Scars (4 page)

Mom yanks her hands away. “You never talk to me any more.”

When did we ever talk?
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “I talk,” I say.

“You don’t. You never let me in.”

“You never listen! You’re always off doing something else.”

“Well, I’m listening now. Come on, Kendra, how hard can it be?”

Too hard.
I swallow. I know she’s trying. I thought that’s what I wanted, but I never imagined it would be like this. I rub my fingers against the bumpy white wall. Little bits of plaster rain to the floor, and Mom frowns. “I talked about
him
, okay? That’s all I ever talk about.”

“And? Did it help?”

You mean, did you get your money’s worth?
“That’s not the way it works, Mom. I mean, yeah, it helped, but it’s more something that happens over time, you know?”
But she doesn’t know; I can see that
.

She twists her ring around her finger. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

I brace myself for whatever’s coming.

“Your father and I—we’d like you to cut back on your sessions, maybe work towards ending them.”

Pain lodges in my chest like a shard of metal. “What?”

“I know it isn’t ideal,” Mom says. “But money is going
to be tight around here for a while, and your therapy is one of the things that can go. We think you’re mature enough that you can handle it.”

“But I only just started!”

“I know it feels that way, honey, but it’s been five months. And you seem to be doing so much better. You didn’t think you were going to go forever, did you?”

I dig my nails into my palm. I want to cut so bad I can almost feel the sharp pain of the knife on my flesh, can almost feel the blood flowing—and then the relief. But my utility knife is in my desk drawer, forty steps away. Too far.

Mom is still talking; sound is pouring out of her mouth, but I only hear disconnected words. “Your father … downsizing … part-time job … can’t pay our bills.”

I’m watching her lips move, her forehead wrinkle as she frowns. But I’m so far away, she can’t reach me. She doesn’t even know I’ve left.

She’s scared. I know that. I can see it in the tightness of her mouth, in the way her hands jerk as she talks. There’s no way Mom can support us all on what she makes.

“He’ll get another job, Mom. It’ll be okay.”

I can’t believe I just did that. I did a Mom thing: saying everything will be okay when I don’t see how it can be. But she seems to need it. To want it.

“You’re right.” Mom flashes me that plastic smile that she uses on gallery managers. “It’ll all work out. And maybe you won’t have to quit therapy.”

But I can hear in her voice that she doesn’t believe it.

“I can get a job, pay for my own sessions,” I say, my voice high and thready.

“Not while you’re in school, you can’t,” Mom says. “Your schoolwork is more important.”

Schoolwork doesn’t keep me alive
. I fake a smile and edge out of the room.

“Where are you going?”

“Homework. I just—I can’t do this right now, okay?”

No therapy. No Carolyn. No one to pull me out of the quicksand.
I run down the hall before she can answer, my knapsack thunking like a fist into my back. I slam my door shut and ram my chair under the handle. I snatch up my utility knife and cut, fast and hard.

I don’t feel anything at first: no relief, no comfort. Just the panic coiling inside me, vibrating in my chest. I slash again and again, flesh opening up to expose little white bubbles of fat, until dark blood wells up to cover them and spills over my arm in wide, curling arcs, thin and hot. I barely feel the pain—just the air rushing into my lungs, the thoughts slowing down. The panic drains away, and I sag in relief.

My head is clear now. I’ll sell some art; I’ll do whatever it takes to keep seeing Carolyn. She’s the only thing standing between me and the black endlessness of despair. She’s the only thing keeping me from using my knife for permanent relief.

I grab handfuls of tissues and press them hard against my arm until the bleeding stops. Then I sit back and look at the colored pencils and markers, the bottles of gouache, and the pastels scattered over my desk. There’s something comforting about all that disorganized color just waiting to be used.

I pick up a pencil, rolling it between my fingers. It felt unbearable today, needing to cut so badly and not being able to; not having anything to cut with until I picked up the knife in class. But I’d rather have my own, the one I’m comfortable with. The one I’ve used so many times.

I wipe the blood off my utility knife with a tissue, then snap the top section of the blade off, starting a new edge so it’ll be sharp for next time. The sharpness is important; it gives me more control. I press it against my skin, knowing I could plunge it right through my flesh, but knowing I won’t, not right now.

