Chapter 11 - Parental Advice

Jon hadn't received many phone calls since he'd been in the hospital. By the time he'd woken up, Shawn had already moved in with Feeny, so he came in for daily visits and didn't need to call Jon. Jon's other friends were close enough to visit from time to time rather than trying to call the hospital, and he wasn't quite close enough to any of his family members to be receiving regular phone calls. The few times people called him, they seemed dissatisfied; Jon was a bit too slow to speak to keep up with a phone conversation.

So he wasn't exactly expecting his nurse to come in at seven in the morning with the phone. For a moment, Jon feared the worst, but as soon as he heard the tone of Feeny's voice ("Hello, Jonathan"), he knew it wasn't anything truly terrible. Feeny had the same tone of voice he used when he was disappointed in a student. Which, Jon suspect, he probably was.

"Hey, George," Jon said.

"I admit I've never expected to find myself in this position, but, ah . . ." A heavy sigh. "Well. I need advice."

Jon smiled. He was surprised it had taken this long.

"Shawn ran off last night. I believe he managed to sneak out through the window."

Jon let out a short laugh. He couldn't help it.

"I take it you're familiar with this situation."

"Just a bit," Jon said dryly.

"Yes, well."

"He's alright?"

"He's safe. I'm not sure I would say alright."

"What happened?"

"I caught him trying to sneak in over an hour after his curfew. We argued, and I knew I'd be, ah . . . losing my cool, as it were, if I didn't take some time to think. I sent him to his room for the night."

Obviously, there was more to the story, if Feeny was calling. "And?"

"The next thing I know, I'm receiving a call from Alan Matthews, letting me know he hears Shawn and Cory whispering in Cory's bedroom."

"What did you say?"

"I haven't spoken with him yet."

"Last night?" Jon had learned that Shawn's triggers could be a mine field; he himself hadn't mastered it.

"Ah…he insisted he hadn't done anything wrong. I listed off his infractions. He accused me of never cutting him any slack—and believe me, Jonathan, I have cut that boy slack."

It was starting to make sense. Feeny's version of cutting slack would be different from Jon's, and very different from Shawn's. "Lose your temper?"

"No, no. I sent him to bed before I could say anything I'd regret."

"Did he go?"

"Ah, well, not immediately. He went to the fridge."

That sounded like Shawn. "Okay…"

"I didn't allow it, of course."

Jon frowned. "What?"

"It was the middle of the night. Long past dinner time."

"Did he eat?"

George sighed, and somehow Jon could tell what it meant. He'd been holding back throughout the conversation. He'd known this was the issue all along, and he just didn't want to believe it, or maybe he didn't want to say it out loud. Considering the generation he'd grown up in, he'd probably considered skipping dinner to be as mild a punishment for a teenager as five minutes in the corner was for a child. Shawn's reaction had proved otherwise.

Jon could talk Feeny's ear off about this one. Could yell it off, if he was honest. But he knew he wouldn't be able to get many words out, so he chose them carefully and spoke slowly. "Shawn knows what it's like to be hungry."

"And I should have thought of that."

"Yeah."

Jon let that word sink in. From Feeny's silence, he could tell it had had the desired effect.

"Apologize to him."

"I'm…not accustomed…"

"Get accustomed."

A short silence, then, "You're right, of course. This isn't school."

That was another conversation, and it could wait. "Ask why he ran."

"I don't believe he would be willing to open up to me about that."

That was very likely. "Ask anyway. It shows you care."

"Of course. I'll go speak with him right away."

Jon glanced at the clock. "Let him sleep until noon."

"Noon? Surely you don't mean—"

"Peace offering."

"The boy is still in trouble."

"No." He had been punished enough, as far as Jon was concerned. Besides, this was the very first time Feeny had even had a real issue. Considering all that had happened, his behavior this summer warranted a medal.

"You gave me permission to discipline him, Jonathan."

"Not this time." Jon had learned better than to punish Shawn just because he ran off; he always, always ran because of trauma he needed help with. If he ran off and drank, or ran off and vandalized, or ran off and shoplifted? That was grounds for serious consequences. But running off and coming back, even after curfew, was a cry for help, and punishment wasn't the help he needed.

Feeny made a sound of disapproval, but his words were, "I suppose you know him best."

"I do."

"One more thing, Jonathan. I think you should hear this. When I, ah…threatened consequences…he yelled something at me."

"You're not his dad?" That was one of Shawn's favorite sentences.

"No. He told me I wasn't you."

Jon's jaw hung open, stunned.

"Get some rest, Jonathan."

"Yeah," Jonathan said, but it was all he could say.

George still didn't care for the idea of allowing Shawn's trespasses to slide. He believed it would send entirely the wrong message. At the same time, he knew there was no scenario in which his discipline would hold up without Jonathan's support. Jonathan may not have been the boy's father, but Shawn clearly recognized his authority as such.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a case where he could expect to walk a fine line between authority figure and friend. This was not school, and any exercising of authority he didn't have would eliminate what little chance there was of Shawn communicating what was really going on.

