Soundtrack: 'Somewhere I belong' - Linkin Park

{Cary}

Cary sat two pews back from his mother, close enough to see the pearl earring against her ear and sometimes make out her voice saying the words of the liturgy amidst the others in the pews around them. The interior of her church looked like something from the old country: high, vaulted stone ceilings inlaid with stained glass that glowed like jewels in the morning sun.

He meant to go to the service every week. Every Saturday, he psyched himself up to go, to see her there and maybe get a glimpse of Liam if his brother was with her. But most Sundays, he stayed at the Whites' alone, having coffee and toast at their table instead of wine and the cracker at the prayer rail. It hurt less to be alone than to kneel next to his mother in the vast old building and see her look through him like he didn't exist.

Today, he had made it. He closed his eyes while the minister said the words over the table of crackers and wine. Have mercy on us, most merciful Father, for the sake of your Son Jesus Christ. He let his breath out softly. This feeling still crept up and surprised him—that there was mercy for him.

Cary went forward with the others, the wooden floors making their feet sound loud as they went down the aisle to kneel at the rails. He ducked his head so he wouldn't see her at the other end of the row of people and then held out his cupped hands to receive the wine-dipped cracker. He sucked on the bitterness of the wine, wondering again at how the minister would put it into his hands without any questions.

When the service was over, he waited for Pete on the steps of the ancient building, leaning against the stone to keep the blazing heat of the summer day from finding him. Someone said his name, Cary, and he turned, frowning.

His mother was coming across the steps toward him, holding a cream-colored card in her fingers. She held it out like she didn't want to come too close. "It's your birthday on Thursday."

Cary was stuck for a moment, staring at her, then he took the card.

"I'd like to take you to Gino's. If that's...still your favourite restaurant. I don't even know anymore." She laughed uncomfortably.

"No—it is. Sure," he stammered.

She fiddled with the strap of her handbag, looking out at the street like she was afraid of what she would see if she looked at him directly. "Are you well, Ciar—Cary?"

He heard her trying and his heart gave a little squeeze, hoping. "I've been working. Roofing. For the summer. That's going okay." He slid his eyes back to her, looking for a flicker of anything in her face.

She was blinking hard. "You still live with that family?"

"Yes. The Whites."

She looked him up and down, her face tight. He thought she was angry. "They're feeding you, taking care of you?"

He lifted his shoulders, looking away. The answer was obvious. He had stretched up a couple inches over the summer, and long hours hauling shingles and working the nail gun—and then running a couple kilometers at the end of the day—had filled him out. He was always hungry, and the Whites always had food in the cupboard for him. He pretty much signed his paycheck over to Pete at the end of a month just to cover the cost of his groceries.

"What happened to the good clothes I brought you?" She plucked at the sleeve of his T-shirt and he startled, looking at her hand touching him.

"I outgrew them, Mom." She stroked her hand over his arm, smoothing his sleeve down, and looked up into his face. He made a smile for her, trying to make himself smaller so she wouldn't be afraid. "And you?" he tried. "Are you okay?"

She let her hand drop. "I'm trying to be." She lifted her chin and pulled some of her usual cool into her face. "I'll meet you there at 6 p.m. Don't wear jeans." She went down the steps and clipped up the sidewalk, like she was hurrying away from the scene of a crime.

He followed her with his eyes, then shoved the card into the pocket of his jeans. She remembered his birthday. Did that mean he mattered to her—that she still cared? It felt like something had gotten stuck in his chest, a little shard he couldn't avoid—she still mattered to him. Putting it into words didn't make it hurt any less.

The van pulled up and Cary jogged down the steps and swung inside. Pete was the only one in it, still in his shirt and tie from his church service. He gave Cary a smile, but his face looked heavy and tired.

"How did that go?" Pete asked.

"All right." Cary rubbed his knuckles over the edge of his jaw. There were a couple bristles there he was thinking about leaving. "She asked to take me for my birthday."

Pete gave him a sharp look.

"Take me out for dinner," Cary clarified. "To Gino's." He frowned. The last time they had been there, he had been staying at a shelter and she'd had a black eye and a fresh set of excuses for his father.

They were quiet a few moments.

"How did church go—for you?" Cary asked tentatively.

"Fine," Pete said.

Cary didn't even have to be looking at him to hear the lie. He kept his eyes out the window, anxiety nibbling at his middle. Sundays were not a good day for Pete anymore, and Cary didn't know why. He just knew if things were bad for Pete, it was bad for the whole family.

"Did Jon go?" He knew this mattered a lot more than Pete let on, and since Jon had broken his rib, he hadn't been going to church much.

"Yes," Pete's voice brightened a little. "He said he was feeling better and went to hang out with friends from church after."

Cary crossed his arms, closing his fists against his ribs. "That's good."

