Scars (17 page)

I clench my fists.
I don’t care! Nothing else makes the pain go away. Nothing else stops the shadows.

“You don’t want to hear that, do you?”

“No!”
Because I need cutting. I need it so bad.
I can’t look at her.

“I know you probably can’t stop just like that.” Carolyn snaps her fingers. “And I’m not asking you to; it’s been helping you cope.”

I look into her kind, worried eyes. She’s on my side; I know she is.

“I just want you to try to do other things instead, if you can. Your body’s been through so much abuse; it doesn’t deserve to be punished more.
You
don’t deserve this abuse, this repeated threat to your life.”

I nod slowly. I don’t want to die. But I don’t know how to give up cutting, either.

“What did you use to do this?”

“A utility knife. Well, the blade from one.”

“Can I see it?”

“How did you know I had it on me?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected. Come on, Kendra. What can it hurt?”

I bend down and dig the blade out of my sock, then give it to her, my hand shaking. If she tries to take it away, I’ll just buy another one or I’ll find something else, anything that will cut with precision. I’m not going to stop cutting. I can’t.

“Do you wash this before you use it?”

“No.”

Carolyn hands the blade back to me.

I tuck it back into my sock, trying not to feel so exposed, trying not to feel the shame that’s heating my face.

“I want you to wash the blade with soap and water beforehand. Wash your arm, too, if you think you’re going to cut—if you absolutely can’t avoid it.” She goes back to looking at my arm, gently turning it over. Her fingers are cool and reassuring against my hot skin. “These look infected. Did you put anything on them?”

“I poured some hydrogen peroxide on it yesterday.”

“Hydrogen peroxide is good.” Carolyn walks over to her bookshelf and pulls out a first aid kit, then brings it back to the couch. She sits down and motions for me to sit beside her. I do.

Carolyn takes out a tube and unscrews the cap. “You can also put anti-bacterial ointment on your wounds; it’ll prevent infection.” She globs some on my arm, spreading it lightly and holding her breath like she doesn’t want to hurt me. “I want you to put some of this on every day, all right?”

“Okay.” Somehow, I don’t mind her telling me what to do. Part of me even likes it. It feels like something a good mom might do.

Carolyn screws the cap back on the tube and hands it to me. “I’m taking this seriously, Kendra, because it is serious. I want you safe. I want you to stay alive. And I don’t want to see you hurt any more. You’ve been hurt too much already.”

I stare down at my hands. She sounds so worried— so unhappy. I
need
the cutting—need it to get me through the pain. But some of the comfort’s gone, now that I feel her worry for me—and her fear.

“We’re going to work on some things you can do instead of hurting yourself—distraction, self-soothing, expressing your feelings. And if memories come flooding in on you, I want you to tell me, okay? We need to help you close them down when you’re not here in session with me so you don’t feel such a need to cut.”

I nod.

Carolyn pats my knee. “I’m so glad you told me. Just remember that you can call me any time. We can talk things through. I’d rather you do that than cut.” Carolyn picks up one of her business cards, and writes on it. “This is my cell. I don’t give it to everyone. But I want you to use it if you think you’re going to cut.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course not. I’m a little sad that you felt you needed to do this. And I’m sad that I didn’t see it sooner. But I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me now.”

“Are you going to have to tell my parents?”

“You know I will.”

I rub my hands on my jeans. “When—?”

“As soon as you leave.”

“But you won’t tell them anything else, right?” I say. “You won’t tell them about my memories or the MP3 player or anything else?”

“Absolutely not. The only thing I’ll share with them is your self-harm. I’m legally and morally bound to tell them about it. But I promise, I will not share anything else.”

I pinch the inside of my hand, trying not to cry.

“It’ll be all right, Kendra. It’ll work itself out.”

But I don’t know how it can.

I pass people on the way to school, but I don’t really see them. I don’t see anything except Carolyn’s worried face. Right now, she’s probably dialing my parents’ number, telling them my secret.

