Legal stuff still counts...

Chapter 44: The Picture

Craig listened to the sounds of the television and the faint voices drifting in from the kitchen. He heard Camille's voice when she got home, and then giggles and voices from his nieces, so he knew it was after three in the afternoon, which was the time Camille picked the girls up from daycare. He was surprised no one had come in and made him wake up for lunch. Not that he was actually asleep, it was as comfortable a daze as he could force himself into without starting to dream. He opened his eyes and moved to sit up, realizing as soon as he started to move that he had not had his pain medication as well. His pills were usually given to him after he'd been served his food, because he was supposed to have food on his stomach before he took them. He felt the urge to go to the restroom, and knew he had to get up and make himself walk despite the fact that his little toe was aching and his chest and back were tight and thumping a slight pain with each beat of his heart. He made his way to the kitchen, heading towards the downstairs bathroom.

Jerry and Camille were in the kitchen, Jerry stood at the counter cutting up carrots while Camille appeared to be preparing a meatloaf. Bobby it seemed had gone. Jerry looked over at the boy as he walked through. "You're awake, good. How are you feeling?" He asked.

Craig hesitated in his slow step long enough to look at his brother. "I'm sore." He muttered.

"Yeah, I decided to let you sleep a little, you seemed pretty wore out." Jerry nodded his head. "You should be pretty hungry since you missed lunch."

Craig nodded his head, hoping he looked sincere, because the last thing he really wanted was food at that moment. His stomach felt tight and achy.

"You okay?" Jerry asked, apparently the boy hadn't looked as sincere as he'd hoped.

Craig nodded his head. "I didn't have my pills today, I'm kind of hurting." He muttered. "I'm going to the restroom." He turned and walked on through the house to small restroom. His gut was cramping and it seemed the longer he was up and moving the more it was twisting up on him. He locked the door after him and peed quickly before sitting down on the seat to try to relieve the cramps. The burning sensation was becoming all too familiar to him, though he continued to tell himself it would stop eventually and everything would go back to normal. He'd dealt with it before, when he was little, though he couldn't remember it lasting for days. He'd been pretty young though, so he figured he just didn't remember it that well, and he didn't want to push himself to remember. The doctor's warning ran through his head as he strained through the pain. The cramping eased off as he finished, but when he cleaned himself off he found more blood than he'd become accustomed to, and it seemed much darker in color. He remained sitting for a long time, shaken enough by the blood this time to consider going to Jerry and telling him, but then he knew if he did he'd have to go back to the doctor, and the doctor would be able to tell he'd been lying to him, and then his brothers would know, and at that moment he felt he was more capable of dealing with the blood than his brothers. He could wait it out, it would stop, he was certain of that, and that seemed far less threatening than Bobby's anger at him for not saying anything right away. Besides, he knew what the doctor would do if he did go back, and the thought of the examination, or anything else being done to him in that area of his body felt too invasive. He couldn't stand the thought of any one touching him anywhere near that area.

A knock on the door brought the boy out of his thoughts. "Craig, are you okay?" Jerry called from the other side of the door.

"I'm fine." Craig answered loud enough for his brother to hear him. "I'll be out in a minute." He cleaned himself again, wiping away more blood, though he hadn't passed anything else. He suddenly felt panicked. The blood was still there. He grabbed more paper and continued cleaning the blood away until he was sure there was nothing left. He stood and pulled up his sweatpants. He didn't look to see how much blood was in the toilet before he flushed it. He was surprised to see Jerry still at the door when he pulled it open.

"You sure you're okay? You were in there a long time." Jerry didn't smile.

"I'm fine." Craig muttered.

Jerry nodded his head. "Okay, but you would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," Craig muttered.

Jerry gave the boy a hard look. "You swear to me you would tell me if there was somethin' wrong?" For the first time since Craig had been in Jerry's home the man didn't look as if he believed him.

Craig thought about the doctor's words as he opened his mouth to speak. He closed his mouth, swallowing back the admission that was about to come out. He drew in a deep breath. "I'm fine Jerry." He lied.

Jerry sighed. "Dinner should be ready in about an hour. You want to sit in the kitchen with us?" He offered.

"I was going to watch T.V." Craig was surprised by Jerry's offer.

"All right, you can do that if you'd rather do that. I don't want you sleeping any more though or you'll never sleep tonight." Jerry finally smiled, a sign that Craig's lie was believed and that no more questions would be asked, for the time being.

