These Gentle Wounds (16 page)

“I don't need anything from you.”

His laughter sends shivers up my back.

“It's going to take time. I get it. We'll do this in small steps then. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. I'm going to go watch the game. You can join me or not. Tomorrow I have something special planned. Maybe you'll feel differently then.”

He walks into the other room and the sounds of a hockey game on TV seep out. I kind of want to watch it, but not with him.

It feels strange to be standing here alone.

But then I don't really feel like I'm alone. Every time I blink, I can see them. The kids in their playpen over in the corner. Kayla running down the stairs and Mom yelling at her to walk.

Shaking my head doesn't help to clear it.

Someone in the other room scores a goal.

I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. There's not much in it. Some cheese that looks hard, some raw meat.

My stomach heaves and I gag into the sink. I reach for a glass out of the cabinet and my hand starts to shake.

“Feed the kids, Gordie.”

“No,” I whisper under my breath. “No. It isn't real.”

I steady myself on the side of the sink and look out the window. I can see into the kitchen next door. A woman in a pink apron is at her own sink, washing dishes. I move out of the way before she can see me.

I reach again for a glass, fill it with water, and take it upstairs, whispering to myself, “I'm fifteen. That was a long time ago. They aren't here.” Anything to block out the voices that seem to be floating out of the walls.

When I get to Kevin's room, I lock the door behind me, hoping it will keep them all out.

It's just the hook latch. But it's all I have.

Twenty-Two

According to my watch, it's Saturday morning. I'm still dressed in my rumpled clothes from yesterday and my sneakers are still tied.

I don't know what happened to Friday night. I don't remember anything except needing to be away from him. Away from all of them.

The walls are still intact. There's no blood on my pillow. I run my hands over my arms. My legs. My chest. Nothing seems bruised. I've never lost time like that before when I wasn't spinning.

I always remember my spins, and I thought that sucked.

I was wrong. Not remembering them is worse.

I circle the small room.

The door is still latched, and that makes me feel a little better.

The house is quiet.

Not a comforting quiet, but an edgy quiet. A quiet like cemeteries.

I look out the window. There are no cars in the driveway, which is strange. I'm surprised he left me here on my own. I could just leave, but I know if I went back to Jim's, they'd only drag me back here, where the court says I have to be.

And who knows what Kevin would do. Maybe we'd both end up in prison or something.

And then I'd really be alone.

I open the bottom compartment of my backpack and take out Ms. DeSilva's card. I still can't call her Amy. I've already memorized her number, but I don't have a phone.

I haven't seen one in the house either.

I really need to pee, but when I pull on the door, I can tell he's locked it from the outside.

I lie back down on the bed and try not to think about it.

Instead I think about Sarah. I pretend she's lying next to me with her arm heavy on my chest. It holds me down like an anchor. I can smell lilacs.

I think for a little bit about her running her hand through my hair. I do it myself and it doesn't feel the same, but the longer I think about her, the closer I come to feeling that same dizziness.

Then I think about kissing her. It makes me so hard, I'm pretty sure I could come just from thinking.

I'm going to need to kiss her on Monday when I see her at school, if she doesn't hate me for missing the show.

I close my eyes and think about Sarah until I'm almost shaking.

I hate this house.

I wonder what Kevin is doing. I wonder if he's really Kevin or the monster from the other night.

I try not to wonder where my father is, with his vulture voice. I don't want him to come back. I need to get out of here.

I also still need to pee really badly.

I get up and open the window. The maple tree has grown a lot in the past five years. I'm pretty sure I could reach out and catch a branch and lower myself down.

I'd leave if I didn't think that it would get Kevin in trouble. Somehow.

And Sarah. Although I almost think that Sarah would tell me to go. She always seems to want to be somewhere else.

But I don't know where I would go. Maybe Canada really is an option.

At least I could play hockey there.

I feel like I'm trapped in my head. Too many thoughts are soaring through it. It feels like my hand does when it's spasming. Like electricity.

Standing by the window, I take my shirt off and hold it over my lap as I unzip my jeans. I'm glad Kevin's room overlooks the back of the house. I pee out the window, hoping that no one can see me.

