Being Wrong | ✓

Part 11

On Saturday night Finding Nemo was on TV, so when Charlie came over Travis suggested they take a night off studying and watch that instead. Travis had always been an above average student, at least after he'd moved out of his parents' house and gotten himself back on track, but he'd never spent as much time on schoolwork as he had been since Charlie had started coming over most nights and wanting to do little but study.

It wasn't until Charlie started asking questions that Travis remembered what Finding Nemo was actually about. Beneath the whole clownfish abstraction, it was about a young boy who was taken against his will from his father. Charlie's father had been abusive, sure, but last Charlie had talked about him he'd hadn't exactly seemed relieved to be away from him.

"We could watch something else," Travis said after he'd given Charlie a quick summary of the plot. "Or nothing. We can study if you like."

From the tilt of his head and the way his expression shifted, Travis could tell Charlie didn't understand why Travis had suddenly backpedaled on his movie idea. "No, we can watch that. I haven't seen any movies since I lived with my mum. But then she died."

"Oh, uh, sorry." Oh hey, maternal death, another thing that happened in the movie. "Was she nicer to you than your dad?"

"Yeah, she never shouted at me. Or hit me."

Travis felt frozen on the sofa, aware of every part of his body. He was sure the slightest movement would shatter this moment. "What happened?"

Charlie tilted his head again. "Huh?"

"How did she die?"

"Oh." Charlie stared down at his fingers and picked at one of his cuticles. He was silent so long Travis thought he wasn't going to answer. "Too many drugs, I guess. And then..." His teeth dug into his lip and his brow tugged down. "She told me never to call the police or an ambulance if something happened to her because I'd get taken away. I think... maybe I should have anyway, that time. But I just waited instead, and eventually my dad came and he took me away. She was dead by then, though. I knew."

"Shit, Charlie, I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

Charlie stared down at the worn brown carpet covering the floors and strummed his fingers idly against his knee. "I used to be really bad. I'd get upset and shout and hit over really small things. I think she would have done less drugs if I'd been easier to take care of. Maybe. I don't know."

"You were a kid, Charlie. You're different, you know? You were probably born different, and from what you've said I don't think anyone's ever really helped you with that. You didn't strike out because you were bad. You struck out because you needed help and nobody was giving it to you."

Charlie was silent so long Travis was sure he'd said the wrong thing, but finally he asked, in a small voice, "What do you think is wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you. You're just different, and being different can be hard. Especially when other people don't understand."

"Yeah, but..." He waved a hand in a vague gesture. "Why am I different?"

Travis wished he could offer Charlie something other than a helpless shrug. "That's a question for a psychiatrist, not me. Are you seeing a counselor or something?"

Charlie shook his head.

"Are you grandparents making arrangements to take you to one soon?"

Charlie shrugged. "They didn't say anything about that."