Scars (7 page)

“God, if you can do that with crayons, you must be dynamite with paint,” Meghan says, leaning over my arm to look.

I come back to the room with a start. “It’s just a sketch,” I say, but she leans in closer. The gum-chewing girl gets up and comes over, too. I sink down in my chair.
So much for holding myself back.

“Meghan, Stacey, please focus on your own work,” Julie says. She walks over and looks at Meghan’s page, then sits next to her. “This girl looks like she’s been through something pretty awful,” she says, smoothing out the paper. “Want to tell me about her?”

“Nope. It’s just a fucking picture.”

“I think it’s more than that. I think it’s trying to tell me something.”

I sneak a glance. Meghan has crudely painted a girl with a smile stamped on her face, a brownish-yellow tattoo on her shoulder, and a beer bottle in her hand.
Brownish-yellow—like a bruise.
I glance at Meghan, sitting there so rigidly, and I know Julie’s right. I want to say, “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” but I know that would only make it worse.

My stomach cramps. A shadow rises up inside me, smothering my breath.
His hand clutching my thigh. Yellow-brown marks beneath, like fingerprints, on my skin. A warm, sticky trail of blood and semen on my legs. His voice hissing, “I will kill you if you tell.”

I grip the edge of the table—and my drawing comes back into focus, the man’s hand jumping out at me.
His
hand. There’s something familiar about the blunt finger-nails, the hair on his fingers, the way he holds his hand.

I can’t draw air into my lungs. I look away, ignoring the spinning in my head, the sickness in my stomach. I don’t know whose hand it is. I
don’t!

I hitch in a breath, then another.

“I tell you, it’s just a picture,” Meghan is saying. “Lay off with your analytical shit.”

“Nothing is
just
a picture. Each one tells us something.”

I hunch over my page, trying to block their view.

“The girl’s fine,” Meghan insists. “She’s smiling.”

“Sure, she’s smiling,” Julie says. “But it looks like she’s trying to hide how she feels.”

Meghan throws her brush down. “What is it with you people? You’re not happy unless you dig something up, are you? Well, guess what? There’s nothing for you to find!”

I try to shut out what she’s saying. But the room is too small, her voice too harsh, and I’m drowning in the pain that fills the room.

“Nobody’s hurt me!” Meghan shouts. “Nobody’s snuck into my room at night and climbed into my bed, nobody’s put an iron to my face. All right? I’m not some abused kid!”

Dark spots dance in front of me.
I’m rocking on a bed, pain like a knife between my legs and blood on the sheets. “If you tell, you will die,” he says, his voice low and hoarse.
I can hear his voice now, can hear it as clearly as if he’s right here beside me. But I can’t let myself recognize his voice. I won’t.

Images rip through my brain, pounding behind my eyes.
His huge body on top of mine, driving into me. My hands gripping the sheets. My body arched with pain.

I shudder.

Meghan crumples up her painting and tosses it on the floor.

Julie reaches down and picks it up, smoothing it out.

“Just forget it!” Meghan yells, her voice breaking—breaking, the way I am inside. I feel the pain in her, as strong as my own. I feel her terror at being cornered, at someone trying to rip out the secrets embedded in her skin.

“Leave her alone!” I scream, leaping from my chair. “Just leave her alone!”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Julie says. “I was talking to Meghan.”

“But she doesn’t
want
to talk!” I say, trembling. “Stop trying to make her!”

Everyone is staring at me, even Mrs. Archer. Especially Mrs. Archer. I sink back into my chair, my face burning. I’ve really done it now.

Julie rubs her hand over her eyes. “Maybe I did push a little too hard,” she says, turning to Meghan. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s no skin off my back,” Meghan says, but she looks close to tears. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and smiles, her lips quivering.

I can’t smile back. I clench my hands under the table, digging my nails into my skin. I need to cut.

“Kendra? How’re you doing?” Julie asks, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“Fine,” I say. “Just fine.”

Julie and Mrs. Archer look at each other across the table, and I know they don’t believe me. I’m shaking so hard I can hear my teeth chatter.

Julie’s hand is still on my shoulder. She leans down close. “Come outside with me.”