Craig watched the television until dinner was ready. He dreaded sitting down to the meal. He usually knew he could eat at least part of the meal, but his stomach was feeling more and more upset and tight with each passing second. He frowned when Jerry filled his plate for him; he hadn't been doing that before. He started to worry that maybe his brother had been noticing more than he'd given him credit for. He hadn't expected Jerry to be watching him as closely as Bobby would have. He'd found it easy to get out of eating most of the food that he'd been given.

Jerry smiled at him as turned to fill his own plate. Craig ate, though he was taking small bites and chewing slowly. Daniela and Amelia finished their plates when Craig was barely halfway through with his. Jerry cleaned his plate off and looked at Camille when she was done eating. "I'll tell you what baby; I'll get the dishes cleaned up tonight."

Camille smiled and looked relieved. "I'll get the girls their baths and then get them settled down." She agreed and looked at Craig. "You need to get that food eaten so you can take your pills. When I'm done with the girls I'll take care of your foot."

Jerry sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "You need to clean that plate tonight. There ain't gonna be no more leavin' food on your plate. You've been out of the hospital long enough that your appetite should be getting better." He spoke calmly.

Craig had a sinking feeling hit his stomach. "You gave me too much food." He poked at the meatloaf with his fork, not looking up at Jerry.

"No, I did not give you too much. I gave you a decent amount of everything. "Jerry shook his head. "You didn't have no lunch so you should have no problem with cleaning that plate."

Craig poked at the meatloaf some more, and then moved to the mashed potatoes, thinking that they might be easier to get down.

Jerry stood and started clearing the table, carrying the dishes to the sink and rinsing them before loading them into the dishwasher. He kept looking over at Craig, watching him nibble on the potatoes or carrots, and making a face. "You know, you aren't getting up from that table until you have eaten everything on that plate." He warned. "And Bobby and Angel are due here in about an hour, so you have that long." He continued to work around the boy, cleaning off the table, washing it down and then moving to the counters to make sure they were cleaned well.

It didn't take Jerry long to get the kitchen cleaned up, leaving only Craig's setting on the table that would need cleaned. Craig was forcing it down, though he thought he was about to burst.

"It's cold." Craig complained when he got down to only the meatloaf left on his plate.

"Of course it is, you have let it sit there." Jerry sounded calm; the exact opposite of what Bobby would sound like if he were there at that moment. "If you want hot food you gotta eat it while it's still hot."

Craig took a bite. "I don't like meatloaf." He spoke over the food while he made a face.

"The hell you don't, Mom used to serve it up all of the time and you would eat it." Jerry shook his head.

Craig avoided looking at Jerry. He was mentally scolding himself for slipping and letting Jerry see that he was having a problem eating, but he couldn't help it. His stomach felt as if it were full up to his throat and with each bite he took it was getting harder to hold it in. He tried to take a drink of his milk, but couldn't get more than a small sip down. He'd hoped it would help to wash the food further down, but it didn't. Jerry didn't say much more, he just kept looking at his watch, making a big production out of the time, and actually announcing it each time he pulled his wrist into view. Craig ate the meatloaf, in little bites.

Craig finished the last bite at six o'clock; when Bobby and Angel were due to arrive. Craig thought it was awfully early for them; they hadn't been coming by until the hospital kicked them out at the end of visiting hours each day. He didn't want to question it though; he didn't want to know the details. The less he knew the harder it would be for him to care. He didn't want to care.

Craig looked at Jerry, who seemed happy that he'd managed to get the boy to eat all of his meal. "Can I go to my room?" He asked quietly, anger brewing towards the man at that moment, and not wanting it to show.

"Don't you want to stick around down here? Bobby and Angel will be here any time. The doctor said you should be getting up and doing a little more. Why don't you get your plate cleaned off and put it in the dishwasher?"

Craig stood and picked up his plate. His mind grasped for an excuse to go to the bedroom that had been labeled as his. "I promised Jack I'd draw a picture for him." He muttered and walked the plate over to the sink.

Jerry stood and walked over to stand next to him. "Okay, you go draw your picture." He took the plate from the boy. "But you can stay awake for a while, right? You napped all afternoon, and I think you need to get yourself back into a normal routine. No more napping through the day and you stay up at least until ten."

Craig didn't comment. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, heading towards the stairs. Camille was in the restroom giving the girls their baths so he would have to wait to check on the little condition that he'd been keeping to himself. He'd barely reached his room when he heard the doorbell below. He listened as Jerry answered the door, and soon heard Bobby and Angel's voices moving through the house.

