Nine Lives (4 page)

Laina and Faith don’t understand that it’s not just Tom and me that they’ve hurt. All of their siblings have broken hearts too. Hope is pregnant and can’t focus on that. She’s missing prenatal appointments because she’s more worried about whether or not I’ll shoot myself or overdose on the ibuprofen that I take for constant headaches. Is it even possible to overdose on an over-the-counter drug? I won’t take anything stronger. Hope calls me multiple times a day, and I have no idea how she’s schooling her own kids with her mind thousands of miles away. Jada’s right behind her, spending as much time calming Hope down as herself. Joseph’s over here every few days trying to keep up with Tom’s chores. But with two kids, a home, and wife of his own, he can barely keep his bills paid. He can’t afford much more time off at work. Noelle is my saving grace. At twenty-two, she’s still in and out of the house. She spends most weeknights here, helping me with Jeremiah and Mary. Her eyes are empty, but I know she cries. She locks herself in the bathroom, and I can hear her.

I try to find ways to make things feel normal around here. Before Tom went to prison, while he was out on bail and before his conviction, Joseph would have little barbecues. Joseph lives nearby. I was able to bring Jeremiah and Mary over so they could see their father. Months later, Mary still doesn’t understand what’s happening, and Jeremiah is just more hyper and angry than ever. They hate the prison but insist they go with me to visits. Twice now, I’ve gone without telling them because I can’t stand seeing them in there. It bothers Tom too. I really hope that trampoline does Jeremiah some good but I can’t even think about how he’ll be when we move into a tiny apartment. Tom and I? We’ll be okay. Somehow. I do believe that. I still have some faith. But what about the others? It’s just not fair. And it will be a very long time before Laina and Faith realize just how much hurt they have caused. I pray they will be able to forgive themselves, but for now, I’m not sure I can do that myself. I’m not ready. Tom says it will come. Forgiveness takes time. I trust Tom. Obviously.

Chapter Four

Crosses To Bear

Faith

I’m supposed to feel guilty, right? Well, I don’t. At least not most of the time. I’m fourteen years old, for Christ’s sake. What did they think would happen? They let Sadie get away with murder. Of course Laina and I are gonna wanna join the party too. Why should we be punished for Slash—who, by the way, is an awesome person and always nice to me—and Sadie? We didn’t run away. We didn’t do anything, really. But we are the ones to suffer for it. It’s about time that they know how we felt. It’s karma. Plain and simple.

They can say “we” don’t believe in karma. “We” are Catholic. “We” this. “We” that. The truth is? I believe in karma. I’m thinking about changing religions entirely and becoming a witch. I’m just not quite sure. It feels like a big deal and I have a lot to learn. I love nature and I can’t figure out why God can’t be Goddess. The entire world is sexist, and I’m sick of it. Maybe if Mom had had some guts and a little respect from everyone, this would not have happened. Instead, she let Dad be in charge of everything and run this place like the military. As far as I’m concerned? They got what they deserved.

My boyfriend, Hunter, believes in witches. He’s Wiccan. His mother, Willow, is a witch. She’s taught me about the healing power of crystals and how everyone has an aura. My aura is green. That means I’m close to nature and a lover of life. I’m not sure I buy that. I do like to think that I’d be a lover of life—any other life—if I wasn’t trapped here with the Stepford mother and my two spoiled younger siblings.

At least I have Laina. But that won’t last either. I have no idea how I’m gonna survive in this place without her. I try not to think about it that much. I’m trying not to cut myself either. It doesn’t work. But I still try. Laina helps me with this; hiding razors, telling me things will change. I’m not sure I like change the same way she does, though. Laina wants to change her name to Apryl. I’m changing mine to Luna. I love the night and could stare at the moon for hours. The moon never changes.

Mom thinks I sneak out at night to be with Hunter. I guess that’s sorta true. I mean, we do meet up. But it’s not the only reason I wait up late enough to sneak out. Really, it’s because I like that time of day—well, night—better. Is that so awful? So hard to understand? There’s mystery in darkness. Mom wouldn’t understand. She’s locked away in her room by eight every night. She probably hasn’t bothered to look at the moon in years. She barely bothers to homeschool me now either but won’t let me go to the public school. I guess she thinks just ignoring me is good mothering, right? She’s ridiculous.