"I'm hoping this means we'll see Jon back to his old self again soon."

The turn signal ticked, and Cary studied Pete's hands on the steering wheel. Cary's driver's exam was in four days, and he didn't have another couple hundred to spare if he failed.

"Did you two ever talk?" Pete glanced at him. "About—your sister?"

Cary dropped his eyes to the faded knees of his jeans. "No." His fingertips felt for the lines on his palm—they were smooth now. It had taken him weeks to stop wanting to open his skin whenever Jon's words came back to him. Were you ever going to stop lying to me? He had stopped lying—if it mattered now, when they weren't friends. After this summer, he didn't hold out much hope that he would see the old Jon again.

"There's nothing to say," he said in a low voice. "She's dead. I did it. No words are gonna fix that. I don't blame him—I wouldn't be friends with me, either."

"Really?" Pete said. "A kid like you came along, you wouldn't be willing to lend a smoke and have a conversation?"

Cary was silent, watching the sidewalks pass by. "Guess I would," he said after a while. "Since I'm no better."

"I love Jon, but I'm disappointed in him." The words were heavy and Cary shot a glance at Pete, at the lines drawn around his mouth. Tension had been simmering between Jon and Pete for weeks, and he didn't like to think he'd been the cause of it. "I'm not sure how he imagines he would have done any better."

Cary frowned. He had never thought about it.

"Under those circumstances—if he'd been afraid like you, if he'd seen the things happen to his mom that you did. If he was just a child." The memory drew close and Cary's breath shortened. He'd met Jesus there, but he'd pretty well come to the brink and was going over.

Pete looked at him with his eyebrows lowered. "Do you think Jon could have done any better?" he asked quietly.

Cary swallowed, the picture coming unbidden into his mind, of Jon as a child—Jon without Pete for a dad, Jon scared and small in Renae's crib, trying to make her quiet so they would be safe.

With some effort, Cary shoved that picture away, putting his eyes forward. "I wouldn't wish shit like that on anybody, Mr. White."

Pete sighed. "I'm with you on that."

They were silent the rest of the way home, but the idea kept coming back into Cary's mind—Jon as a child like him. And then he thought—what if Conall had not been his father? If his mother had somehow married someone gentle and strong like Pete? How much of what he was now was just what being hurt and afraid for so long had made of him? Was there something in him that was essentially good, like Jon? If he kept choosing to feed that goodness—what would he become then?

When they pulled into the driveway, Cary drew in his breath and asked, "Do you think it was my fault?" He turned to Pete, frowning so Pete wouldn't see how this question left him exposed and afraid.

The engine cut out, and Pete lifted his eyes to Cary's. "No, I don't." His eyebrows were drawn down, and there was heat in his look. He searched Cary's face to see if he understood. "I'm a father. If I left Bea home alone, and she fell down the stairs and broke her arm—I think that's my responsibility. If she fell and pulled Tabitha down the stairs with her, and one of my girls broke her neck in that fall—that death is my responsibility. Not Bea's. I am her parent. I should have been there to prevent the accident. If they fell and one broke her neck because I was in a terrible rage and they were running to hide—that is even more my fault. The wellbeing of my children is my responsibility."

Cary opened his mouth, and for a second there was nothing there. "You think it was his fault," he whispered.

"I think it was entirely his fault. Your sister died because your father failed to provide the safety and care you both needed." Pete seemed to haul himself back from saying more. He put his eyes straight ahead, one hand still clenched, white-knuckled, on the steering wheel. "You were only a frightened child. As far as I'm concerned, your father killed your sister."

Cary swallowed, smoothing his hand over his mouth. He had gotten into the habit of believing Pete and agreeing with him, but his father's version of this story was beat into his skin. The idea of going against Conall in this—even without him knowing, even just in his head—made the skin of his scalp prickle, anticipating how hard he was going to get hit when his father found out. Panic spiralled tightly around his ribcage and his throat and right up and over the top of his head.

He couldn't see and his ears were roaring. He put his face down on the dusty vinyl of the dashboard, gripping the back of his neck, breathing in short gasps.

A hand dropped on his shoulder and Cary curled smaller. The thumb of that hand kneaded into the muscle that was clenched and shaking. Someone said his name far away—his right name, the name he had now. Cary. The thumb dug into his shoulder, stroking the tension out. You're okay.

He lifted his hands off his neck, fingers bumping the cool smooth surface of the window of the van. He made a sound, unsqueezing a little.

He is never laying a hand on you again. Do you hear me?

He became aware of the soft scratch of Pete's beard laid against his cheek, Pete's head next to his, asking right in his ear: "Do you hear me, Cary?"

Cary's breath hitched, and he curled his back and turned his face against the dashboard. Pete drew back just enough to look at him from under his lowered brows. "You back?"

