Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (11 page)

Oh, I know he has the power to break the door down. And
maybe that's what I want him to do. Maybe I want him to force his
way in here, to raise his fist and to beat me. Just beat me and beat
me and beat me. And then, maybe, I would finally have permission,
like Caleb, to just leave.

But he just yells and pounds and finally he goes away. And it's
not long before I hear the loud roar of his engine and he is gone.
How I wish it were for good. How I wish that his pickup would slam
into a power pole or drive off a cliff or be run down by a huge semi,
and that he would die. I know it's horrible, but it's true. I wish my
father were dead. And if I knew how to pray, or if I thought God
cared, I would pray for my dad to die tonight.

Instead, I go into the bathroom and break my promise to Abby.
I cut myself. Not once. Not twice. But three times. And as I cut
myself, I imagine that my sacrifice, my pain, my spilling of blood,
might do the trick. Maybe it will get God's attention. Maybe he will
kill my dad without the even asking.

WE USED TO GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAYS. BACK WHEN CALEB AND I WERE
little and my mom still had some say, we'd all four pile into the
family car and go to church together. But then my dad started saying
how he needed to sleep in on Sundays-that it was his only day to
catch up on his rest. And so my mom would just take Caleb and
me. But after a while, Caleb and I followed our dad's example. We
wanted to sleep in too. My mom went to church by herself for a
while, but finally she just gave up. We haven't been to church for
about four years now.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this as I lay in bed this
Sunday morning. It's not like I have any intention of going to church
today.

My left arm is throbbing from last night's cuts. And I feel
ashamed. Like I'm just this hopeless failure. Why should I even
bother to try? I am so pathetic.

And at the same time, I'm thinking about what a good time I had
with Glen and how much I like him and how I wish he really were
my boyfriend. And then I'm thinking about how my best friend,
Abby, really cares about me and how much she wants me to quit
cutting. And I'm wondering-why isn't that enough? Why can't I
keep my promise to Abby? Why can't I care enough about Glen that I would stop cutting myself? Surely Glen wouldn't want to hook
up with a girl who does something like this. If 1 can't stop this for
myself, why can't I stop it for them?

But the truth is, I'm afraid I can't. It's like I don't have any real
control. And at the same time, it's like it's my only source of control.
And then there's the pain. The never-ending pain that seems only
to be diminished by pain. Pain erasing pain. And yet it never really
goes away.

Sometimes the only answer seems to be to cut deeper. Cut deep
enough to finally end it, to let all the blood drain away so I can rest.
And then maybe the pain will finally leave me in peace. Like a long,
endless sleep.

I wish I could sleep all day today. But I know that if I'm not out
of here, bed made and chores done, I will be hearing about it by the
time my dad gets up. And I know that he's home now. I heard his
pickup come in around two in the morning. As I expected, God did
not strike him dead after all.

So I get up and go through the paces. But even as I do these
things, I am asking myself why. Why do I even bother? Why not
just stop playing this loser's game? Why not let my dad flip out and
beat the heck out of me? Why not just get it over with? Let it all hit
the fan? Why not?

The pathetic thing is, I don't even know why not. Maybe it's just
the way I've been conditioned. Oh, sure, I may be broken, but it's
like I can't operate any other way.

I look at the family computer as I straighten up the den, throwing away old newspapers, picking up my dad's smelly socks. I feel
guilty for not e-mailing Abby last night. But how could I? How could
I e-mail her about how great the date was and how much I like Glen
after breaking my promise to her-times three? I mean, I may be pathetic and stupid and hopeless, but I don't have to be a hypocrite
too. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

I see a shadow of green slipping by-my mom, the green
phantom, in her shabby bathrobe. She must've gotten up early,
thinking she had the house to herself for a while. But I spoiled it
for her. Too bad.

I finish my straightening, quickly eat a bowl of cereal, hiding the
evidence of bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then, without even
writing a note, I leave.

I have no idea where I'm going. Or even why. But I can't stand to
be in that house for another minute. It's killing me. My dad is killing
me. I am killing me. And I can't take it anymore.

I walk and walk, and before I know it, I'm on the block where
my dad's parents live. I must've walked about a mile. Now, I like
my grandparents just fine. In fact, they're not very much like my
dad-which actually confuses me-but his relationship with them
has always been so good that I always feel the need to keep up my
guard when I'm around them. Like they might tell on me if I revealed
anything about my dad that was questionable. It's weird, I know, but
just another part of this weird game I've been taught to play

"Ruth?" calls a female voice. "Is that you?"

I look over toward the side porch to see Grandma Wallace standing there and shaking out a throw rug. I wave and call hello. "Just
taking a walk," I say as I casually stroll up to her.

"Well, for goodness' sake," she says. "Come on in. Can I fix you
some breakfast?"

"No, thanks anyway, but I already ate." I follow her as she slowly
makes her way into her favorite place, the kitchen. Grandma Wallace
is nearly as wide as she is tall, and she loves to feed people.

"How about some coffee then? A donut?"

"Okay," I say as I sit at her kitchen table.

"You still take your coffee with cream and sugar?"

"Uh-huh." I fiddle with the plastic placernats that have been
on her table for years now. Each one has a different scene from the
Grand Canyon. I suspect she got them at some little tourist shop
along the side of the road when she and Grandpa took a trip down
there back when I was little. I remember how I wished I could go
with them at the time.

She sets a colorful coffee cup in the blue sky above a steep
canyon wall, and I briefly wonder why it doesn't fall to the ground.

