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One big hand came down on her shoulder, bracing her or holding her there, she wasn’t exactly sure.
“My mom died when I was basically just a kid. It was really sudden. She got diagnosed with cancer and then she was just gone.”
Noemi went full on board rigid. Injecting the Big C into the room felt a little like she was listening in on Cason’s most private confession.
“I- I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was what she hated most when other people found out about her mom. Useless. That’s what those words were. They didn’t mean anything, and they didn’t bring anyone back. She hated that they were the first words that sprung to her tongue and popped out of her mouth.
“Not your fault.” Cason’s hand ran through the strands of her hair, soothing himself more than her. “She was there one day and just- gone the next. I- I didn’t know how to process that as a kid. My dad was worse. He loved my mom more than he loved his own life. She was his everything. He had no idea of how to cope with that kind of pain. He was head of a business and he- just kind of lost it. Didn’t go to work. Let his VP and the others take over and try and hold the ship together while he set sail without them, adrift on his own fucked up ocean. It was shitty being at home. He never saw me. It was like I didn’t even exist. Except for the odd night when he’d have too much to drink and made me wish I didn’t exist.”
Noemi’s heart raced and ached at the same time. She flattened her palm out over Cason’s heart and waited.
“He wasn’t a raging drunk or anything. Most times he wasn’t even around. I don’t know where he went. Didn’t ask. I went to school. Made out like it was normal and we were doing alright. I didn’t want anyone to find out what was going on. How I was home alone most of the time. How I didn’t even know where my own father was. I didn’t want people to come take me away and put me into the system. I was old enough to know about that shit and young enough that I didn’t know what to do about any of it, so I just coasted by, existing, I guess.”
Cason went quiet and words eluded her. The space was awkward, bleeding with pain. She wondered if he’d ever told anyone about his mom or dad before. It didn’t seem like it, but that was just her best guess. The words were kind of coming out like even he was shocked at the fact that he was giving them voice and form.
She thought about the wicked scar she’d seen on his back. “That- that scar… it wasn’t from a tree house, was it?”
“Yeah,” he snorted. “It actually was, in a way. Just not the way I made it sound like. I was building a fort with some kids at school. I used some of my dad’s power tools, without asking. He found out. Got shitfaced one night. Decided to teach me a lesson about taking things that weren’t mine.”
Noemi gasped, even though she tried to hold it in. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, well, there are a lot of bad things in the world. I guess I learned the hard way not to take shit that isn’t mine. It was a lesson in permission.”
Her hand curled into a fist. “He should never have done it.”
“It’s over now. The scar doesn’t bother me. It hurt like a bitch at the time. I had to call the school and fake his voice for three days because I couldn’t even walk. After that, a bunch of bandages and a torn-up t-shirt pretty much held it together.”
What the hell? Even at the worst of times, her dad had always been there for her. He’d tried to be available, even in his grief. It made her feel extra guilty that at the moment, he was probably worried sick about her. She knew she needed to call him and at least tell him that she was safe and well, even if she didn’t give him her location.
“The last time I ever saw him, I was sixteen. I’d just got my license a few months before. He actually let me use the car now and then. The drinking was worse. He’d go out and expect me to pick his ass up in the middle of the night when he was totally tanked. I remember it was winter. Winter in New York was shit. I thought he was doing better, even though the drinking was escalating. He was back at work. The company was doing well. He’d be normal, at least some days. He even cared about where I was and what I was doing at school about a quarter of the time. He was trying. Really. He was. I think he was doing the best he could. I have no doubt that the best parts of him died with my mom. Like, literally. Like they tore them out of him and buried them in the ground with her and he was just left, with all these missing pieces, bleeding all over, and no bandages and ripped up t-shirts and time were going to put him back together. They were the kinds of wounds that never become scars.”