Cary took a slow breath in and out, then blinked a "yes." His skin was still shivering, and he didn't feel ready to pick up his head without his stomach flipping inside out. Pete clasped the back of Cary's neck, the gentle pressure anchoring him in now, where he was safe, then let him go.

"Where did that come from?" There was a soft growl in Pete's voice, and his face was tight. "You were fine one minute and then..."

Cary didn't know how to talk about this and not have panic batter him back down. He straightened carefully, with his hands flat on the dash like he needed to make sure it was staying where it was and he was staying here—with Pete in front of his house.

He opened the van door and got his feet on the driveway. The fresh air felt good in his face, and he steadied himself on the van, swallowing his stomach back down. The thud of Pete's door closing made Cary's body flinch, and he tried to cover it, taking a deep breath. Pete came around the van and Cary held his ground, his head down.

"I'm home today," Pete said conversationally, like it was normal for Cary to not be certain where he was standing just now. "I'm thinking I'd like to finish roofing our garage. You up for that?"

"Yuh," Cary said, letting go of the van and stepping out across the yard to follow Pete.

///

By the time three o'clock rolled around, Cary was firmly in the present moment—shingles rough under his knees, sun hot on his head, shoulder muscles warm and working the rhythmic smack-smack-slam to drive each nail home. He kept pace with Pete, the tattoo of his hammer picking up as soon as Pete's left off.

Then Pete's hammer didn't answer his, and he appeared over the edge of the roof, leaning against the angle. Pete's bearded face was flushed and covered with sweat. "Let's take a break. I'm parched."

Cary ducked his head and collected his shirt off the uneven stack of shingles. He never worked shirtless at his job site, but it felt good to have his skin bare to the sun. Maybe sunlight would make the scars fade. They sat in the grass in the shade of the garage.

"Half done." Pete said.

Cary wet his throat, his eyes on the clear blue above the peak of the roof.

Pete took a breath, hesitated, then closed his mouth. Cary slid him a sideways look.

"Are you...any closer to being able to talk about that panic attack today?" Pete asked.

Cary touched the rim of his glass with his thumb, moving a bead of water along the rim until it disappeared. There were words he could pick up and use.

"I never gone against him." He met Pete's eyes for a minute, his chest tightening. "Something big like what you said." Pete's words still rung him like a bell—that it was not his fault. "I thought, what if I believed you—against him?"

"And that triggered the panic attack?" Pete asked carefully.

Cary hunched his shoulders, running a hand over the back of his head. "No." There was an edge to his voice now. "Thinking how he would beat the shit out of me when he knew and leave me down there—that triggered the panic attack."

Pete leaned back against the side of the garage, taking a long drink of water. Cary felt his eyes on him, and his ears burned.

"You think he still could?" Pete asked finally.

Cary slowly turned his head, frowning at him. Pete lifted his eyebrows. "You're not a child anymore. You're slinging those bags of shingles around pretty easy—how much do you suppose they weigh?"

Cary shrugged, looking away.

Pete got to his feet and stuck his hand down to help him up. "Who's taller—me or you?" Pete stood up straight, hands open at his sides.

Cary shifted his feet, backing up a little. "You."

Pete tapped his elbow. "Pick up your head and look."

Cary slid him a sideways look. Jon's dad looked as big as he always had. He looked solid. Cary wouldn't have bet on himself if they went up against each other.

Pete made a noise with his cheek. "Look, I'll measure and prove it."

Cary felt like a complete idiot standing against the drywall inside the new garage while Pete ticked his pencil on the wall over his head. Pete's expression was faintly amused as Cary did the same for him. They stood back from the wall and looked.

The lines were a finger width apart—Pete was taller than him by a mere fraction of an inch. Cary held still, taking that in, aware of Pete's shoulder next to his, level with his own. He was the same size as a fully grown man.

"He's bigger than you," Cary said roughly.

"You're going to be bigger than me," Pete said. "I'm done growing, son. So is he. You're not."

Cary looked around the unfinished space, the raw corners and the nail-pocked drywall. He thought of the feel of those drywall seams under his hands when he spread them against the wall of the basement, how thin and small his body had seemed then, shivering while he listened for every shift of his father's movements behind him.

He did the thing he had never done in the basement: he turned to face Pete down. It was like he'd been looking through a rear-view mirror, and suddenly the world was full-sized and close. Pete's eyebrows were up, and he was almost smiling. Cary blinked, and he was back there, broken, his arms spread against the wall trying to keep himself up. Blood on the concrete. Blood on the drywall. Blood on him.

He gave his head a hard shake and got out of there, exiting into the summer heat and light.

*Do you agree with Pete's explanation, that  it's not Cary's fault? It feels like we've been waiting a long time for someone to say that to Cary...*