Scars (8 page)

“Who says I can’t?” The words bounce off the walls. I wish I could swallow them back.

“You sold your art? Why didn’t you tell me? Who bought it? For how much?”

I can’t tell if she’s excited or angry. “Sandy helped me.
It was just a one-time thing.”
I don’t know why I’m lying to her. Yes, I do. I’m trying to protect myself. Trying to keep her from taking over.

“Sandy? Why didn’t you come to me?”

Because I didn’t think you’d help me.
“I got a hundred dollars, Mom! And I don’t know who bought it. I didn’t ask.”

She turns away from me, picks up a dishrag and scrubs at the counter. Her shoulders hunch, and her head bows.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t turn around.

My stomach tightens. “Mom? What is it?”

“I’m happy for you,” she says thickly.

I push off the fridge, go over and touch her back. She stiffens. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose red, her chin trembling; it’s just the way my face gets when I’m trying not to cry. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She sniffs. “I thought
I
was going to be the one to introduce you to the art world. I thought we’d be so close. When you picked up your first crayon and imitated me, I knew we would be. But we’ve never been that way. Ever since you were a toddler, you’ve pulled away from me. And nothing I ever did could change that.”

A memory rises up inside me, sharp and bitter.
I’m three, maybe four. We’ve just come back from a long day of visiting my parents’ friends. I’m whimpering, holding my crotch, telling Mom’s back that it hurts.

Mom turns around from her painting, looking irritated. “What’s wrong now?”

I keep whimpering.

“Kendra, I don’t have time for this. Ask Daddy to fix it.” And she turns away from me.

I snatch my hand from her back. Her shoulders are still hunched, the dishrag clenched in her hand. I can’t believe she ignored me when I tried to tell her. Can’t believe she didn’t see my pain. Anger sits like a smouldering piece of coal in my stomach.

“Mom, do you remember when I tried to tell you—”

“You just shut me and your dad right out. I was worried about you! I told the family doctor, but he said it was normal, that you were learning to be independent. I never should have listened to him.”

“Do you remember—”

“Your dad was always the better parent, making time for you, hugging your hurts away when I never could. I envied your relationship, the ease between you two—but believe me, Kendra, I’m a better parent than my parents ever were. They never touched me, except to hit me. I told you that, didn’t I?”

She never talks to me like this. Never. It’s almost like she knows what I’ve remembered and doesn’t want to hear it.

“Mom—will you just
listen
to me?”

“I
am
listening.” She scrubs the counter roughly, as if it’s covered in stains.

“I tried to tell you about the abuse once, when I was three or four. Do you remember?”

Mom goes still. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve thought about that every day since you told us—every single day! If only I’d listened to you then, things would be different. I blame myself, Kendra. I really do.”

This isn’t how I expected her to respond. I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her that it’s all right—but it’s not. And it won’t ever be.

“We didn’t know as much back then,” Mom says quickly. “We didn’t know about child abuse, the way mothers seem to now. If I’d thought—if I’d understood—”

Another excuse.
You can see when someone’s been hurt like I was. It’s obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it. Like Meghan’s eyes; I know my eyes have it, too. There’s no way to miss it; it almost hurts to see.

I told them in so many ways: jumping at everyone’s touch, keeping quiet to avoid too much attention, and hiding my body in loose clothes. Even my art screamed for help. I don’t believe she didn’t see it. Didn’t
want
to see it—now that, I believe.

The clock over the stove ticks loudly, counting every second of our silence. The night sky is so black outside the kitchen window, it seems to absorb everything, even the stars.

Mom sets the dishrag down and looks at me, her eyes full of tears. I know she’s asking for forgiveness, for understanding. But I have none to give her.

“I have to get my homework done.” I turn away.

“Kendra—wait!”

I sigh and turn around. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

I nod. That’s all I can do.

“Kendra—I know this isn’t a good time, but I need to talk to you before your dad gets home.”

Now what?

“I don’t think there’s an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. It looks like we’re going to have to move.”

“What? Where?” I stare at her.