I exhale. I can’t go through another day like today. I
need
to have my knife with me. But if I carry it around, even stuffed in my bag, someone will notice. It’s too bulky—and too bright, with the neon yellow plastic. I push the blade right up through the top of the plastic handle, unhooking it from the knob that keeps it in place. It falls into my palm, thin and light. The blade is flat, no wider than my finger, and fits neatly in my hand. I tuck it into my back pocket, where it lies snug against my jeans.

“Kendra, honey, are you all right?” Mom asks, knocking on the door.

I slap on a sterile pad, half twist the greying gauze around my arm, and yank my sleeve down. Then I ram the empty handle of the utility knife beneath the covers and toss the broken tip into my garbage can.

“Kendra?” Mom rattles the doorknob.

I look around, trying to see what I’ve missed, what I don’t want her to see. My hands shake. “Just a second!”

“Kendra, let me in. I know you’re upset.”

I stuff the bloody tissues into my garbage, crumpling clean ones on top. Then I drag the chair away and open the door.

Mom’s standing there, like she doesn’t know what to say. “Kendra … ” Her voice wobbles. “Are you all right?”

I lick my lips. “I’m fine. I’m just—I’m upset, okay?”

She cranes her neck and looks around, her eyes scanning the room. Socks, sketchbooks, and comic books lie on the floor. My unmade bed, the usual mess on my desk—that’s all there is to see. At least, I hope that’s all.

“What were you doing in here?”

“Nothing!”

Mom keeps watching me, as if looking at me long enough will make the secret pop right out of my mouth.

“God! Can’t I have any privacy around here?”

“I wish you’d talk to me.”

“I did! I am.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not going to quit therapy. I’ll get a job after school, do whatever I have to, but I’m not going to quit!”

“Honey, we’re not trying to make life harder for you. You can keep seeing Carolyn. We’ll manage somehow.”

“How? How are you going to manage, if you can’t afford it?”

“A few shops owe me money,” Mom says. “You know how I am about keeping after them. Well, this time I’m going to be firm. We need that money. That’ll hold us for a while. And after that, we’ll see. I don’t want you to worry, all right?”

Her voice is upbeat, but there’s tension beneath it.

I wonder if she’s thinking about the time she caught
me going through the medicine cabinet, stacking up the bottles of pills before they put me into therapy—before Protective Services ordered them to send me. Before Sandy called the police. Maybe Mom puts a positive spin on everything because she can’t bear the way things are. Maybe that’s her way of staying sane, like cutting is mine.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “That means a lot.” I almost feel like hugging her.

Mom smiles, bright as a toothpaste commercial. “And who knows? Maybe you won’t need to see her for very long.”

Her words are like a slap, bringing me back to reality. I step back and she follows me, her face practically in mine.

“Honey, it’s okay. We’ll find a way for you to see her as long as you need to.”

Like I believe that.

I have to come up with the money myself. Sell my art—if anyone will buy it. Mom’s paintings are picturesque views of the world, little postcards of happiness, while mine are all emotion and color. Mine tap into my pain and grief and sometimes into my happiness, but always into something that comes from deep inside. No boats in the harbor or sunlit meadows for me. I do my art because I have to. Paint or cut—they both help me survive. But Mom paints for the money—and her art sells. People want those perfect postcards of the world. I don’t think they want messy emotion. But I have to try.

Tires crunch on our driveway. Dad’s home.

Mom bites her lip. “Listen, Kendra, don’t say anything to your father, all right? He’s taking this downsizing thing very hard. He’ll feel horrible if he knows you’re upset.”

So suck it up and smile. What else is new?
“Okay.”

It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not like he could change what’s happening.

“Good girl.” Mom starts down the hall. “Dinner’s in half an hour.”

The side door slams. “I’m home!” Dad calls.

I drag my portfolio out of my closet and start going through all my paintings. I dump the really painful ones in a box at my feet—the automatic reject pile. Anything that doesn’t look well-crafted goes in there, too. But everything else stays out.

Footsteps thump down the hall. I ram the box into my closet and slap clothes on top. No one’s ever seen my abuse art. No one except Carolyn and Sandy—and they’ve only seen a few.

