"Cory, this is Shawn. Come in. Over." Came a familiar voice from the nightstand drawer.
"Cory? I need you, man. Please hear this. Over." This time more breathy and urgent.
One - two - three seconds later: "Cor, please! Open your eyes and pick up!" But Cory hadn't been asleep. He didn't imagine that anyone could sleep if what had happened to his friend had happened to one of theirs. No, his hesitance to answer the walkie-talkie wasn't due to grogginess but because he didn't know what to say.
When Shawn used to have a problem it was about hiding a bad report card from his parents, forging a field trip permission slip, or hiding from the school bully, which they used to be able to handle together. Back then, it seemed like it was Cory and Shawn against the world. They didn't always make the best plans of action or get away with it when they were wrong but they learned from it and they did it together. Every secret they had between them was each other's knowledge and so their problems didn't seem so bad when they were both carrying the weight.
But that wasn't really what went on. What Cory couldn't wrap his head around is how honest he'd been with Shawn and how little Shawn had ever truly been honest with Cory. Sure, Cory realized that there were reasons why Shawn couldn't bring things to his father. Some made sense. Like Cory, Shawn didn't want to get in trouble for not pulling up his grades. But when Shawn forgot his lunch money every day for weeks at a time or would show up after school asking to spend the night without a change of clothes or a toothbrush, Cory realized that he should've asked questions. Like, maybe a "Hey buddy, why did you run to school again today and show up out of breath and sweaty and without your backpack?" or "why does your shirt smell like beer and cigarettes and why is it all wrinkled at the collar?" But he never did ask and it made Cory ashamed to recognize that maybe he liked the fact that his friend had a sucky home life. He was used to seeing his friend the way he did and it meant that Shawn would come over more and spend more time with him. He never stopped for a second to wonder if Shawn was in danger in every moment they weren't together or if he was scared and lonely. Now that Shawn was finally ready to be honest with him, Cory wasn't sure he was ready. Ignorance was clearly bliss for him and now he had to face his failure as a friend.
"Help me! Cor, help me! Somebody! Just fucking notice me for once! I'm so sick of this."
Finally, Cory picked up the walkie-talkie and raised it to his mouth. "Shawn? I'm here. Over."
When a response didn't follow, he tried again. "Shawn? It's me Cory. I'm here, Shawn. I notice you. Over."
It took several minutes before any sound came over the radio channel though it was merely static.
"Shawn? I didn't catch that, buddy. There's too much static. I think the signal is degrading. Try turning your walkie off and turning it back on and I'll do it to mine, too."
Cory waited for 60 seconds in case Shawn responded before he made a move for his power button. Just as he was about to switch it over to off, in came his friend's voice clear as a bell. "Cor?"
"Shawn?!" Cory shouted excitedly, forgetting to hold down the button on the side.
"Cor, it's not the signal. I just… I didn't say anything that time." Shawn said, hastily adding a belated "over".
"Oh!" Cory said at the same time as Shawn called his name again. "It's okay, Shawn. I didn't turn off my walkie. I'm here. Are you okay? Over."
There wasn't a sound for a while but Cory was hesitant to break the silence.
"I don't know, Cor. But it's good to know you're still my friend. Over." He said, sounding sad despite his statement.
"Of course, I am. We're buds. I just wish there was something I could say. All I can think to say is that I'm sorry. Over."
"Honestly? Don't be. There was nothing you could do. I knew if I told you it would just make it worse and you really did help even if you didn't know you were. Over."
Cory felt like the guilt was burning a hole in his stomach. "That doesn't actually make me feel better. Even though I've known for some time now, I can't get my head around how badly you were being hurt pretty much right under my nose. I'm so sorry. Over."
"Cory, please. This isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. Over."
"I know. I'm sorry… I mean, sorry. Sorry I keep saying sorry. Over." Cory groaned in frustration.
Shawn laughed. "It's cool, Cor. Over."
"What did you want to talk about? Over."
