I picked my grandson up from his mom’s new boyfriend’s place, and he wouldn’t take his jacket off in the warm car — that was the first thing I noticed.
It was almost seventy in Tulsa. I had the windows cracked. He kept pulling the sleeves over his hands anyway. Said he was cold. Wouldn’t look at me when he said it.
At the drive-thru he reached for the fries and jerked his arm back fast when the sleeve slid up. Just for a second, I saw something dark near his elbow. He tucked the arm against his stomach after that like he forgot I’d noticed.
Then at my house he asked if he could eat in the living room instead of the kitchen table. Strange for him. Usually he’s loud, bouncing around, talking through cartoons.
That day he stayed curled in the recliner with the jacket zipped to his chin.
When I leaned down to unzip it a little he grabbed my wrist so hard his drink spilled.
“Please don’t make me take it off before Mom gets here.”
I told him nobody was making him do anything. I just wanted to wash the chocolate off his sleeve.
He started crying before I even touched the zipper.
So I sat beside him quietly for a minute instead.
After a while he whispered, “He says Mom cries too much when people see.”
I asked who did.
He looked straight at the television and said his mom’s boyfriend’s name like he’d practiced not sounding scared.
Then very slowly he unzipped the jacket himself.
There were bruises all the way up both arms.
Not random ones.
Finger marks.
And right in the middle of his chest was a square white bandage with hospital tape peeling at the corners.
When I asked what happened there, he covered it with both hands immediately and whispered, “That’s where they fixed my broken rib.”