People think I cut for attention. I can see why they would think that. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Who cares? I don’t really get attention and never have; not from my parents. Once, they made me wash dishes while my appendix was bursting. They said I was just being “dramatic” about the pain. Pretty silly, considering I like pain. I could have died. “Stop trying to get out of it, Faith. Everyone has to pull their weight around here,” Dad said. “You’re acting like a baby. Cut it out.” He never even apologized after they cut my appendix out. Two days later, when I came home from the hospital, there were still dishes in the sink. Of course, it was Joseph who had to bring me, and later, pick me up. Mom and Dad were too busy. Busy doing what? Is it normal to stay home while your kid has surgery and spends forty-eight hours in the hospital? And who do you think finished the dishes?

Sometimes, I think they were so busy breeding that they forgot to be parents at all. Or, maybe it was that they were just tired by the time they got to me, lucky number seven. They should have stopped at four. That’s about all they could handle. If kiss-ass Noelle was the baby, they wouldn’t have any problems at all. Noelle could be here during the week all wide-eyed and obeying Dad’s every ridiculous, sexist command. I can hear it now. “Make me some coffee, Noelle.” “Yes, Daddy. Two milks?” and “Go find out what your brother’s up to, Noelle. I’m not liking those noises.” “Okay, Dad, I’ll make him stop.” I can’t imagine the type of guy she’ll end up with. A control freak for sure. She probably thinks she’s an old maid by now, not married and no kids at twenty-two. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Anyway, the reasons I cut are as mysterious to me as they are to everyone else. Sometimes, it’s because I want to feel. Other times, it’s because I’m bored or trying to distract myself. It really changes every day. But the result is always the same. People look away when they see my arms; white lumpy ridges and my angry red scars. No one wants to see the pentagram I cut into my shoulder. Unless they’re old. Ladies at the church will grab my arms, shake their heads in disgust, and ask “Oh, dear! What have you done?” Trust me, no girl my age wants that kind of attention. Mom wonders why I avoid church and the old ladies who have no time to mince words. They could be dead tomorrow. For the most part, I keep my arms covered. I’ve gotten smarter about where I cut. The stares, glares, aversions and questions aren’t worth it. Willow says she can heal my scars with crystals. I hope she’s right. But so far, no dice.

So why did we do it? That’s what you really want to know. That’s what you really want me to talk about. It’s what all my siblings want to know. It’s what Mom wants to know. Who cares what Dad wants, honestly. Like I said, he deserves to be where he is. They say be careful what you wish for. So if you’re asking the question, you may not like the answer. Are you sure you still want to know?

Mom’s not right about a lot of things. She’s generally clueless about everything, actually. The one thing she is right about is why we did this. We did this because we were sick of being punished and locked down like nuns. Laina and I are free spirts and you can only clip a bird’s wings so many times before they grow back and fly away. We can’t fly away, not without being picked up by the cops and brought right back to hell. But we sure can try. In two years, I’m outta here. I’m emancipating or whatever it’s called and moving in with Willow and Hunter. Change or not, I’m not staying in a place where I’m ignored with a mother who’s more interested in her stupid prayer beads and husband’s laundry (that he’ll never wear again) than her own kids. I’ve had it!

We all have crosses to bear. This is mine. I have to spend the next two years in hell, listening to her bitch and moan. I have to be here while she plasters one picture on top of the other of Dad’s cheesy smile to the fridge and says things like “I’m sorry your father’s not here, Jeremiah” in front of us. I have to walk around a house with pictures of everyone but Laina, Sadie, and I. Like some big family or party we’re no longer wanted at. I have to live in a home where I’m shunned but not allowed to leave. That’s my cross. I’m okay with it, for now. At least I have Laina. It will be much harder in a year, when she’s gone for good. ’Cause Laina won’t come back. Laina won’t stay around here. She’s going to Los Angeles. She wants a fresh start. I can’t blame her, not one bit.

The best way for me to describe my life in this family is that I feel like I’m in a cult. I tried to give Mom that hint last year with an English paper I wrote on cults for my homeschool project. You’d figure she’d take the hint, right? No. She was more worried about where I was putting my commas and telling me you can’t put contractions into a formal paper. I mean, who cares!

The point is that cults are dangerous things. What I learned about them is they have many things in common. First, it only takes two people to make a cult. So just Mom and Dad alone are a little cult if you want to look at it that way; all abusive relationships are. But she’d never admit she’s being abused. That would be unholy-like. Can you see me rolling my eyes?