There was another long pause before his answer and when he spoke, Cory was sure that Shawn was crying. "You remember when I was in the hospital and I went up on the roof? Over."
Cory's heart was now racing and his hand shakily raised the radio to his mouth. "Yes. Over."
"I didn't really wanna die, Cor. I just… I don't know! I don't know what to do with how I feel. I was in so much pain and now that things have started to heal on the outside, it's like it's worse now because nothing's healed inside my head. I just want to stop feeling this way. I almost wish things would just go back to the way they were before I told Jon. Over."
Cory thought for a moment. "Shawn, maybe the first thing you need to accept is that things aren't going to go back to the way they were. You're safe now. All that pain is in the past. You're safe now, Shawn. Over."
Suddenly, a lump in the bed next to him rolled over and an angry Eric whipped a pillow at Cory's head.
"Hey, my noggin!" Cory cried from the floor, having forgotten the presence of the bedroom's other occupant.
Eric, sitting upright in bed, ran a hand through his hair impatiently. "And to think I was actually starting to miss seeing Shawn following you around the house like the hind legs of a dog and one brain between you. Here's a tip, Cor, take your stupid walkie-talkie downstairs to talk to Shawn and I won't use your brillo head to scrub the toilet! OVER!"
"Sheesh!" Cory said, climbing to his feet. "Someone didn't do well on their SAT1s, did they Mister Cranky?" He asked as he slid out the door and slammed it shut before a tennis ball could hit him.
The phone rang for seven or eight times before Carlo got the answering machine. It was the same for each time he called: "Hello, this is Detective Nick Adams of the Philadelphia Special Victims Unit. I'm sorry I'm unable to take your call at this time but please leave your name, phone number, and a detailed message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Ciao."
His family was sick with worry and Carlo most definitely felt sick over the fact that Nicky was unreachable. That he couldn't get Nicky on the phone made him nearly certain that his brother hadn't returned home since their blow up two days prior, which left him with questions and a gnawing pang of guilt.
"Who are you talking to? Is it Nicholas?" Tony Adams asked, standing behind his son. He apparently had acquired a much quieter tread than Carlo remembered him having.
Startled, he answered: "No, Pop. I was just trying to check my hours for next week at the shop but no one's picking up." Carlo said returning the phone to its cradle on the kitchen wall. He spun around to face him hoping not to betray himself by way of a tell.
"Basta! He should've called by now! How can he put his parents through this? I'm calling him, right now." Tony said reaching for the phone.
Carlo put his hand on Tony's arm. "Pop, no! Give him time, okay?"
"We've given him enough time! For all we know he's lying dead somewhere! He's our son, your brother! Why are you in my way?"
Carlo raised his hands exasperated. "I'm not! Pop, come on, if you would've let me, I would've dragged him into the house kicking and screaming and held him hostage. It was your idea to let him go, to give him space. Just wait for him to come back."
His father didn't look even slightly convinced and raised his hand for the phone again. "Pop! Look, okay? If we don't hear from him by tomorrow, I'll drive out there and bring his ass home myself, okay? I promise." He said, as he crossed his heart and even held up three fingers in a salute. "Scout's honour."
Tony at least liked the sound of that. "Fine but I'm coming with you." He said, turning to leave the kitchen. "But don't tell your mother. It'll upset her." He paused, thinking. "Or Matthew. That boy—" he made a gesture "can't keep a pea in his mouth!"
"Fine, Pop." Carlo said with a sigh as his father left the room. What he didn't know is that he already had had the same conversation with his mother and made her the same promise earlier that afternoon. He couldn't bring himself to tell them that Nicky wasn't picking up his phone. It was easier to convince them not to call, that their eldest son needs space, to make them upset enough at his behaviour that they could wait that much longer for him to return. But aside from his façade, Carlo was out of his mind with worry.