Dad pokes his head through the doorway. “Knock, knock. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He looks haggard, with dark, puffy shadows beneath his eyes, the deep lines around his mouth more pronounced than usual. There are huge sweat stains under his armpits of his crumpled shirt, and his tie is loose around his neck, like he only half pulled it off. I haven’t seen him look like this since the night he found out about the abuse. Since the night Protective Services came to our house.

He rubs a hand across his face. “Did your mother tell you—”

“Yeah, she did,” I say it fast, so he doesn’t have to.

“It won’t be forever, Kendra. Just until I can get back on my feet.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

Dad motions to my bed. “May I?”

I push a stack of paintings back, clearing a space for him.

He sits down heavily, the bedsprings creaking. “So—how are things?”

“Fine.”
What is this—Probe Kendra Day?

“Fine.” Dad raises one eyebrow. “Fine as in ‘I’m doing pretty good’ or fine as in ‘I had a lousy day and why won’t you leave me alone’?”

“Daa–ad,” I say, but I have to laugh.

“No, I’m serious. Because your mom seems to think it was the latter.”

Why does she do this to me?
I shrug. “Things are okay enough.”

Dad searches my face, like he’s trying to see everything I’m not telling him. “You had therapy today, right? How did that go?”

A lot better before I knew I was going to have to cut back.
“It was okay.”

“Do you think she’s helping you?”

I pull my knees up to my chest.
Something’s going on. They can’t have found out about the cutting; they’d be freaking out if they had. But something’s up, more than just money being tight.
“Yes; can’t you tell?”

“No, really, Kendra, I need to know. Because if you truly think she’s helping you, then we’ll just have to cut corners somewhere else. Maybe we can take out a loan.”

My mouth tastes like metal. What a choice: make myself feel better or put my family into debt. I know what I
have to do. “She helps me, a lot. But I can cut back for a while. It’s no biggie.”

Dad looks relieved. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I say, keeping my voice firm. The painting in front of me shimmers.

Dad picks it up. I grow still. I wish I’d hidden all the paintings before he came in. The one he’s looking at shows a girl flying close to the sun, laughing with the happiness of being able to fly, not seeming to notice that her flesh is melting off her body like wax.

“I haven’t seen your art in a while,” Dad says. “It’s very good. You’re one talented young lady.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. If he says that one more time, I’m going to get it tattooed somewhere.

Dad taps the painting. “Is this how you feel?”

I glance at it casually, like I haven’t been staring at it. “Sometimes.”

Dad goes silent.

I grit my teeth.

“It hurts a lot, doesn’t it?” Dad says quietly. “What that man did to you.”

I nod, my lips quivering. I clench my hands; I won’t let myself cry.

“I’m sorry,” Dad says. He puts his hand on mine.

I jerk away reflexively. A hurt look crosses his face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—”

“Overreacted,” Dad says. “I understand. But you can’t let what happened to you affect all your relationships with men.” He stands up. “It isn’t healthy.”

That’s what therapy is for.
But I don’t say that.

After supper, I grab my portfolio and head off to Sandy’s. There’s a note taped to his door: “Kendra—come right in.” I can hear the steady thump of music right through his closed door, and beneath the rhythm, I can just make out the whir of his pottery wheel.

I walk through his kitchen to his workroom. Sandy’s bobbing his head to the music, his hands covered in wet clay as he works at the wheel, his sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows. I stop in the doorway and watch. It never fails to look like magic, the way Sandy can pull a vase or a bowl out of a blob of clay.

Sandy shuts off the wheel and cuts the vase off the base with a piece of wire.

“I wish I could do that!” I shout.

He looks up, happy to see me. He wipes his hands on his apron and turns off the stereo. “You wanna sit down and have a try?”

I shake my head. “Not today.” And not any day in the near future. He’d know something was wrong if I didn’t roll up my sleeves, and I can’t do that without him seeing what
I’ve done. I miss the feeling of the cool, squishy clay beneath my fingers, the whir of the wheel—but my creations always collapse or turn out lopsided anyway. Pencils and paint are more my thing.