Scars (19 page)

Mom sounds like a shrieking kettle, going on and on. I jerk at our heavy front door. Locked!

I fumble with the bolt, my sweaty fingers slipping, and finally it turns. I yank the door open. But as the light from outside pierces my eyes, I hear a click from behind me.

Then I hear his voice: “Walk out that door, and you’re dead.”

I stand there, my heart pounding like it wants to rip right out of my chest.

Mom’s screeched words start to reach me. “Put down that gun!”

Gun?

I turn around, the world in slow motion.

Dad’s standing there, pointing a handgun at my chest. “Don’t even think about it,” he says.

In four steps, he’s beside me, slamming the door shut. He locks it again, then motions with his gun toward the living room, where Mom is standing.

“Henry! What do you think you’re doing?” Mom screams.

I wish she’d stop screaming, give me time to think.

“I’m trying to bring us to an understanding,” Dad says. “So shut up, Lori, before I shut you up.”

Mom shuts up abruptly.

“Good.” Dad smiles grimly, his eyes like a stranger’s. “Now sit. Both of you.”

Mom and I sit together on our faded couch. I clutch
the edge of the seat cushion, the rough material scratching my hands.

My cell phone rings loudly, playing Carolyn’s ringtone. I slide my cell out of my pocket, wishing I’d had it on vibrate.

“Give it to me,” Dad says, holding out his hand.

If I let him take it, I’m giving up my last link to safety.

“Give it to me, now!” Dad screams, waving the gun at me, the chords in his neck bulging.

I stumble over and hand it to him.

He rips out the battery, then stomps on the phone, shattering it. “That’s better,” he says, sounding pleased. “Now, go sit back down.”

I scramble to the couch.

“What are you going to do to us?” Mom asks in a quavering voice.

“Why would I do anything to you? This is all one big misunderstanding. Isn’t that right?”

Mom gulps and turns her head away.

Dad’s soldiers, the ones he made from model kits, are lined up on the mantle beside me, like a miniature firing squad. For some reason, I have this crazy desire to laugh.

Then the phone rings shrilly in the kitchen.

“I should get that,” Mom says, rising.

Dad waves the gun at her. “Sit down!”

She sits.

The phone stops ringing, and then starts again. Probably Carolyn. Or Meghan, wondering why I’m not in class. I lick my dry, chapped lips.

I’ve already given up my bargaining chip: pretending
I don’t remember him. I wasted it on Mom, thinking she’d protect me. But she’s never protected me—not when it mattered.

The ringing stops, and the room goes so quiet, I can hear Mom’s breathing beside me.

“Let us go, Dad. Put the gun away, and everything can go back to normal.”

The phone rings again, insistently.

Dad spins around and shoots it, once, then twice. The ringing stops.

Dad turns back to glare at me, his eyes dark. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Of course not. I swear I haven’t told anyone. No one except you—and Mom just now. And she’ll forgive and forget like she always does—won’t you, Mom?”

Mom looks at me with big, wide eyes.

“Won’t you?” I say again. I want to poke her, to make her speak.

Mom nods.

Dad wipes his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief. It’s white, like the one in the package he sent me.

“You told that scheming therapist, didn’t you? I knew she was no good for us. You started changing, looking at me differently, as soon as you started seeing her.”

“No, Dad, I didn’t! I swear I didn’t! I didn’t even know it was you—”
Please, God, let him believe me.
“Until the drive home today. The way you were acting, I knew there was something wrong, and then I figured it out. I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t had time.”

“I don’t know whether I can trust you.”

“You can trust me, Dad.”

“But why, Henry? I don’t understand why,” Mom wails beside me.

I grit my teeth. I want to hit her, to make her shut up before she sets Dad off again.

Dad sinks down onto a chair across from us, the springs groaning under his weight. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“I thought if I got married, it would change everything. You looked so young, Lori, with your smooth skin, just like a child’s, and I thought it would be enough. I prayed that it would be. But then we had Kendra—” He makes a moaning sound. “And I couldn’t help myself.”

I’m going to be sick, right here on our khaki-green carpet. I clench my teeth as my stomach lurches, and I force the acid back down.