I want to run back to her office and snatch the phone from her, beg her not to call. But I know I can’t do that, so I just keep walking.

Everything is getting so messed up. I wish I could start the morning over, but it’s too late to change it now. At least I’ll see Meghan soon. And Mrs. Archer, too. I need to see their friendly faces, need to know they care.

I run my fingers along the rough brick of a building, letting it scrape my skin, drawing blood. The stinging pain only irritates me; it doesn’t soothe me the way cutting does. I don’t know why everyone thinks cutting is such a big deal. It’s not like I’m running around hurting anyone else.

An empty ginger ale can lies in the gutter. I know that if I have to, I can tear it apart and use it to cut … .

“Kendra!” A car pulls up beside me.

I freeze, my heart clenching. Why didn’t I stay alert to my surroundings? I shake myself and start to run.

“Kendra!” I swear I hear Mom’s voice.

I stop and turn around. Mom’s leaning out the car window, her cheeks wet with tears. Dad’s sitting stiffly beside her at the wheel. I walk slowly to the car.

Dad leans across Mom to look at me. “Get in the car, Kendra,” he says in a jagged voice.

“Why? What’s happening?”

“We’re going to Carolyn’s, all three of us.”

It’s quiet in the car—too quiet. I can hear every sniffle Mom makes, every grunt of Dad’s breath. I can’t believe this is happening so fast, can’t believe we’re heading right back to Carolyn’s.

I know from the way Mom’s trying not to cry and the way Dad’s avoiding my gaze that they know about the cutting. I feel hot with shame and dirty somehow, like I’ve done something wrong. And I have. I’ve hurt them.

My head gets light. I float up and out of myself and look down at our car, on all three of us, sitting in silence. It’s so familiar, this drifting outside of myself. I know I’ve done it before; I’ve done it often.

I follow my parents into the building, all of us locked in our own tomb-like hush. The silence pushes up beneath my skin and I scream inside—but nothing comes out. Fear grows like ice inside me, splintering into my heart.

Carolyn opens her door; her gaze finds mine, and I feel myself come back to my body just a little. A tiny spot of warmth spreads through my ice-cold stomach.

Dad sits at one end of the couch; Mom sits at the other, taking my regular spot. I want to tip the couch over, to shove them right out of the office. They don’t belong here, with their heavy sighs and stilted voices. They’re invading this space that used to be mine—mine and Carolyn’s.

Dad pats the cushion beside him, and I sit where they expect me to—imprisoned by Mom on one side and Dad on the other. I draw myself in tight, but Dad’s knee still bumps into mine and Mom squeezes my hand.

“I don’t understand why this has happened,” Mom says, looking at Carolyn.

I roll my eyes.
Isn’t it obvious?

Dad draws himself upright. “What I want to know is how long you’ve known that Kendra was cutting herself. Did you know from the beginning?”

“No,” Carolyn says, “I just found out today. That’s why I called you.”

“And we appreciate that. But I guess you’ll understand when we tell you that we’re taking her elsewhere.”

I jerk back like he’s slapped me. “That’s not fair! It’s not Carolyn’s fault. I kept it a secret from everyone. She’s the one who got me to talk.”

“It’s too little, too late, Kendra. I know it’ll be hard to adjust to someone new, but I want what’s best for you. And right now, Carolyn isn’t it.”

There’s something wrong with his voice, something wrong with his words. But I can’t figure out what, can’t hold the thoughts still in my head.

“I understand this is hard for you, Mr. Marshall,” Carolyn says. “It must’ve been quite a shock. But I don’t think changing therapists right now will help Kendra.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your clients,” Dad snaps. “Just tell me why I should continue to pay you to see my daughter, when she was cutting herself to pieces right under your nose.”

Mom lets out a muffled sob.

I want to cry out with her. I never meant to hurt her. I never meant to hurt anyone at all. And now I’ve hurt so many people. I bite down hard on my lip. If only I hadn’t told Carolyn … . If only I hadn’t let her see.