I zip back up and do homework that probably won't be due for a week. I lose myself in conjugating French verbs until his car pulls up.

Everything in me tenses in reply. My thumb starts moving. I know he's going to hate that. I sit on my hand. I don't want to; Sarah would be angry at me for hiding it, but I can't stop trying. Not around him.

The front door opens and I hear his creak on the stairs. I hold my breath and wait.

He unlocks his side of the door with a deafening click. “Open this now or I'm going to have to take that latch off.”

I have no choice. I open the door.

He looks me up and down, like he can tell that I've peed out the window.

Like he knows what I was thinking about Sarah.

My hand gets worse. I forgot to grab the other leather band and I'm sure he'd kill me if I start clicking a pen.

I hide my hand behind my back.

He holds up a paper bag. “Do you still like salt bagels?”

I shrug.

“Go get cleaned up and then make yourself something to eat.”

I grab clean clothes from the closet and force myself down the hall into the bathroom. I used to have to reach up to see myself in the mirror. I don't have to anymore.

It's strange to see this version of me looking back at me. I was expecting to see myself the way I looked when I was ten.

I change clothes and wash my hands and run them, wet, through my hair. I'm waiting for him to tell me I need to cut it, but I don't want to. I like the fact that it's longer than Sarah's. And Kevin and I look more alike when my bangs are shaggy.

The T-shirt I'm wearing is my brother's and has the name of a band on it that I've never heard of, much less listened to. The shirt is dark gray and rumpled. Kevin never lets me iron. He's afraid my hand will start acting up or something.

I go back into his room. It doesn't matter how long they force me to stay here; it will always be his.

I pull out DeSilva's card and stick it in my sock. With the bottom of my jeans covering it, you can't tell it's in there. But I can feel it rubbing against my ankle. It feels like a reminder of the rest of the world. It feels safe.

Then I head downstairs.

I skip the bagel. My stomach is so clenched up, I'm scared to eat.

He tells me to get into the car, but I have obvious issues with that. First, I don't want to be in this small space with him. Second, who knows where we'll end up? Third, the car smells like stale beer and anger.

I sit so far over that the armrest is digging into my side.

For all I know, he's taking me to the river to finish the job that Mom started.

He looks me up and down out of the corner of his narrowed eye. “You look like you slept in a gutter.”

I slide my hand under my leg.

“Stop that,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to glare at me.

I pull my hand out and it quivers in my lap.

“I said stop it.”

I try to will my hand to stop, but it doesn't listen to me. It never does.

“I can't,” I say, waiting for an explosion, but he just harrumphs.

Outside the window, the trees fly by. I take a deep breath at the start of every block, feeling like I might forget to do it otherwise. I think about Sarah holding my hand. I think about kissing her on Monday.

He pulls the car down a bumpy unpaved street, the kind I imagine are found out in the country with empty lots and broken-down pick-up trucks rusting in the yard. I didn't know there were streets like this in suburban Michigan.

He turns and pulls down another, then stops at a house. It's unremarkable. Just a red brick house, really. Just like the ones on either side of it.

“I have to pick something up,” he says, and laughs like there's some inside joke I don't get. “Stay in the car.”

He lets himself into the house and I see a flash of blond hair before the front door closes. Then I roll the window down and let the fresh air dance around me.

My lungs struggle to remember how to breathe without the reminder of the blocks of trees.

I close my eyes, but even with the window open, it smells too much like him. I can feel the memories starting to come and I can't let them.

I bite down on my lip and open my eyes.

There's a little kid standing in the yard. Watching me.

He's the image I expected to see in the mirror in the bathroom.

He isn't me. But he looks a lot like the picture of me that was in all the newspapers when I was ten.

We stare at each other.

He slowly limps over to the car. There's something wrong with his legs. One is shorter than the other.

I look at his eyes, because focusing on his limp seems rude. His eyes are so dark brown they're almost black. And they're frightened. And something else. Like they're too empty and too full at the same time.

