On days like this, things going okay in school, coming home and watching Angie, watching T.V., playing video games, he felt like things could be okay. And at Joey's he didn't have to worry about every little thing he did, about keeping the house so neat or being home exactly on time.
It was nice. And Joey would come home and make supper and ask how his day was and he could talk about his mother if he felt like it, wouldn't get that ice cold look and then he'd change the subject, like his dad did. Joking and laughing with Joey and Angie, he could pretend that he was normal. That he didn't have nightmares and jump at noises and flinch away from people, especially Joey. He could pretend that he didn't tense up when people hugged him or touched him in any way, like his body could no longer distinguish between a touch that was kind and one that would hurt him.
The end of supper, Angie had long since left the table but he and Joey still sipped their sodas and nibbled on the end of the hot dogs and French fries. Then the phone rang and he let Joey get it. Maybe it was Caitlin. Maybe it was Ashley. He hoped it was Ashley.
"Craig, phone," Joey said, his tone a funny kind of neutral and Craig knew it was his dad. So he took a deep breath and took the phone, closed his eyes.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Craigger! How are you?"
His dad. His voice, making him think of the last time he'd talked to him on the phone, the strained conversation. Making him think of the last time he saw him, looking down the stairwell at him, shaking his head and his dad denying things, "I don't beat you,"
"Uh, good. How are you?" So much caution in his voice. But he couldn't help it. Being away from his father had made things, the way things were when he was living with him, those things were a little clearer to him. The absence of the tenseness and the constant fear and the bruises and the welts from the belt, the absence of those things was startling.
"Good, good," His dad sounded so…ordinary. It was just strange. Strange that he was living with his dead mother's husband, strange that his dad was calling him and talking about work, talking about his grandparents. Strange that the low level of anxiety that had been constant with him crept back as he tried to keep up his end of the conversation. He saw Joey clearing the table and trying to look like he wasn't paying attention but Craig knew he was. He could see the concern on Joey's face.
"Oh, Craig, work is paging me. I've got to go. I love you,"
"I love you, too, dad," Craig said, relieved that work paged him, relieved that he could get off the phone. And he thought about that, saying he loved him. He did love him, of course he did.
He hung up the phone and just sat there, quiet, blank. His dad. His voice, bringing him back to all the other times he's heard it, the mad sarcastic questions he would ask before the really bad beatings, the apologies and the gifts in the days afterward. It hadn't made up for it. Hadn't made up for him falling asleep in class, for him feeling the fear when he screwed up, for lying on the cold cement in the cellar, the pain from the kicks to his stomach and ribs unbearable.
"Craig? You okay?" Joey said, looking at him.
"Huh? Uh, yeah. No. I'm fine," Craig said, smiling, faking it again. Faking being fine like he had for years. Always telling people he was fine. His teachers when they shook him awake in class, asking if things were okay. His friends when they'd accidentally bang into him where he was so hurt, and he'd wince and try not to groan in pain. Nothing was wrong. He was fine.
"I'm, uh, I'm just going to go up to my room," he told Joey, and Joey nodded, the concern etched into the lines on his face. Craig got up and left, ran up the stairs. He had to be alone. He wasn't fine. Not at all.