"How's your mother, dear?" She places a plate of glazed donuts
in the center of the table then sets her own cup on a rust-colored
mountaintop and takes the seat across from me.

"About the same."

She sighs. "That's too bad."

Now I have a decision to make. Do I keep playing the game, or
do I ask if she's heard about Caleb? Feeling just a bit reckless, not to
mention hopeless, I go ahead and ask.

Her brown eyes get big with alarm. "Caleb is missing?"

"Well, sort of." Now that the cat's out of the bag, I'm not sure
how to play this down.

"What happened?"

I consider my response, fully aware that I could be getting myself
into an even bigger mess. I decide that I don't freaking care. "Yeah,
he and Dad got into it one time too many," I say in a casual voice,
like it's no big deal, like this is something that everyone is aware of.

"One time too many?" Her brows come together. "Meaning they
get into it a lot?" I nod without speaking.

"Oh, my."

"But Dad doesn't usually hit us. He just yells a lot."

"Well, he's been under a lot of stress since your mother, uh, got
sick."

"Oh, this has been going on forever," I tell her. "Dad yells at all
of us over everything and anything. I think the reason Mom cracked
up was because she just couldn't take it anymore. And that's why
Caleb left ... " And why I'm so screwed up.

"Really?" She stands and goes to the stove now, as if she has a
pot or something to check there, but there is nothing cooking.

"Yeah. I probably shouldn't have said anything, Grandma, but I
guess I'm just fed up too." Now I feel myself starting to choke, and
I'm afraid I might cry. I reach over to my left arm and touch the area
where I cut myself last night. I press it just lightly enough that the
pain brings me back to myself, giving me the strength not to cry. "I
don't think I can take it much longer either," I admit.

Then she turns and looks at me, really looks at me. I'm not sure
if she thinks I'm lying or if she's just shocked.

"I'm sorry," I say, getting to my feet now. "I shouldn't have
dumped this on-"

"No." She holds up her hands. "You sit back down, Ruth. Tell
me what's going on. Maybe there's something we can do to help."

So I tell her a little more. Not about my cutting, of course. But I
give her more details-about Dad's tirades. About his unreasonable
demands. For some reason I want her to know how it feels to live
in our house. I want her to feel our pain. And maybe to take some
responsibility for it. After all, she and Grandpa raised this cruel man.
They must know why he's like this.

"And it just doesn't make sense," I finally say. "I mean you guys
don't seem like that at all. I've never heard you or Grandpa say a
mean word to anyone. But Dad is so-"

"Let me tell you something, Ruthie." She sits back down and pulls her chair closer to mine. "Something you should've heard long
before now, I'm afraid. But better late than never." She closes her
eyes, as if she's trying to pick a place to start. "I'm not your dad's real
mother. I married Grandpa when your clad was fourteen. Your dad's
real mother had some, uh, mental problems." She shakes her head
and sighs. "I actually thought it was such a strange coincidence that
your father married a woman with, uh, similar problems-"

"She was fine," I say in my mom's defense. "He made her that way.
His constant yelling and screaming-nothing ever good enough-"

"I know," she tells me in a soothing voice. "I'm starting to get
the whole picture now. Anyway, your father's real mother was very
hard on the boys. Not just with her words either. She beat on them
on a regular basis."

"Grandpa let her do that?"

"He didn't always know." She shakes her head sadly. "Unfortunately she used your father as her worst whipping boy. Garrett was
older and managed to escape a bit more. But one day she beat your
father so badly that your grandpa had to take him to the hospital.
Well, it wasn't long before everyone knew what was going on, and
your grandpa told Marie to leave or face criminal charges. She left."

"Wow," I say, letting this all sink in. I can't imagine anyone, let
alone a woman, beating on my dad. It just makes no sense. But then
why would Grandma lie? "That is so weird."

"Your grandpa eventually divorced Marie, and I came along a
few years later. And, well, we just never felt the need to mention any
of this to the grandchildren. Until now, that is."

"Do you think that's why Dad is like that?"

"Well, I don't know much about these things, but I do watch
that Dr. Phil on TV, and I suspect he'd think that was the problem
with your father. Trouble is, I'm not sure what he'd do to fix him."

"You really think he can be fixed?"

"I don't know, honey. But I sure hope so. In most ways, your
daddy is a fine man. I had no idea that things were so messy at
home."

"He's good at keeping up appearances, Grandma. And so were
we. Well, until Mom lost it. And it seems like Caleb and I have been
steadily losing it ever since."

Now she stands up and comes over and hugs me. A soft, warm
hug that almost breaks loose the tears. But not quite.

"I'm sorry it's been so hard on you, Ruthie. But things are bound
to get better now. Don't you think? I'll talk to Grandpa when he
gets back from golfing with his buddies. I'm sure he'll know what
to do."

"I hope so. Because, seriously, I feel like I can't take it anymore.
And I miss Caleb." I don't mention that I miss my mom too.
Somehow I don't think her issues are going to be easy to fix. To be
honest, I can't imagine how any of this can really be fixed. But I do
feel a tiny bit relieved to hear this story about Dad's childhood. Who
would've guessed? And I do plan on sharing this news with Caleb.
Not that it will change anything for him. But maybe it'll help him to
understand. Maybe that's a beginning.

And so, as I slowly walk home, not overly eager to get there, I tell
myself that maybe this is going to change things. Maybe Grandpa
can talk some sense into my dad. Maybe things will get better. It
could happen.