Soundtrack: 'He woke me up again' - Sufjan Stevens.

{Pete}

Pete slept more soundly than he had in weeks, waking up early and refreshed. He stood at the kitchen sink, listening to the coffeemaker rumble and watching the sunrise over the garage roof. Wordlessly, Pete began to lift up his thank yous: for this sunrise, for Jon standing in his kitchen, looking in his face and letting his dad see all of him, for both boys safe in their beds, for provision of a new home, for release from a pastoring role that had become painful and impossible, and for the graceful, determined partnering of his wife. The coffee maker was quiet before he was done. He'd never asked for half these things, and yet he found they were exactly the gifts he needed right now.

He made pancakes even though it was a school day, turning them, steaming and golden, onto his children's plates as they came into the kitchen for breakfast. It had been a long time since their table had been so raucous with the children's happy voices and laughter. Even Jon joined in. Only Cary was quiet, pushing his plate away with most of his breakfast uneaten. Pete set a cup of coffee in front of him, heavy on the milk and sugar, and Cary met his eyes for a second, his thank you silent but plain in his face.

The tone of the morning changed when the girls had gone to their bus stop, tension thickening the air. Mel fussed over the collar of Cary's shirt above the sweater he was borrowing from Pete.

Jon hugged Cary once, hard. "You got this," he said, low. Cary nodded, his face pale and set. "This is the right thing to do for your mom, and it's the right thing to do for your brother." Jon sounded like he was reassuring himself as well as Cary.

Cary was still, then retreated into his room and came out with a folded photograph that was dog-eared with age. He cleared his throat and showed it to Mel first. "This is my sister." His voice was soft, and Pete hoped he would be able to speak up in the courtroom. "Renae. And me when we were kids. She died when her heart stopped working."

"Oh, she's beautiful, Cary," Mel said. "I think she's with you today."

Cary put the picture to his lips and then slipped it into the pocket of his dress shirt, over his heart. Mel straightened his sweater again, and Cary took her hand to still her anxious motion, touching her eyes with his for a second. Pete drew a breath, feeling his heart expand as he watched that tiny exchange. "Ready," Cary said, looking to Pete.

"We'll be here when it's over," Jon said. Pete gave Jon a smile as Cary put on his shoes, proud of the way his son was standing with his friend. Jon gave him a nod in return, like he felt the same.

Cary took a breath, like he was about to swim underwater for a great distance and wasn't sure when he would be able to come up for air again.

///

In the court building, they walked Cary to the area designated for witnesses to wait. Cary seemed to have gone deep inside himself, although Pete was glad to note that his breathing was even and his hands were steady. There was a spark of colour high in his cheeks as he glanced up at the vaulted ceilings and panelled walls. Whatever work his counsellor had done with him to manage his panic seemed to be working.

"You won't have to wait long," Pete said. "You're up first today."

Cary met his eyes and Pete was startled. The anger flashing in his face made him look uncannily like the man who had arrived on Pete's doorstep months ago to haul his son back home. "See you in there," he said, his voice edged and rough.

Pete and Mel found seats within plain view of the witness box, but Cary didn't look at them at all during the first half of his testimony. He kept his eyes pinned on the paunchy lawyer, answering his questions in a soft, flat voice that the microphone in front of him made clearly audible. With one sparse sentence after another, Cary drew a picture of the basement, of the bruises and broken bones, of the terrifying unpredictability of his father's rages. Pete was relieved that the Crown lawyer kept his tone civil, even kind at times, and that the man took care never to draw Cary's eyes to the side of the room where his father sat.

Conall Douglas remained impassive throughout his son's testimony, his hands folded in front of him, his head turned to the side as if the hammered copper ceiling was infinitely more interesting than the proceedings around him. Anger built like a fire in the oven of Pete's chest, and he felt as if he breathed prayer, exhaling his desire for severe justice and inhaling a request for mercy. The breath in felt tight and difficult.

"Cary, can you please tell the court about the last time you encountered your father in your home?" It was the last question Pete thought the Crown prosecutor planned to ask, and Cary dropped his eyes to his lap.

"I was looking after my brother. Liam." For the first time, Cary lifted his face and turned it to his father. Conall was still as marble, his big fists closed on the table. Cary's eyebrows lifted, and the catch in his breath was audible. Pete swallowed, willing him to go on, to not lose his place when he'd come so close to the finish. "He's six months." Cary's voice pressed, breaking. "He was newborn then. Too soft to hold up his head." He put his hands against his body as if he were holding a baby on his chest. His eyebrows lowered as he continued to look at his father, his mouth crooked and trembling. "We wanted to keep him safe. We wanted him to not be hurt. We were afraid." He blinked, and tears dropped onto the collar of his shirt.