If Nicky hadn't gone home after leaving their parent's place in New Jersey, where could he have gone? Come on. Think. If I was hopeless and depressed, where would I go? The effort actually brought on a sharp pain in his temple. His heart was racing. He didn't want to think what he was thinking but he feared that the possibility of never seeing Nicky again was very real.
Carlo knew it was easy to say He kept it a secret for all these years! Why did he have to tell us at all? But that wasn't fair. He was just a little kid when it happened. Maybe he didn't even know how bad it was, how wrong it was until he got older, joined the police force, heard his brothers in blue describe the degenerates like his own abuser as scum and worse, and took an oath to protect other vulnerable people from what he himself was victim to and never protected. Carlo was starting to believe that it came down to what was easiest. It was easiest for the family to go on in ignorance. When Nicky told the truth, he took that bliss away from them. From here, it surely seemed that nothing would ever be easy again. In its place was left the guilt of never clueing in when Nicky's practices always ran late, when he moved more slowly and carefully than he used to, and when one day he suddenly behaved like a whole other kid.
Carlo could remember a period in which Nicky changed and never was the same but to anyone else that would have just been deemed a result of puberty. Right? They didn't ignore the signs by choice because that was easiest. Did we? With hesitation, Carlo recalled a buried memory, which once he stopped resisting, came barreling back.
I was eleven years old. Nicky was thirteen. He was in the bathroom and he'd been in there a long time. I was waiting outside the door and growing more impatient with every passing second.
"Nicky, hurry up! I have to go!" I was bouncing on my toes in my state of urgency. By the age of eleven, the idea of having an accident was humiliating enough but the possibility for me was becoming very real. "Open the door, Nicky! Come on! You've been in there forever! I can't hold it anymore!" I said, pounding my fists against the door for effect.
Relieved to see our mother round the corner, I ran to her. "Ma, make Nicky come out! I have to go to the bathroom!"
Already a frown set on her face, it deepened at my complaint. "He's still in there?" She crossed the hallway and thumped on the door herself. "Nicholas! What are you doing in there, boy? Come out right now!"
To her, Nicky responded: "Leave me alone! I'm using it! Tell Carlo to go outside."
"Nicholas, you've been in there for an hour. What's wrong with you? I need to talk to you. Come out now!" She shouted through the door, one hand on her hip, the other clutching what looked like a couple of t-shirts. "What are you doing?"
"None of your business!" was Nicky's reply. I remembered thinking my room would be a lot more spacious pretty soon because Nicky was as good as dead.
"Excuse me? Who do you think you are, little boy? You come on out of there right now! 'None of my business'? I'll show you what's my business. Such disrespect!" As she spoke, her hand went for the knob. "Nicholas, don't make me come in there!" She turned it but the door only opened an inch before Nicky slammed it shut again in her face.
"No! Stay the fuck out!" By this point, I had completely forgotten that I needed to pee. The look on Ma's face had me afraid for Nicky.
"How dare you?" She yelled as well as several threats in Italian that featured a wooden spoon, Nicky's sorry ass, and the always terrifying threat to just wait until his father got home.
Nicky didn't open the door but I knew it was for self-defense this time. "I just wanna be left alone, okay?" He tried, a lot less angry this time but it was too little too late.
"You open this door right now, young man, or I'll call your father at work and get him to deal with you. Is that what you want, Nicholas?"
It took him several seconds to finally open the door to face the music, which was immediately followed by their mother grabbing ahold of his ear and yanking him into the hallway. He yelled in protest as she gave him a few smacks on the rear. "Who do you think you are speaking to me like that? Such disrespect. Such disrespect!"
Nicky's face was as red as the sauce Ma had been making. "I'm sorry, Ma! I didn't mean it. I swear!"
"You didn't mean it?" She smacked the back of his head this time. "Don't lie to me. You're in enough trouble already."
Still latched to Ma's fingers by his ear, she towed him into the kitchen and let him go. She held up the t-shirts she was carrying and extended one of the sleeves, drawing attention to the cuffs that were stained in something brown. "Nicholas, what is this?" She asked, gesturing toward the stains. "What have you done?"
