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“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“No problem, little bro.” I considered finding another way to cheer him up, but there wasn't a lot I could do. “Want to hit an art store?”
“Can we go to a sports store instead?” he asked.
I glanced at the hands he was clenching in his lap. Did they still hurt too much to draw? Finer movements had been bothering Glen in the beginning, but he hadn’t said anything about it in a while.
“Sure,” I said as I turned to the street leading to a shopping mall.
As soon as we got there, Glen walked to the section with kettlebells and tried lifting a few with one and then both hands. Lifting with his legs, he swung a twenty pounder. Satisfied, he put it in the cart.
The next section Glen chose had colorful balls, just large enough to fit into his hand. I knew what they were for. That was for wrist strength. Mince used to use them all the time when he was going through rehabilitation.
“Your hands are still bothering you?” I asked.
“They’re okay. I can still punch if I need to.” He put one ball in the shopping cart.
Punching wasn’t the same as drawing, though. And it was my fault. I should’ve returned sooner. Protected Glen better.
“I can get you into rehab for your hands,” I said.
Glen flexed his right hand, looking at it as if it might do something different than what it was supposed to. “It’s okay. These should work. Ready to go?”
Before going to the register, I added punching pads and gloves to the cart. At the very least, Vera would need them.
“You might want to eat your veggies to get on Vera’s good side, if you want her to approve your sparring application,” I said, only half-jokingly.
“Potatoes are a vegetable,” Glen answered.
The drive home went as smoothly as sandpaper. The bumper-to-bumper traffic helped prolong the suffering as I tried and failed to start a conversation.
“How was school today?” I asked.
"It's okay," he said.
"How was your math test?”
"I passed."
I smiled, glad at least something was going right. "I hated math. Sucked at spelling, too.”
He gave me a side eye before turning back to his window. So much for trying to relate.
“How are the other kids treating you?” I tried again.
“Okay.” His eyes never wavered from the window, and his voice remained emotionless.
"No one picks on you?"
"No."
What was he thinking about when he stared at the passing cars, the billboards, and the Laundromat signs whizzing by? His hands? All the drawings Dad had burned while Glen was at the hospital? Our grandparents? Me abandoning him?
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back for you sooner,” I said.
“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have come back for me either.” The same emotionless voice.
“I wanted to, but every time I thought about it, I felt like a kid getting a beating. Consciously, I knew I didn’t have to be scared anymore, but subconsciously, I kept on running.”