“Out of the city. Now that your dad’s income’s been cut in half, we’re looking to lower our expenses. It would mean you couldn’t see Carolyn any more or go to your art therapy—”

My breath is gone, punched out by her words. I sag against the wall, staring at the row of vitamin bottles that Mom’s alphabetized. “I thought we already talked about this! I thought I could keep going.”

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. I don’t want to move,
either. We’ve been here twenty-six years and I love this place. But we may not have a choice.”

I can’t grasp what she’s saying. “I told you, I’ll pay for therapy. I’ll get a part-time job, help out around here more—”

“Honey, that’s not it. It’s the loans, the bills—it’s things that we can’t control.”

“Can’t you get another loan? Talk to the bank?”

Mom purses her lips. “Your father tried just this morning. They turned him down.”

My hands are fists. I want to smash something. “Why can’t we just move to a smaller house? An apartment, even? Why do we have to move so far away?”

Mom picks up a bottle of hand cream, then sets it back down. “Houses are significantly cheaper in the suburbs, Kendra. And your dad and I—we’ve been worried about you for a while, now. You’re retreating further from us, becoming even more withdrawn and moody. I guess we thought the change might do you some good.”

I can feel the blood rising in my face, the tears starting in my eyes. “How do you think yanking me out of therapy will help? Or out of school or away from my friends? I need them! I need—”

I want to smash my hand through the window, let the glass rip into my skin. I want to make the pain go away.

“Yes? What do you need?”

“I need Carolyn, Mom. I can’t face it all alone!”
His hand, gripping my wrist. His breath against my cheek.

“You’re not alone, honey,” Mom says. “You’ve got us.”

A scream rises inside me. “Don’t you get it? You’re
not enough!” The words are out before I can stop them. Hard, hurtful words. But the truth.

Mom turns her face away and I can see she’s trying not to cry.

I dig my hand into my pocket, close my fingers around the blade, and let the edge bite into me, press against my flesh. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re not a therapist, Mom. I need someone who knows what she’s doing. I need someone who understands.”

Mom’s face twists in anger. “I’ve read every book on sexual abuse I could find! I’ve joined a support group. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to! Why aren’t I ever enough for you?”

Oh God, she’s melting down, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“Mom—”

“Don’t you
Mom
me! I’ve worked damn hard at trying to be there for you, at trying to make things up to you. But you never let me in!”

I think of showing her my arm, of sharing
that
with her—but I’m not that stupid.

“You never told me,” I say. “How do you expect me to know you’ve read about it when you hide the books like they’re something shameful, some dirty secret?”

“That’s not fair!” Mom cries. “I didn’t want to burden you.”

“But you weren’t letting me in, either,” I say. “And—” I try to shove down the words, but they’re spewing out of me like vomit— “I don’t feel like I can talk to you. You’re always turning everything around, twisting what I say into a positive—or into a criticism of you.”

I wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. “If you really want me to talk to you, then I need you to hear what I have to say; you have to
listen
. If you’re willing to do that, then I’m willing to try. But that won’t change how much I need Carolyn.”

Mom’s lips tighten so much that they turn white.

I rush on. “I need someone who knows about abuse and knows how to help me deal with it. I need someone who’s not family. And that someone is Carolyn.”

“I’ll bet you wish she was me, don’t you, Kendra? I’ll bet you wish she was your mother. I can see it in your eyes; I can hear it in the way you talk about her.”

I don’t say anything.
It’s true.

Mom puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Kendra. Your Carolyn isn’t as great as you think. Your Carolyn, your precious Carolyn, only understands so much because she was raped, too. She’s a sexual abuse survivor.”

My head feels like it’s squeezing inward.
I can’t take any more.

Mom nods, a thin smile on her lips. “Yes, that’s why she’s
so
understanding. She’s a victim herself. You think I should go get raped, just so I can understand you?”

“You don’t understand anything!” I yell. And then I’m running out of the house and into the night, Mom screaming after me.