I follow her out of the room, into the hallway. The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz.

Julie closes the door and looks at me, her eyes sad. “Something really upset you in there, didn’t it?”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not what worries me.” Julie tilts her head to one side. “Why were you so upset when I was trying to get Meghan to talk?”

“Because sometimes it isn’t safe to,” I say without thinking. I close my mouth fast. I need to shut myself down right now. I need to cut.

“Sometimes it’s not safe to,” Julie says. “Is that what it’s like for you?”

His hand, gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear.

I blink hard, pushing the shadows away.
I’ve got to think my way out of this. I’ve got to keep her from the truth.

“I’ve got a therapist,” I say. “Carolyn Fairchild. You can call her if you like. But I’m already dealing with it.”

“I will kill you if you tell.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Julie says.

I want to cut so bad, it’s hard to concentrate. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go to the bathroom.”

Julie studies me. “You’re sure you don’t want to—”

“I’ve really got to go.”

“All right. But come straight back.”

I force myself to walk slowly away—but as soon as I round the corner, out of her sight, I’m running, flying toward my release. I smash into the bathroom and shut myself into a stall.

I have the warm blade out of my pocket and into my hand almost before I have the door locked. I tear off the bandage and slash until I can’t hear his voice any more, until I can’t see his hands. I slash until the fear leaves me.

Then I clean up the blood and wrap my arm tightly, pulling my sleeve back down over my tender arm. When I walk back in, the whole room looks different—bigger, brighter, not so full of pain. I settle in next to Meghan and turn my paper over.

My head is clear again. The shadows are gone. I pick up the crayons and draw another picture, one that I know won’t show too much—and the drawing spills out of me like I was meant to draw it. It shows two girls holding hands, smiling up at the clear blue sky. All around their bare feet are shards of glass, but the girls are safe where they stand.

Meghan reaches out beneath the table and rests her hand on my thigh. Her hand is warm and heavy, and I feel myself come back into my body, to the dull, throbbing pain in my arm, to the feeling of her hand on my jeans. Her hand feels good. Safe. Even comforting. I don’t want her to move it away.

“You all right?” she whispers.

I nod. I can’t tell her, but I’m better than I was before. I know how to stop the shadows now; how to keep them from coming into my art. I know how to keep myself safe. All I have to do is cut. Cut until it all bleeds away.

Julie stands, then says, “Sometimes art therapy can bring up a lot of emotion, so I’d like you all to be gentle with yourselves over the coming week. This was a good session, people; you should be proud of yourselves. I’ll see you all again next Thursday; I know you’ll be looking forward to it.”

“She’s a regular comedian, that one,” Meghan mutters.

I laugh. I can
laugh
again.

Meghan and I roll up our art, fastening elastic bands around the sheets. We walk out of the room together, carrying the rolls of paper like sabers.

“You really saved my ass back there,” Meghan says. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I made such a scene.”

“You kidding?” Meghan grins. “You took the heat right off
me
!” Her face grows serious. “You’ve been through some rough shit, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“You mind my asking what?”

I take a deep breath. With anyone else, I wouldn’t go
there, but I trust Meghan. I like her. “Sexual abuse. When I was a kid. Started when I was two, maybe younger. I don’t know when it stopped. I don’t even remember who did it. Guess I don’t want to.”

Meghan whistles. “That’s rough. Must be really hard sometimes, huh?”

“Yeah.” My arm aches fiercely.

We walk quietly for a few minutes, our feet moving in rhythm.

Meghan glances at me. “Nobody gets what it’s like. Not unless they’ve been there.” “Sometimes I think it’s screwed my whole life up, you know? I mean, I don’t know what I would’ve been like if my mom never beat on me, but I think I’d probably be different. Not so messed up.”

“Me, too!” I can’t believe how much she understands. How alike we are.

We reach the exit. I wish we didn’t have to say good-bye, but I don’t want to push myself on her.

“Hey, you feel like getting something to eat?” Meghan asks.

I shove open the door, feel the sun on my face, smile so wide my mouth hurts. “Yeah! And I know just the place.”