So George swallowed his pride—a large and exceedingly bitter pill—and went against everything he'd ever been taught. He called Amy to find out what Shawn's favorite breakfast was, which was something he should have asked on the first day. He had to remind himself over and over that, in this one, tiny area, Jonathan truly knew better than he did, and he went to the store for chocolate chips, pure maple syrup, and bacon. Back at home, he started on breakfast and had it ready at precisely noon.

Amy let him in through the door to the kitchen, and he found the boys sitting on the couch, watching TV. Shawn's eyes were glazed; George doubted he was paying any attention. He cleared his throat, and both boys looked up.

"Mr. Hunter," George said, then corrected himself. "Shawn. Would you come speak with me?"

"Do I have to?"

George knew there was only one answer that would help them make progress. "No."

Shawn and Cory exchanged a glance, and Cory nodded. Shawn stood from the couch and followed George back to his house.

Shawn's eyes fell on the table, which George had set with a steaming pile of chocolate chip pancakes, a thick stack of bacon, and a warm bottle of syrup.

Shawn grimaced. "Uh. I'm not hungry."

George was never going to get through this conversation without losing his cool. Still, he had to try. "That's alright, it can wait."

George doubted Shawn had been testing him intentionally, but subconsciously, he must have been. His muscles visibly relaxed after hearing George's response.

George cleared his throat. "I wanted you to know that I am truly sorry for my behavior last night."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, well. Jonathan reminds me that—"

"Oh. Jon put you up to this."

George wanted to tell him he was lucky he was receiving an apology at all. It was far more than George had ever received from his parents. Still, George could remember a few forced apologies he'd received from peers in his school days, at the prompting of teachers. He didn't want this to end the way those did. "Jonathan helped me to realize that I was wrong. Nothing more or less."

Shawn shifted his weight, fidgeting with his hands.

"Rest assured, you will never again be restricted from food in this household."

Shawn nodded, and he went to sit at the table and started serving up.

George sat across from him. He took the pancakes with the fewest chocolate chips and chose to forgo the syrup, but they were still a bit sweet for him for the morning. Shawn, on the other hand, drowned both pancakes and bacon in syrup, and he went back for second helpings. It took some effort, but George simply didn't comment.

When Shawn was down to scraping the last bits of melted chocolate and syrup from his plate with his fork, George looked up at him and asked, "Do you remember what you told me last night?"

Shawn shrugged and shook his head.

"You told me I had gotten it wrong, and that you had done the right thing. I confess I've been wondering about it all night."

"Oh. I was going to get drunk. But I didn't, I swear I didn't!"

George breathed in to ask why he had planned to drink, but realized at the last moment that there was a much more important question. "What stopped you?"

Shawn shrugged. "Just didn't want to."

For a second, George found himself disappointed there had been nothing deeper. It quickly occurred to him that Shawn had described the best scenario. "Well, I am glad to hear it."

Shawn nodded and looked down at his plate.

George frowned. "Shawn, I am aware that I am not Jonathan, but if there was anything you would like to discuss."

"I'm fine," Shawn said quickly, and he went back to scraping at the syrup with his fork.

George nodded slowly. "When Lillian was in the hospital, there were nights when I drank more than I should have."

Shawn appeared, for all purposes, to be ignoring him. George knew it couldn't be further from the truth.

"I am not proud of it. And she always knew, I could see the disappointment in her eyes."

"But it wasn't your fault."

"Oh, I dare say the choice was all mine."

"No, it wasn't your fault she was in the hospital."

George raised his eyebrows and spoke carefully. "No. It was not, no matter how many times the voices in my head taunted me that it was."

Shawn lowered his fork, and then his head.

"Shawn," George said gently, "Jonathan is going to be fine."

Shawn blinked and looked away, and his eyes shone.

"And so are you."

Shawn looked up at George and cleared his throat. "So, how long am I grounded for last night?"

It pained him to say it. "You are not."

"Really?"

"You have been through enough."

Shawn side-eyed him for a moment, then smiled with realization. "Oh. Jon said you couldn't."

"You've behaved excellently this summer, and—"

Shawn laughed out loud. "It's killing you, isn't it, Mr. Feeny?"

"It most certainly is not."

"Hey, I'll throw you a bone. You wanna ground me for the day? I won't tell Jon."

George rolled his eyes. "Go play."

"Go play? What am I, a first grader?"

For some reason, this was the sentence that crossed the line. "Mr. Hunter, I have been exceedingly patient with you—"

"Okay, okay." Shawn grinned. "I'll go tell Cory I'm still alive, then I'll be back for the dishes. Okay?"

"Go."

George smiled, but not until Shawn was out of the door.