“Kendra wasn’t harming herself in our sessions,” Carolyn says slowly. “And there
is
control in the act.” She hands a box of tissues to my mom. “I don’t think it’s helpful for us to keep going over what has or hasn’t been done; I think what we need to look at right now is how we can support Kendra.”

“That’s my priority, too,” Dad says. “I just don’t think this therapy is working for her. Look at what she’s been doing!”

“I can understand your concern,” Carolyn leans forward. “But her behavior is not an indication that she’s getting worse. It’s merely a symptom of her distress.”

“I’m sorry,” Mom says, crumpling the tissues in her fist. “I don’t understand.”

“Self-injury shows the depth of pain and turmoil someone is feeling. Now, I know you’ll want her to stop hurting herself right away. But a more realistic hope is that Kendra will learn some new coping skills, and, in time, find the tools and strategies she needs to safely express her emotions instead of cutting. I feel certain that Kendra can do this. She’s very strong.”

But I don’t feel like I am.

“She
is
strong,” Dad says, his voice choking up. “We know that. But she’s been through so much; I want to make sure that we’re doing the right thing. That we’re not harming her more.”

“Therapy
helps
me, Dad.”

He turns to me. “I’m not convinced. Don’t you think it’s odd that you didn’t cut until you entered therapy? Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Therapy doesn’t have anything to do with my cutting! Therapy’s what’s kept me alive. And Carolyn.”

“What are you saying, Kendra?” Dad asks, his face tightening into a frightened mask. “You’ve been thinking about suicide?”

Mom gasps beside me.

I don’t know how we got here. I never meant to tell them any of this. I can hear Mom’s labored breathing, and feel the tension in Dad. I shift on the sofa and pull myself further inward. “Yes, I was thinking about it—
before
therapy. But that’s what I’m saying. Carolyn’s helped me want to live, and I’m past that now. And isn’t it better that I cut myself than kill myself?”

“Oh, my God,” Mom says.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “You were thinking about killing yourself,” he says softly.

I look at Carolyn, silently begging her to help me.

“Kendra has gone through a very rough period,” Carolyn says in her soothing voice. “Many survivors do, when they first remember their abuse. But Kendra is a strong, resilient girl, and she’s making remarkable progress. I would
say that suicide is the farthest thing from her mind right now. She’s told me quite clearly that she wants to live.”

I nod my head hard.

“Self-harm is not an act of failed suicide,” Carolyn says, leaning forward. “It’s the act of trying to cope with unbearable pain. It can also be a cry for help—a cry I’m taking very seriously. Kendra needs our support. And I intend to be here for her.”

“And make a buck off her,” Dad says.

I can’t believe he said that.
“Carolyn cares about me!” I glare at him. “You’re just worried about the money because you can’t afford it.”

“Hush, Kendra; that’s private family business,” Mom says.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for my own sessions.”

“Money
is not
the issue,” Dad says. “How do we know that this woman has your best interests at heart?”

“Mr. Marshall,” Carolyn says, “I know you’re upset, but—”

“All I’m saying is that she wasn’t cutting before she came to see you.” Dad jiggles his foot, his pant leg rising above his sock to reveal dark, curly hair that glitters against the paleness of his skin.

He reaches down to scratch his leg. The sound of his nails on his dry flesh is loud, and shivers shoot up my spine.

And then all I can see is his hand—the way the dark hair sprouts from each finger, the blunt way his nails are cut. I see it—
and I recognize it.

I recognize
his
hand, his face, his voice. The fragments of memory all slam together in a burst of blinding pain.

I press my hands to my aching head. Their voices move in and out around me, their words devoid of meaning.

It can’t be Dad. It can’t be!

But I know it is. I know it with my whole being. I know, now, why I was afraid to remember, why I thought I couldn’t survive it. My abuser lives with me. He lives right in the same house.