Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (14 page)

IT'S MONDAY MORNING, AND I FIND MYSELF BACK IN THE OFFICE AGAIN.
Only this time I'm not in the health room. This time I'm waiting in the counseling area. Glen politely escorted me down here,
making certain that I keep my appointment to talk to the divine Ms.
Blanchard of the perfect smile, whitened teeth, matching shoes and
belts and handbags. Like she's going to understand someone like
me. Yeah, right.

What am I even going to say to her? That my dad is mean? That
he yells a lot? What can she do about that anyway? It's not like he's
beating on us or anything. And he does work hard, he provides food
and housing. Even if he is a disciplinarian, it's only because he cares
about us? Right? Maybe I should just leave-

"Ruth Wallace?"

I look up to see her. Blonde hair perfectly in place, as usual,
and, God help me, she is wearing a pale-pink sweater set and pearls!
"Yeah?" I straighten out from the slumped position I had assumed
while waiting.

"Come on into my office." Her voice is sugary sweet and makes
me want to gag. She introduces herself, as if I didn't already know
who she was. Give me a break.

"Sorry you had to wait." She smiles and holds the door open.

I slowly stand, pick up my bag, and follow her into her office. I
think I'm literally dragging my heels. I so don't want to talk to this
woman.

"Have a seat, Ruth." She takes a seat behind her neatly arranged
desk, folds her hands in front of her, and then flashes that disgusting
Colgate smile. "Let's talk."

I want to ask her what planet she's from and how she thinks she
can possibly understand anything about me or my problems. But I
simply sink into the chair and wait.

"How's it going?" she asks.

I shrug. "So-so."

"Hmm?" She gets a thoughtful expression now. "So-so? I suspect
that means not so well?"

I shrug again. "Yeah, maybe."

Now she leans forward. "Do you want to tell me about it? Or do
you want me to keep asking you questions?"

I shrug for a third time and consider telling her that this is all
just a big mistake and that I should get to class now.

"Okay then, Ruth. You're the one who made this appointment.
How about if you tell me what's bugging you. Okay?" Her smile's a
little stiffer now, like she actually wants to get down to business.

Fine, why don't I just tell her? Why don't I just sit here and spill
my guts and see if there's a single thing she can do about it? Which
I seriously doubt, by the way.

And so I do. I tell her how mean my dad is. I tell her about how
my mom had a breakdown last winter and how my brother couldn't
take it anymore, how he ran away from home, but how it's just a
matter of time before my dad figures it out and forces him to come
back. I go on and on, not in an emotional way, but like I'm talking
about someone else, like I'm describing somebody else's messed-up life. I don't mention cutting. What's the point?

"Wow," she says when I finally stop and lean back in my chair.
"That's a heavy load. I'm surprised that you're holding up this well,
Ruth." Then she studies me closely "You've talked a lot about your
family, but you haven't said much about how you're handling all
this. How are you doing, Ruth?"

I sigh then shrug again. "I don't know."

"How do you feel when your dad yells at you?"

I don't say anything.

"How do you feel when you see your mom suffering? Do you
miss how she used to be?"

"Of course."

"Do you miss your brother?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"How does that make you feel? How do you feel toward your
dad about all this?"

"How do you think it makes me feel?" I snap. "How would you
feel if you had to live like that?"

Now she doesn't answer, and I think I've probably got her
stumped. I mean, seriously, what's she going to do? What can
anyone do?

I pick up my bag and stand up. "I didn't figure there was anything
you could do to help me," I say in a matter-of-fact voice. "I only
came here because my friend wanted me to talk to someone. But
thanks for your time anyway"

"Wait a minute, Ruth."

"Why?"

"Can you do something for me before you go?"

"What?"

She looks at me evenly and says, "Can you push up your sleeves for me, Ruth? On both arms?"

I just stare at her.

"Please?"

I glance at the door, ready to bolt. I wonder who told her about
me? It tnust've been Abby. But how did Abby know that I was coming
here today? I never mentioned it to her. Glen must've told Abby. But
why? Why are my friends ganging up on me like this?

"Sit back down, Ruth," she says quietly.

I sit.

"Are you a cutter?" She is as calm and natter-of-fact as me.

"Who told you?" I demand, looking her straight in the eyes.
"Was it Abby?"

She shakes her head. "No one told inc anything, Ruth. I just
guessed."

I'm feeling a little surprised here. I mean, this woman looks like
a total airhead. How could she possibly guess about something like
this?

"1 know a little bit about cutting."

I'm sure my expression is skeptical, and she continues to
explain.

"In fact, your story is familiar to me. Your dad sounds a lot like
my dad. Only my dad didn't just yell. He hit us too."

I can tell by her face that what she's saying is true. And suddenly
she looks like a real person to one, not a Stepford wife. Her eyes have
a depth of sadness that I never noticed before.

"Really?" I say, falling into this. "Your dad was like that too?"
Then how did you turn out so freaking normal?

"Yeah, it was pretty miserable."

"So ... " I begin, unsure that I really want to go here. "Were you
a cutter too?" She shakes her head. "No. But my younger sister was. She was fourteen when I left home for college. She started cutting
that same year."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it when I figured it out. I was so sad. It's
probably one of the main reasons I started to take psych classes and
finally decided to major in counseling."

"Did your sister ever quit?"

"Yeah. But she had to get help, Ruth. She couldn't do it on her
own. And back then, there wasn't much help to be found." Now Ms.
Blanchard is smiling, and for the life of the I can't figure out why.
"But things have changed, Ruth. There's help now."

"Help?"

"For cutters." She flips through a Rolodex then writes something down on a slip of paper. "My sister works at one of the few
clinics that help cutters. It's called Promise House. I'm writing down
the phone number for you." She hands me the paper. "Will you call
her?"