Next, cults expect you to follow a leader—in our case, Dad—without question and to the bitter end. You are punished for questioning the leader and told how you should think, feel, and act. There are always mind-altering practices in cults. In our case, it’s the church and prayer rituals. I mean, what teenage kid really wants to spend ten hours every Sunday either in mass or doing church activities? Don’t make me get started on the nightly prayer crap they made us do. At least, with Dad gone, we’ve dropped that crap. It was more like “the guilt trip hour” than prayer hour. Or, on some nights, the “why we fear hell hour and who in our family is going hour.” Disgusting. Goddesses don’t do hell. And neither should Jesus. Didn’t he die for our sins already?

Sorry if I’m off track. I love thinking about these kind of things. So, okay, what else did I learn? Well, cults make you hang out with only other cult members. You can check that one off too. Our social lives are limited to the eight—well, seven, since they don’t approve of Sadie—siblings we each have. Anyone who isn’t a sibling must be an “approved member” of the church, according to Dad, to be worthy of our time and energy. I could not make this up. He used the term “approved member” like he was Jesus and got to decide who was acceptable and who wasn’t. He claimed that was okay because he was “protecting us” and doing his job as our father. Mom said someday we will thank him and understand. Even Jada and Joseph haven’t sent them thank you notes so far and they’ve been free for years. Interesting. Maybe it’s because they married “approved members” and are secretly finding out that life under cult rule—even in a new family—isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. There comes a point where you just have to risk hell if you’re going to actually live. They can say I don’t have faith, but I do believe that if there is a Jesus, he isn’t going to fault me for wanting the freedom to have my own thoughts and beliefs.

I’m not the only one who thinks of my family as a cult. Hunter’s said it. Willow’s said it. Slash. The list goes on. Basically, anyone who has tried to get close to my family and has taken the time to learn about us is terrified when they find out just how strict the Nelson Family Rules are. In fact, our family literally has a mission statement and code of honor. It’s on the fridge. Right next to the jail pictures. Lovely, huh?

Right there might be a reason I cut. I mean, if you even care. I do like that the scars on my arms make me stand out from the other sheep in this psychotic herd. It’s like a visible sign to the world that I’m not exactly happy in my current situation. A call for help? I’m not sure. But not in the way the stupid shrinks and caseworkers want to believe. I swear, if another person comes to this house hoping to “fix” me with therapeutic coloring books or a “what do I want my role in the family to be” worksheet, I’m going to snap.

I’ve talked to Willow about all of this. I tell Willow pretty much everything. Well, maybe not everything, but a lot. She hasn’t judged me. She says she understands why I would wish bad karma on my family. She has her own set of voodoo dolls but doesn’t use them. She believes in the Wiccan law of “do no harm.” She also believes in karma and the threefold rule. Whatever you send out into the universe comes back at you three times—good or bad. That worries me.

Willow told me a story about a babysitter she once had who really did molest her. That made me feel horrible. The one thing I feel bad about is that I don’t want to hurt true victims, who I admire, by lying about this. It’s probably the only reason that, sometimes, I want to take it all back. Well, that and Mary and Jeremiah. I do feel sorta bad for them. But let’s face it, they will either grow into perfect sheep or they will thank me for stirring the pot. Either way, it’s a win, right?

One thing I can’t believe about them is that Mom actually lugs them to that darn prison to visit Dad. Can you imagine a ten and five-year-old going through a metal detector and hanging out with criminals for four hours at a shot? I don’t know how Jeremiah sits still. He hates those visits. But he loves Dad more than he hates the prison visiting area, so I guess it’s worth it to him for now. What I don’t get is why Mom won’t let it go. If she’s such a great mother, like the women at the church keep telling her, why would she keep bringing kids into that place?

Like I said, we all have crosses to bear. I guess I just think that Jeremiah and Mary may have the biggest ones. They will grow up not understanding what a tyrant Dad was. They will have this glorified image of him like he’s an innocent prophet or something locked up for the good of the cause. They will think of him as someone who stuck to his story because his story was true, not ours. That’s all they will see. They won’t realize that it was us who saved them. Because, at least now, we have some freedom. Mom’s too worried about her and Dad to care what we do. By the time Jeremiah and Mary are our ages? They will already be free. So if anyone deserves the thank you note? It’s me. It’s Laina. Maybe even Sadie. Not Mom and Dad. Especially not Dad.