His worn jeans have been patched, but his shirt looks like it's just been ironed. Like he'd get in trouble if he got anything on it. When he gets close, I notice fading bruises on his pale arms: purple and green and yellow against his perfectly ironed blue shirt.

When I close my eyes, it's Kevin standing there instead. I don't say anything because Kevin will just get mad and say he doesn't want to talk about it. And that means he won't talk to me about anything for a long, long time.

Good thing I've learned how to say “I'm sorry” with my eyes. That's as much as he can take.

But when I open my eyes again, it isn't Kevin. It's this strange boy who looks like me.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks back at the house and then at me. He smiles and his eyes light up, but both the light and the smile fade from his face quickly. He puts an arm over his face. Like he thinks if he can't see anything, then no one can see him.

“I'm Gordie,” I say. “What's your name?”

He pulls his arm down and inches closer to the car. His voice is so soft I can barely hear it.

“Jordan.”

His arms cross in front of his chest and he pulls at his short sleeves like he's trying to cover the bruises before he looks back at the house again.

“He says I have a brother. Are you him?” Jordan asks the question out loud that I'm asking in my head.

Now it's my turn to stare at the house. I don't know what's going on. But I know my father wouldn't like me talking with Jordan.

“I don't know.”

The boy's eyes get sadder, if that's possible. I really want to say something to make him not look like he's going to cry.

“Maybe,” I say, and nod. “I think so.”

Jordan nods back and starts humming. His voice is high, like little boys' voices are. I know the song from somewhere but can't name it.

“Jordan.” I call his name softly while I look over at the door to make sure it's still closed. I want to get out of the car, but I'm afraid of what will happen if my father comes out and finds me not doing what he told me to.

Jordan's humming turns into soft singing. I watch his lips move as he stares up at the sky. He takes a step toward the car, not watching where he's going, and stumbles.

“Hey,” I caution him.

He looks at me, but his eyes are funny. It's like he's looking at something on the other side of me. “My leg makes me trip a lot,” he says. “I'll never play hockey either.”

His voice is sad, but it's his words that make me shiver.

“He doesn't like that. But it's okay, 'cause the dragon will look out for us.”

I realize then that the song he's been singing is “Puff the Magic Dragon,” which was my favorite as a kid, too. But Jordan hasn't been mouthing the happy verses, just the sad ones where the boy grows up and dies and the dragon is too lonely to do anything but hide in his cave.

“The dragon?” I ask him. “Puff?”

Jordan nods his head and comes over to the car. He leans through the window, putting his small bruised arms around my neck.

“Puff won't let him hurt you,” he whispers into my ear, which makes all of the hair on the back of my neck rise.

I'm stuck for something to say. I want to ask if my father has hurt him, but I think I already know the answer.

“I have to go in before he gets mad,” he says out of no-where. He starts to walk toward the house.

“Wait,” I call, and he stops. “How old are you?”

“Seven,” he says.

I do the math as I watch him go through the door. Jordan is eight years younger than me. About a year younger than Kayla would be. Some of my father's absences make more sense now. I wonder if he was planning on leaving Jordan along with the twins when he took me and Kayla to California, or if Jordan would have come too. I think it's a safe bet he would have left him behind.

I open the car door and lean over to puke. I haven't eaten, so all I do is gag up that white stuff that seems to live in your stomach when there's nothing else there.

I don't hear my father return to the car until he's in front of me.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

Inside me, something unfurls. Some bird is beating its wings inside my heart, trying to get free.

“Didn't think you'd want me puking on the fake leather,” I say, sounding an awful lot like Kevin.

I wince, waiting for him to lash out, but he doesn't. Instead, he just makes a sound in the back of his throat and slides into the car.

My mouth tastes like I've been eating one of Kevin's failed dinners.

I don't want to get Jordan in trouble, but I need to know.

“You have kids with her?”

He gives me a sideways glance. I'm not really sure what it means and I'm not sure I want to.

“Yeah,” is all he says.

I reach down and feel for the card in my sock.

I think about dragons and how much it sucks to be a little kid who feels all alone.

Then I run the corner of the card under my thumbnail and I realize it doesn't matter that I don't have any options. Kevin was right. I need a plan.