His face is full of pain, like he really doesn’t like what he’s done. But I can’t allow my heart to twist itself up for him. Not if I want to get out of here alive.

“Dad—”

“Kendra, I tried. I really tried to stop,” Dad says. “But I couldn’t. It’s like an addiction, but a hundred times worse. I can’t control it.” He moans again. “Can you ever forgive me?”

I grit my teeth. I can’t listen any more. Because if I do, I’m going to start screaming and never stop. I stare at the heavy green drapes pulled across the front window. If only Mom would say something intelligent; if only she’d try to calm him down. But I can’t ever depend on her for help. I take a shaky breath. “I forgive you, Dad. I mean, you stopped, didn’t you?”

“You bet I did,” Dad says. “I stopped when you were twelve. You were beginning to develop, and you didn’t look like a child any more. And you were starting to fight me. I couldn’t control you as easily.”

When I was twelve. That was only three years ago. My stomach cramps so hard, I almost double over. It was three years ago that Dad started teaching Sunday school—to five-year-olds. Five-year-olds in a closed classroom, while all the adults are upstairs, praying.

My body turns cold, then hot. Why didn’t I guess? Why didn’t I ever see it? Guilt washes through me in a wave so strong I can hardly keep from crying out. I wonder if this is how Mom feels about me. Is this why she couldn’t bear to see what was happening?

A thought sears through my mind, and I frown at the carpet.
If Dad stopped raping me three years ago, why did he only want me to cut just six months ago?

My teeth start to chatter. I grit them together.
Because that’s when I started remembering. That’s when I started being a danger to him. I started being someone who could keep him away from other children—from his new victims.

Dad fingers his gun, tracing its edges, and I know he’s thinking about death. Maybe about mine. Or Mom’s.

I have to talk him out of this.
My throat is so tight, I can barely speak. “Let us go, and I swear I won’t tell. No one’ll ever know.”

Mom shudders beside me.

Dad jumps up, pointing the gun at me again. “How stupid do you think I am?” he roars.

“I don’t think you’re stupid. I’m offering my silence in exchange for our lives.”

Dad’s face crumples, tears rolling down his darkened cheeks. The gun droops in his hand. “I never wanted this. I’m not a monster, Kendra. Really. I’m not. I’m just a man who needs things.”

But I won’t let his words in, not any more. I won’t believe his lies.

I stand up and hold out my hand. “I’ll help you. And Carolyn will. Just give me the gun, Dad. Just give me the gun.”

“No!” Dad’s arm shakes as he points the gun at me again. “I’m not going to let you trick me.”

“I’m trying to help you,” I say. “Please let me help you. And let Carolyn help. She’ll know what to do—”

The gun wobbles in his hand. “Shut up!” he yells, squeezing the trigger.

The bullet slams past me, penetrating the living room wall. Mom’s face is white; her lips are moving like she’s praying, but she isn’t making any sound.

My legs tremble so hard, I’m not sure I can keep standing. But I can’t sit down again; I’ve got to get the gun.

“Dad,” I say, taking a step forward.

He steadies the gun, pointing it at me. “Don’t move, Kendra. I’m warning you. I don’t want to hurt you—but I’m not going to jail. I’m not going to lose everything I have.”

Suddenly there’s pounding on the door. “Police! Open up!”

Dad swivels around to face the door, then whirls back. He jabs his finger toward me. “Now look what you’ve done. This is all your fault. You did this!”

“No, I didn’t. How could I?” “You called them here.”

“When would I have called them?” I say. “I’ve been with you the whole time.”

Dad shakes his head and clenches the gun tighter.
“When you asked to be alone with that therapist, that’s when!”

“No, Dad. I swear, I didn’t.”
But Carolyn might have.

“Police! Open up, now!” The shout comes again, followed by the pounding on the door.

Dad closes the distance between us. Then he hooks his arm around my neck and drags me to the door, the cool barrel of the gun pressed against my temple. It smells of oil and burnt gunpowder, and I choke on the smell.

I don’t want to die!

Dad drags me sideways to the front window and shoves back the curtains, keeping me in front of him. “Get away from the house!” he shouts to the police, his voice wild. “Get away, or I’ll shoot her. I’ll kill her in front of you all!”