"Who was afraid?" the prosecutor nudged.

"We were. My father. And me." The prosecutor paused a moment, evidently not expecting this answer.

"The baby was crying." Cary's voice was cracking, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I was making a bottle, and my arms were full, and Liam was crying. My father came in because he wanted the baby to not be hurt. He wanted to protect him because Liam is small. We wanted the same thing. Because we are the same."

The prosecutor glanced from Cary's stony father to Cary's trembling figure on the stand, apparently considering whether he wanted this line of testimony to continue. "What happened then?"

"I wouldn't let go, and the baby was crying, and my father was afraid. He hit me because he was afraid that Liam was hurt. He hit me to keep Liam safe."

The prosecutor checked at his notes. "Your statement says your father, Conall Douglas, struck you with a stool until you fell down. Is that correct?"

Cary sucked in a breath. "Yes."

"You sustained multiple bruises and two broken ribs because he beat you with that stool, is that right?"

Cary's breathy swear was audible through the mic, and he shut his eyes, pushing his hand against his chest. Mel found Pete's hand and held on.

"Is that right?" The prosecutor persisted.

"Yes." Cary pressed the word out.

"Where was your brother during this beating?"

"In my arms," Cary whispered. Visibly shaking, he tapped his fingers against his chest like he was trying to keep time. "Under me. I tried to hold on to keep him safe. But he was hitting so hard I couldn't—" he turned his head aside, his face twisting.

"You said in your statement that your father dragged you by the hair and threw you into a set of dining room chairs, and Liam fell out of your arms."

Cary's "yes" came out as a gasp.

"Did your father keep Liam safe like you said he intended to?" the prosecutor pressed. "Was your brother unharmed?"

Cary touched the back of his hand to his mouth, bent over like he was sick—or nursing a set of broken ribs.

"Oh Lord, help," Pete said under his breath. "He's gone." Mel squeezed his hand so tightly the bones of his knuckles ached.

The paunchy prosecutor sighed, backing away a step from the witness box. "Take your time."

For the first time, Cary lifted his head and looked for them. His eyes were dark and unfocussed in his shattered face, and his hair curled damply with sweat.

Beside Pete, Mel put her hand to her heart, murmuring, "Cary." She took a slow breath, lifting her chin and holding his eyes.

Cary took that breath with her, putting his hand over his own heart. As he tapped his fingers and shifted his feet, Pete could almost hear him counting to move through the wave of panic and pain that had collided with him just now.

Cary ducked his head so his face was hidden, but his frayed voice was still audible. "No, sir—Liam got hurt too. He got my fingerprints on him. But I never would have held him so tight. If I wasn't—so scared." He took another slow breath. "If he wasn't kicking the shit outta me. I wouldna' hurt him at all." He made a muffled, broken noise, bracing himself with a hand on the witness box.

The judge asked if the witness needed a break, and Pete held his breath. Cary lifted his face and shook tears out of his eyes, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "I'm good, ma'am. Keep going 'til we're done."

The prosecutor seemed satisfied and checked his notes. "You called Child Protective Services two days later. Can you tell us why you made that call?"

Cary put his eyes on the clock at the back of the courtroom. "I was afraid for Liam. I don't—" his throat moved with a soft click "—didn't give a shit about hurting me, and we agreed. About that."

He tucked his chin in, apparently struggling with something. "He wouldn't mean to. Hurt him. And I know that. But we're the same. On another day—I would be sitting there." His eyes flicked to his father and away. "It's not like—I haven't done shit. But I know now—it's a choice. To let my anger loose. And it's a choice to throw the first punch. And it's a choice to hit again—and again and again. It's not like I don't know. What that feels like—from the inside."

As Cary spoke, he collected the pieces of his face, and now his expression was hard. His body had steadied, slouching with his legs spread and his arms crossed over his chest. "You just want to let the anger take over and say—that wasn't my fault. They made me. I used to fucking—say sorry when he hit me." His jaw clenched, and he caught the prosecutor in his black, blazing look. "That's bullshit. I know that's bullshit now. Everyone has to do their work. And I'm doing mine. So we're not. The same anymore." He swung his glare to his father. "I'm not you—Conall Douglas." He bared his teeth in a hard grin. "Look at me. I'm sitting here. And you're sitting there."

The judge spoke, reproaching Cary and his lawyer, asking them to address the courtroom and not the defendant with their remarks.

Cary lidded his eyes, shifting his feet. "Sorry, Your Honour."

Conall remained still, his face turned to the side, and Pete tried to observe if he was even breathing.

It surprised him when the prosecutor asked Cary more questions about the things he was learning, about the family he lived with now and the counsellor he was seeing. Cary relaxed as he spoke about the Whites, and Pete guessed this would help his credibility.