I run fast and hard, my shoes pounding against the pavement, jarring my bones.
Carolyn, a sexual abuse survivor.
It all fits now: the empathic looks, the sadness in her eyes I sometimes catch, the way she really gets my fear and pain. The way she understands me.

Why did she hide it from me? Why didn’t she trust me enough to tell me?

My blade is in my pocket. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to cut, how much I need that comfort. All I’d have to do is duck into the bathroom of some all-night coffee shop….

I reach for my blade, and my fingers touch the smooth warmth of the stone instead. I take it out and press it against my cheek, remembering the tenderness in Carolyn’s eyes as she offered me the basket of shells and stones.

Carolyn is still Carolyn. Even if she didn’t tell me herself, it doesn’t change the way she’s been there for me. Or how much she cares.

I slow down.

Or maybe it does change things. She understands on a
gut level what I’m talking about—and she’s made it to the other side. She’s happy, and she’s got a life that doesn’t revolve around pain. I want that so bad—but I never believed I could have it. But if Carolyn can do it, maybe I can, too. I just have to hold onto what makes me happy. Carolyn. Meghan. Sandy. Mrs. Archer. And my art.

My cell rings. Mom. I can’t talk to her right now, not without screaming. I shut my cell off and keep running, not even knowing where I’m going, until I find myself in front of Sandy’s. His kitchen windows are warm squares of yellow light pushing back the darkness.

I raise my hand to knock.

Sandy swings open the door before I do, letting light and the warm aroma of garlic and tomato out into the night. “Kendra! I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “Come on in.” He opens the door wider.

Why wouldn’t I be okay?

Sandy shuts the door on the night, then ushers me into the kitchen. The table is laid out with dishes: a bowl of asparagus and slivered almonds; a plate of crusty bread; bowls of pasta with cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, and some kind of herb on top. There are two half-drunk glasses of wine.

Emil stands, wiping at his mouth with a cloth napkin. He picks up the bottle of wine. “Good to see you, Kendra,” he says, coming around the table and hugging me with one arm. “I’ll just be in the living room, if either of you need me.”

He kisses Sandy, and leaves.

I look at their half-eaten meal.
I shouldn’t be here.
I turn to Sandy. “I should have called first. I’m sorry!”

“Nonsense,” Sandy says firmly, steering me to the
table and sitting me down. “You are welcome here any time, day or night. You know that.” He ruffles my hair, takes a plate down from the cupboard. “Have you eaten? Would you like some pasta? It’s good, if I say so myself.”

I bow my head. “No, thanks.”

Sandy sits down across from me. “I’m glad you came to me. I was worried.”

“My mother called you,” I say slowly.

“When you ran off like that, she was scared. We all hoped you’d come here.”

I hate that my mom can interfere in my friendship with Sandy like that. That she can call him and tell him her side of things before I even get a chance to. I cross my arms over my chest.

“So, you want to tell me what’s going on?” Sandy asks, leaning forward.

“Why? Didn’t she already tell you everything?” I slouch down in my chair.

“Kendra.” Sandy reaches for my hand. “Your mom told me a few things, it’s true. But that’s between her and me as friends. I try to keep that separate—as separate as I can. I want to hear what’s going on with
you
. I can see you’re upset.”

“They’re talking about moving, Sandy—right out of the city!” I say. “I need my therapy! God, I don’t know how I would have gotten through the last few months without it. Or without you. It’s like ripping my life supports away.” I swallow. “And things were just starting to get better. I met a girl I like—”

Sandy’s eyes light up.

“I don’t know where that’s going,” I say quickly. “I need time to find out. But most of all—I need to stay around the people who love me. Carolyn, and
you
. It’s too hard alone.”

“I know you need us,” Sandy says. “If you have to move, I promise we’ll stay in touch. You’re important to me, Kendra. No way am I letting you out of my life that easily.” He squeezes my hand. “Your parents love you, too, though.”

I choke back the tears. I realize now that I was hoping Sandy would let me stay with him. But Sandy’s in an uncomfortable position, being friends with both my mom and me. Like being pulled apart by two opposing magnets. Still, I have to try.