HIDING - every scar has a story

27. Everything doesn't mend.

{Cary}

Cary's mother tapped on his door early Sunday morning. He rolled over and frowned at the clock. After five days stuck at home it took a second for him to figure out what day it was, and what he was supposed to wake up for.

He showered, dressed in his church clothes and went to his mother's room. She was sitting at her vanity table, applying mascara. She capped the tube and frowned at him.

"Ciaran darling, when was the last time you ran a brush through your hair?" She got up and pressed him down on the stool. He held still while she brushed his hair. Her fingers felt cool on his skin.

"There." She stepped back. "Very handsome."

Cary looked up. His father's face looked back at him in the mirror; his father's dark hair waved back from his forehead. His eyebrows drew together and he got off the stool. He didn't look at the mirror again.

"I'll just get my purse, and we can go."

"Liam's not coming with us?"

She smiled. "No, the nanny has him. Isn't that lovely?"

Cary didn't say anything. He didn't like the idea of a strange woman touching his brother. On the other hand, both his parents were happier when they weren't jumping at Liam's every cry.

Beverly's church made Jon's church building look like a parking garage. A few Sundays a month she made time to step into the large, ornate building with stained glass windows and a sweeping stone ceiling. The pews were two-thirds empty. Cary figured it was because they were so uncomfortable. He tried to shift his weight off his bruises then held still, his hands braced next to his legs.

He was practised at rising and kneeling next to his mother for readings and prayers. The words of the service ran together like a river of noise, making as much sense to him as the sound of water. At the end, the minister held up a small round wafer. His words rang on Cary's ear, different than the rest:

"On the night he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took the bread and broke it saying, 'This is my body broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.'"

Cary watched the people file out of the pews and shuffle to the front of the church for a mouthful of wafer and wine. He frowned. This was about the story of Jesus dying. He hadn't put that together before.

His mother went forward. When she slid back into the pew beside him she folded her hands and closed her eyes. He looked at the tips of her manicured fingers, which had just held Jesus' body. When the service was finished and they were settled in the leather seats of her sedan, he asked:

"What is the cracker and wine for?"

She laughed, as if she was startled by the question. "It's the Eucharist, Ciaran. We do it every Sunday."

"Why do you do it?"

She brushed a strand of hair off her face, stalling. "It's a way to say sorry," she said finally.

"For what?"

"For things that we've done."

Cary looked out the window, thinking. "Can I do it?"

"Take communion?" his mother asked. "What for?

"To say sorry," Cary said.

She laughed a little. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

Cary didn't reply. He felt her remember; her stillness made the air freeze and she didn't answer his question. Cary lifted his aching shoulders. Of course he couldn't do it. No amount of sorry would be enough.