The Java Cup.
I think it’s a great idea until we get there—and then I start to curl up inside myself, retreating from my own skin. But I push open the door anyway and lead the way in. The delicious scents of chocolate and coffee wrap around me, and the haunting sound of pan flutes floats above the murmur of conversation, the sound so clear it’s almost as if the musicians are in here with us.

I see my paintings almost before I see anything else;
they’ve been matted and framed and have little white cards on the walls beneath them. They look so professional. I raise my head.
That’s my art on the walls! My art that people are looking at.
Sandy is
so
my fairy godfather.

“Hey, will you look at that art!” Meghan says. “It’s something else.”

My stomach jumps. “Do you like it?”

“Hell, yeah. It’s real art—not that fake scenery or that squares and triangles stuff.” Meghan scratches her cheek. “It kinda reminds me of your art.”

I hold back my laughter. “That’s because it is.”

Meghan looks at me, eyes wide, her lips parted. She’s so beautiful. “Get out!”

She walks up close to a painting and looks at my signature, then at the card beneath it. A giggle bursts out of me.

She whirls around and bops me on the head with her rolled-up painting. “You twit!” she says. “You little twit!” She bops me on the head again. I shield my head and laugh.

Meghan grabs my shoulders and turns me to face the tables of talking, laughing people. “Hey, everybody,” Meghan says loudly. “This is my friend Kendra Marshall, the artist of these paintings!”

I clap my hand over her mouth, but most people are smiling at us—even the woman behind the counter.

“Stop that!” I hiss at Meghan, but I can feel a smile sneaking onto my face. I lead her by the hand to an empty table and push her into a chair as the woman from behind the counter comes over.

“Hi, Kendra, I’m Lisa. Emil told me all about you. I’ve
got something for you.” Lisa takes a wad of bills out of her apron and pulls off five twenties. “One of your paintings sold. People really like them, but I told them they can’t take them till you bring me more. So bring in some new ones real soon, you hear?”

“You got it.” I take the money and stuff it into my pocket. Two sessions paid for, just like that!

Lisa takes our order. After she leaves, Meghan turns to me. “I don’t care what your mom says; she’s wrong. Your art is good, Kendra, real good. Not everything has to be pretty.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” I say.

Happiness warms me through like the summer sun.

Mom’s waiting at the screen door when I get home.

I sigh and walk toward her. “It went fine,” I say, before she can ask me anything. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice.

Mom hovers around me. “Why is it that you can’t paint with me, but you can with a bunch of strangers?”

Because they don’t criticize me.
“I didn’t paint. I drew. And it was different; it was about healing, not technique.”

“Can I at least see what you did?”

I stare at the bright yellow walls of the kitchen until my eyes ache. “I don’t think it’s the kind of art you like.”

“I’ve never said I didn’t like your art, Kendra.”

“Yes, you did!”

“I’ve said that some of your art won’t sell, that it’s not what people want to look at.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Mom winces. “I’ve always encouraged you! Didn’t I buy you your first set of paints? Didn’t I give you all the art supplies you ever wanted?” Her lips tighten. “You have talent, Kendra. A lot of talent. I just hate to see you waste it.”

I lean back against the fridge, cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not wasting it if it helps me. Isn’t that what art is supposed to be about? Expression?”

“Art is about many things. But it won’t mean much if you don’t hone your talent. Now, are you going to let me see what you did, or not?”

If I say no, she’ll hound me until I say yes. I sigh and pull the drawing out of my backpack.

Mom plucks it from me and unrolls it. She frowns at the girl with her mouth sewn shut.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.

“It’s … good,” Mom says, almost like it hurts her to say it.

I grit my teeth. “All right, what’s wrong with it?”

“No one’s ever going to want to look at this, let alone buy it. It’s depressing.”

I snatch the drawing back, stuff it into my bag. “I knew you couldn’t look at my art without criticizing it!”

“You asked me! I’m only trying to help prepare you for the real world. It’s harsh out there—”

“Do you think I don’t know that? The first time that man raped me, I knew that—”

“So why do you want to make things harder for yourself? How are you ever going to survive if you can’t sell your art?”