"I ... uh ... I don't know. I mean, what does this involve? I'm
sure it costs money ... and there's no way I can tell my dad what
I've been doing. He'd totally freak."

She nods. "Yeah. You're probably right. How about this? How
about I call my sister and see what she recommends. Okay?"

"And you won't tell anyone else? I mean, like my parents-you
won't call them and tell them about this, will you? Don't I have some
kind of client confidentiality, or something like that?"

"Something like that. Although it's tricky, because you're still a
juvenile. But trust me, okay?"

I can't see that I have much choice. Still, I'm not happy with
this unexpected twist. I only came here today to see what I could
do about my dad. He's the one with the big problem. And suddenly the focus has shifted to me. Like I'm the one to blame here. It just
doesn't seem fair. But I play along and tell Ms. Blanchard that I trust
her. She promises to get back to me in the next day or so.

"In the meantime, Ruth"-she looks right into my eyes
now-"do you think you're in danger? I don't just mean from your
dad. Are you safe from yourself? Do you think you can keep from
cutting until I see you again?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes. Honestly"

I really consider this. "I don't know," I finally say. "And that's
the truth."

She nods. "I understand."

To my amazement, I believe she does. Do I think that will make
a difference? I honestly don't know. But I do feel a tiny flicker of
hope, though hope itself kind of scares me these days. Every time I
get hopeful, the rug gets pulled out from under me. And I'm just not
sure how many more tumbles I can take.

"HOW'D ii CC)?" GLEN' ASKS ME AT THE BEGINNING OF LUNCHIIMt', BEFORE I
have a chance to slip off to the bathroom to cut.

"What?" I say dumbly, like I'm clueless as to what he's talking
about.

"You know, Ruth, the counselor appointment."

I glance around to see if anyone's listening. It's not like I'm eager
for everyone to hear that I went to the school counselor this morning, especially after my little fainting episode on Friday. They'll
really think I'm a freak. I may be a mess, but I still have a little bit
of pride. "Mind if we keep this private?" I say as we're heading into
the cafeteria.

"Sure." He takes my hand now and gently pulls me out of the
lunch line. "How about if we go out to lunch then? That would be
private."

I consider this. If Dad sees me I'll be in even more trouble. On
the other hand, what can he do to me? Ground me for life?

"Okay," I say, suddenly feeling like this could be fun. Maybe I
need some fun. Maybe it's time I took some risks. What do I really
have to lose anyway? "Why not?"

It feels so good to be sitting in Glen's car. Like maybe I'm still
a real person and not just my daddy's robot girl. Maybe it's possible that I could have a life again. Maybe meeting with the counselor
will change something. Or maybe I'll get better on my own. Or with
Glen's help. Just being with him now kept me from cutting. Maybe
that's a start.

"So, how'd it go?" he repeats as he leaves the school parking lot.

"Not as bad as I'd expected," I admit. "Ms. Blanchard is a lot
nicer than I thought."

"Cool. Did she have any suggestions for how to deal with your
dad?"

I'm not sure what to say now. "Sort of," I finally tell him. "She's
going to get hack to me in the next couple of days."

"That's great, Ruth. Maybe things are going to change."

"Yeah. Maybe." Of course, I'm not sure exactly how. Even if I
can get into this Promise House place, there's no way my dad can
remain in the dark. I'm sure he'll go through the roof when he hears
what I've been doing to myself. It's not like I don't know that it's
stupid and senseless and everything else I'm sure he'll say it is. I can
only imagine all the new names he'll be calling me. I'm not sure I
can take it.

"You don't sound too convinced." Glen pulls into a fifties-style
drive-in restaurant, the kind where you get served in your car.

"Good idea," I say.

"Huh?"

"The drive-in," I tell him. "I'll feel safer about not being spotted
if we stay in the car to eat."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking."

"And do you mind if we don't talk about the whole counseling
thing?" I make my best attempt at a smile for him. "I mean, it's been
so long since I've had any kind of freedom. I'd like to just enjoy this.
If you don't mind."

"No problem. And I totally understand how you feel. I just want
you to know that I'm here for you, Ruth. If you need to talk."

"Thanks. And I really do appreciate that. But for right now I'd
rather turn up the radio, chow down a burger, and pretend that life
really is cool. Okay?"

"You got it."

So that's what we do. And it really does feel good to think that
life could be like this. But even though it feels good, I know it's a
deceiving kind of good. I know that reality will slug me in the gut
again. Probably before the day is over. And it'll probably hurt even
more coming on the heels of this moment.

I wonder if a person in prison ever feels like this. I mean, you
could really torture prisoners by giving them a brief little taste of
freedom and then slamming them back into their prison cell. Like,
Ha-ha, see what you don't get to enjoy?

After school, I consider accepting Glen's offer of a ride. I already
broke my dad's tyrannical manifesto at lunchtime. What's the big
deal if I break it again? But then I decide not to risk it. Why push
my luck?

"Thanks anyway," I tell him. "But I'd rather not take a chance."

"Well, you've only got a few more days of being grounded."

"Right." I look over toward the buses, which are already mostly
loaded, and realize I better hurry. "See ya!"

At home, I go through my regular routine of chores, and I actually manage to function without cutting. I can see that my mom did
a few things today, but they are kind of haphazard, like she didn't
really put much effort into it. Even so, I tell myself it's better than
nothing. I tell myself that it could be a beginning. It could be a turning point.

By five o'clock, I'm starting dinner. And I think that everything's under control, like I've done a good job and maybe this will be one
of those rare nights when my dad doesn't lose it.