Finally the Crown prosecutor nodded, satisfied, and said, "No further questions, Your Honour."

Conall's lawyer got up. She looked frustrated and paced aggressively toward Cary in her heels. Pete made an involuntary noise in his throat, watching her come at Cary, and watching him sway back, his face hard but blotchy from crying. He guessed how close to done Cary was and prayed he could dig deep to finish. She asked some clarifying questions, which Cary stumbled over. It was obvious that his memory of his childhood wasn't always clear; there were events he couldn't remember the order of. Watching her pick Cary's testimony apart infuriated Pete, and he thought he saw others in the courtroom shifting and glaring at her. She didn't belabour the point, though, finally finding the opening she had been looking for.

"Ciaran, does your father love you?" She amended quickly, "Do you think your father loves you?"

Cary went white, drawing his arms close to his body in a gesture that was all too familiar. He didn't look at his father now, who sat still as stone, looking aside at a bricked-up window above the jury bench.

"Yes, I think he loves me." Cary's whisper was caught by the mic, every break amplified around the room. Pete cringed.

Conall Douglas turned his head, and his dark eyes fixed themselves on Cary's pale, upright figure.

The woman pressed in: "Do you—love him?"

Cary drew back so his answer was faint, naked without the amplification but still audible all around the room. "Yes." His eyes found his father, who was giving him an even, considering gaze from under his straight, dark brows. Cary tucked in his chin, his mouth trembling as he held his eyes. "I didn't—want this." The words were thin and dry. "Forgive me, Father. Let me go."

Did Conall's face shiver with an emotion for a moment? Did his lips move? Pete was too far away to tell. Conall slowly, deliberately, turned his face away again, and Cary dragged his eyes back to the lawyer in front of him, clenching his fist against his chest like he was holding it closed.

"No further questions," the woman said.

The court officer ushered Cary out of the witness box, and Conall's head turned to follow the bowed figure of his son out of the room in spite of his apparent disinterest. Pete got up to leave with Cary, and the other man's black gaze snagged on him. Pete met Conall's eyes, lifting his chin challengingly. If Cary's father needed someone to blame for putting his son up to this, then let the blame fall on him. He turned his back and left, grimly glad to rub that in, that Cary was free to go, and, unlike his father, Pete was free to follow and be a part of his life.

He found Cary in the hall, still on his feet but slumped against the wall with his fist clenched against his chest and sweat dark under his arms.

"You were perfect," Pete said quietly, and Cary's eyes opened, black with pupil but focusing on him. "That was exactly what the prosecutor needed."

"Why did she ask me that?" Cary asked roughly.

"Perhaps she was looking for some sympathy to lighten your father's sentence. I think instead your vulnerability appealed to the courtroom."

Cary turned his face aside; his throat moved like he wanted to be sick.

Mel slipped out and joined them, her concerned gaze going over Cary's pale, rigid figure. "Cary, I'm so, so proud of you."

He touched her with his eyes and his face rippled and opened. "I didn't see her. Did you?" The question was unsteady.

She shook her head, and Pete realized what they had noticed: Cary's mother had not come.

Cary's sigh shook his body, and he dug his hands through his hair, massaging his neck. "I think this means she won't go back to him." His voice was low. "She's making a new life somewhere else." He held still a moment, squeezing his neck, his eyes hidden.

"You did the right thing for her," Mel said. "Your brother has a chance at a different life because of you."

He sagged, and his hands fell, his arms lifting away from his body in a tiny, almost unnoticeable movement. Mel understood and slid her arms around him in a gentle hug.

"That was worse than I thought." His voice was cracked and small, muffled by her sweater.

"It's over now. You did it. You survived." Mel held him tightly a long time, and when they drew apart, Cary's eyes were warm and brown, the pupils returned to their normal size.

He checked Pete like he needed his permission. "Can I go?"

Pete nodded. "Your part is done. Whatever happens now can happen without you."

"Are you staying?" Mel asked in an undertone, and Pete nodded. Someone needed to see this through so Cary didn't have to.

"I'll drive you home, Cary," Mel said quickly.

Cary eased his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets, his eyes crinkling in a smile for her. "I'm okay, Mom." Pete's breath caught, his eyes stinging suddenly. "I take the LRT all the time. I just want...a couple minutes alone. I'll see you at home."

*So proud of Cary right here. We finally hit this moment and fought through! Having access to his anger, and knowing what really happened to Renee made a huge different for Cary on this day. Bless Tru; she couldn't come in person but she's here between the lines, kicking Conall's a** in her own way lol.

What did you think, lovelies? Did that go better or worse than you thought?*