His words rip through me like shrapnel.
He means it! He’s willing to kill me to save himself.

“Well? What’s it going to be?” Dad shouts.

An officer’s eyes meet mine. Another officer winces. I watch them raise their hands, palms up, and slowly back away. Then I hear the heavy clunk of their boots on our porch as they back away. They’re leaving!

I want to scream at them not to leave me here, but I can’t seem to make my voice work; I can’t shout anything at all.

Behind the cops, I see red and blue lights flashing, pulsing out a signal of distress, and a TV crew pointing a camera at our house. A small crowd of people shove each other, straining to look past the police barricade. I don’t know how they can watch and not do something.
Why are
they even here?
My blood roars in my ears, and my legs begin to sag.

“Damn reporters, listening in on the police scanners,” Dad says, jabbing at me with the gun. “You see what you did? You see what you got us into?”

He yanks me back from the window, his arm still tight around my neck, and I pray that I survive—that Mom and I both get out of here alive.

A phone rings faintly, somewhere in the house. The sound jars us all.

“Goddamn phones,” Dad says, his arm pressing hard against my windpipe. “Why won’t they leave us alone?”

Choking, I pull at his arm; he loosens his grip slightly, and I suck in air. “Dad—what if it’s the police?” I rasp. “They might be trying to negotiate with you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to them.”

Still, the phone keeps ringing.

“Well, how else are we going to get out of here?”

“I don’t know!” Dad says, sounding desperate. His fingers tighten on the gun, and I know he’s thinking about how easy it would be just to shoot me.

But I can’t let myself think that way.

Dad’s gut presses into me as he breathes. His eggy breath assaults my nose. I keep my body stiff, trying to block all feeling, but the rough hairs of his arm are against my jaw. I feel the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart, and it makes me want to vomit.

Mom’s just sitting there crying, looking like a broken
toy. I can’t believe I ever thought she’d protect me. I turn my head, try to breathe better. Here I am with both my parents, and neither of them really loves me. Not the way a parent should, anyway.

If I get out of here alive, I’m going to spend more time with the people who really care about me—Carolyn, Meghan, Sandy, even Mrs. Archer. I’m going to make
them
my family. At least I know they love me and would never want to hurt me—or sit passively by while someone else does.

My eyes begin to sting with tears. I want to be with the people I love, not pressed up against this man—this rapist—who’s supposed to be my father.

The phone starts ringing again. As Dad pivots us around to face it, I know that this is it. I have to act right
now
—or I may not get another chance.

I grab Dad’s arm and try to wrestle away his gun—even though I know it’s the last thing I probably should do. But I just can’t wait any longer—I can’t stand being this close to him, can’t stand knowing we might die any second.

“Mom, run!” I shout, as Dad’s arm strains against mine, forcing the gun towards me. I feel him squeezing the trigger, then hear that deafening sound. The bullet rips into my shoulder, burning through my skin, and I scream.

Then Dad drops the gun, finally letting me go. He starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Kendra. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, the front door bursts open and police officers charge in. They’re all wearing visors and bullet-proof vests, and they have their rifles aimed at us.

“Get away from him,” one shouts to me.

I stumble away and toward them, and they grab me, pulling me to safety. Dad raises his trembling hands in the air, looking terrified. I feel a kind of pity for him—but not compassion or love.

Now someone is tearing the sleeve off my shoulder and applying pressure, then taping on a bandage while talking softly to me: “It’s only a surface wound; you’re going to be okay.” They wrap a blanket around Mom’s and my shoulders, then lead us out of the house. They take Dad out, too—in handcuffs.

It’s finally over.
I know I should feel relief and happiness, maybe even sadness. But I don’t. I can’t feel anything at all, at least not yet. The only thing left is the numbness inside me.

Outside, the sidewalks are still wet from the rain, but the sun’s shining so brightly that I have to squint to see. The crowd comes swarming toward us, shoving and trying to get past the police barrier. Cameras and lights mark our way, and reporters call out our names.

I’m shaking now and close to screaming as the police officer directs me toward the ambulance, guiding me by the arm. Then a good, familiar voice calls my name, and I turn.