Craig picked up the sketch pad and pencil up from the stand next to the bed, where it had rested for days now, untouched. He drew in a deep breath, sat down and opened the book to the first picture. He thought that he might be able to find something that he'd already drawn to take to Jack. He wouldn't have to worry about not being able to get a new picture on paper if he could locate one that he thought his brother might like.

He found one he'd drawn that past fall from the view from the bridge. It had a boat in the water and leaves floating around on the wind. He decided that would be the one. He was sure that once Jack had healed he would be going back to New York, and he might like to have a picture of home to take with him. He stared at the picture as that thought led to his reasoning that Angel would probably be leaving as well. He was going to marry Sofi, and they would probably get their own place and live their own lives, and he wouldn't be seeing much of them, just as it had been with Jerry and Camille. Family gatherings and holidays and occasional visits when there was time would be the extent of his relationship with Angel. It was a good thing that he was putting those emotional walls up.

Bobby was overdue for receiving a phone call drawing him back out to his own life as well, and while that thought caused a small aching in his chest, it was nowhere near the fear he'd felt just after the shooting when he was so sure he would end up back in the custody of the state. His brothers hadn't turned him back over to any social worker; Bobby had signed the papers to keep him, to let him remain a Mercer. That didn't mean Bobby was going to stick around. Bobby had never been the kind to stick around; he had something inside of him that had always made him move on. Evelyn had said that to Craig once. He couldn't seem to settle down. He had never actually moved out of the house. First he was on the road with the team, but when he was home, he still was away from home most of the time. He'd stayed gone more and more as time went on, and eventually had just stopped coming home. He'd left most of his life at the house, stored away in the basement and the attic.

Craig wasn't afraid of his brothers going back to their own lives anymore. He was telling himself it would be best now if they did. He wouldn't have to keep his guard up so much if they went back to their own individual worlds and left him to his own. He knew he would be okay; he could probably stay with Jerry, it was easy to hold everything inside and keep it hidden when he was at Jerry's. He would have preferred to stay in his mother's house before, but with all that had happened, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go back there, to where his memories and fears were born, where he was sure they were lurking, waiting to creep back into his mind and tear down the defenses he had put so much energy into fortifying.

Craig pulled the picture from the binding of the pad, careful to keep the page intact. He looked at it, trying to remember the day that he'd seen that boat in the river, but it was vague and obscure in his mind. That was odd too him. Each picture he'd drawn had been a memory of some kind, and he'd always been able to remember the moment in time that he'd put on the paper. He laid the sketch on the stand as he realized he was erasing more memories than just the bad ones that he'd been deleting from his mind, and there was a little regret for losing that, but he knew that in the end it was a choice that he had to make, either remember it all, or keep it all trapped in that fog in his mind.

He tried to divert his thoughts by concentrating on the pictures before him. He turned the pages slowly, working his way back through the sketch pad. He came to the one of the last pictures and froze. He had been avoiding looking at the sketch in front of him, the one his mind had emptied out on him while he was alone in his room on Thanksgiving night. The image of his mother looking across the meat counter, her eyes fixed directly at him, fear etched into every feature of her face, so different from the likeness he'd given to Bobby on Saturday night. The two men holding guns aimed towards her. Her arm raised in mid air as if to shield herself from the inevitable.

All of the air sucked out of the room instantly. Craig fought to catch his breath and regain control of the turmoil churning around inside of him. He couldn't let himself feel that aching, couldn't chance letting his self feel anything period. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes and his chest tightened hard, working its way up into his throat. He felt his brain fighting against his efforts, reaching for the visions of the house being shot up, the look on Jack's face when he was shot, the same fear and pain written into his features that had been seeping from every line in his mother's face, the feeling of the needle being stabbed into him, the pain, and the burning of the drug that had clouded his mind and marked his passage into the unending darkness.

Craig dropped the sketch pad onto the bed, letting the pencil fall to the floor. He reached down next to the bed and grabbed his left shoe. He made certain the laces were lose and carefully slid it over his left foot, carful of the sensitive digit that had once been his little toe. He tied it loosely and stood. He found walking with the shoe on wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, and for that he was thankful. He had to get out of there. He had to get out into the air where he could breathe; he had to get as far away from that picture of his mother's death, away from his memories as he could.