Nicky's face was no longer sauce-red but as white as a sheet. "I don't know, Ma." He said but his voice was an octave higher than usual.
Nicky shot me a look – me, frozen as a statue and having completely forgotten myself in all the drama.
"Carlo!" Ma snapped. "I thought you need to use the toilet."
"Oh!" I said, embarrassed to have interrupted the action. I turned, slid into the bathroom, and knelt by the crack in the door to not miss a second.
"I asked you a question, Nicholas Antonio, and I want an answer." Ma wasn't yelling anymore but she still looked angry as hell.
I could only see Nicky's back but his head was bowed and not a word was said from either party for a solid three minutes.
"My son, I've been scrubbing at this stain and it won't come out. Do you want to know what I think it is?"
Suddenly, Nicky's hands covered his face and he started to run from the room. Reflexively, Ma grabbed hold of his hands and pulled him toward her. Her voice was more gentle when she spoke again. She said something in a low voice that was practically inaudible to me but sounded a little like "Come, boy" in Italian. Still holding his hand as collateral, she sat on a kitchen chair and moved him in closer.
"Hush." She said softly. "A mother always knows."
Nicky fell to his knees in front of her and buried his face in her lap. She stroked his hair and drew up his sleeve revealing rows of dark scabs and red scratches on his forearm. She didn't make a sound.
In between sobs, he declared how sorry he was. "I'm sorry I ruined my shirt, Ma. I am. Please, don't tell Papà!"
I couldn't see Ma's face very well but I doubt that she quite understood what Nicky had done to himself or especially why. "What did you do?" She asked. "What are these?"
"It itched," he blubbered into Ma's skirt.
"Cucciolo, dry your tears. Hush now." She soothed him. "Mamma will make it better."
"Please, don't tell Papà. Non lo farò più. Mi scuso per essere stato spregevole con te." I won't do it again. I'm sorry for being mean to you.
"Now you know the rules of this house. Honour your mother and father or you'll be punished. Papà will want to know if you broke the rules."
"I'll take my punishment, Ma, but please don't tell him about my shirt."
She made no promises and only held him and consoled him until the sound of Pop's car pulling in the driveway announced his arrival. Nicky scurried off to his room and Ma tended to the stove, stuffing his shirts in the pocket of her apron before Pop could come in the door.
By the time I remembered to relieve myself before exiting the bathroom, I merely caught a fragment of Nicky's mumbling upon passing by our shared bedroom: "He's going to find out. He'll be so mad!"
I don't know if Ma ever told Pop about this little scene I'd been repressing. If she didn't, then maybe she should've. I didn't understand it at the time. She probably didn't either and who's to say that Pop would've. Hell, I hadn't even remembered what I witnessed until now.
…I wonder if he still has scars. I've never noticed…
At that, the family's guilt was undeniable to Carlo.
Hi, all! I know it's been ages. A couple days ago, I found new inspiration to continue this story and managed to pound out over 3,000 words for this new installment. I hope to get more to you soon. I hope some of my old faithful readers are still out there. This chapter was certainly written with you in mind!
As a side note, I realize that this chapter got quite dark pretty fast. I'm impressed with myself that I was able to write it but I thought it was necessary when I reread some of the old chapters and saw that I'd flirted with the idea of self-harm. To anyone out there who is suffering, I'm praying for you. I've battled some darkness myself following a recent tragedy, which is why I needed to steer away from this story for a while. I hope everyone out there knows that whatever hardships you are facing, there will always be someone right here that loves you. Something that I've learned and hope to make Shawn and Nicky learn is that our bodies are not made to survive, we don't make it out of life alive, but our hearts, our souls, the very essence of our beings, the thing that makes each of our lives precious (whatever you want to call it) will live on forever.
Pay it forward. Show someone that you love them today 3.
Love you all,
Meg