat closed and his eyes stung abruptly, seeing Split-lip with the bowl in his lap, filling it with his own hot, red blood just to put some life and feeling back into Cary. He realized that what Jon thought of that person mattered to him. It hurt him that Jon would imagine that peaceful, downturned face glaring at him with hatred and rejection. He tried to make the right words, his voice dry and tight. "That's what he says to anyone-whatever they've done. You think I-you think I have any right to hear him say he loves me? He loves you, Jon. You should know that already."

"The hell would you know about it?" Jon whispered. "Pray if it makes you feel better. It won't help me."

Cary knelt there feeling stupid and small, his face turned to the window. He was too upset for words-if he could even pray anything out loud except their bedtime prayer. He managed to picture himself hauling Jon to the cave and dropping him in Split-lip's lap, then sinking to his knees in the sand, feeling so, so sad. After a minute of silence, Cary got up, wiping his face quickly with his hand, and left.