Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (7 page)

No, RUTH, I TELL MYSELF AS I STARE AT MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR. AND
then I imagine myself sliced up like I've been through a giant shredder, not just my arms, but my face and the rest of my body too. I
imagine myself bleeding all over the place. This has to stop. I can't
let a little thing like Glen trying to pull up my sleeve totally undo
me like this. I have to just shake this thing off and move on.

So I try to rinse the splattered clay out of my shirt cuffs, but I
only make a worse mess. Instead of just being splattered, they're
soaking wet and a light shade of orange now. I blot them as dry as
I can with paper towels, then force myself to go back out to the art
fair. I can't give up.

At least my pottery session is done. And despite the strong urge,
I didn't resort to cutting. That's something. So I go back to my easel,
congratulating myself for being strong, and start to paint. I've got
a postcard of a lighthouse draped in fog taped to the corner of my
canvas. It's mostly shades of gray and blue. So the only paint colors I
need seem to be black and white and blue. I squirt generous dollops
of those onto my palette. And I begin to paint. Something about the
sparseness of the colors pulls me in, and it's not long before I start
to lose myself as I move the paint across the canvas, blending and
shading to get the fog just right.

"Sorry I messed you up," says Glen as he returns to his easel and
picks up a piece of charcoal.

"I'm sorry I overreacted," I tell him, paintbrush poised in midair
as I study how the trail of light from the lighthouse penetrates the
fog.

"I should know better than to sneak up on an artist at work."

I want to say something more, to reassure him that it wasn't his
fault, that it was me and my own stupid hang-up. But what can I
really say without exposing what a loser I am? "Did T. J. take over
the wheel?" I ask absently

"Yeah. But, between you and me, I think he could use some
practice."

I laugh. "Just don't tell him that."

"That's a pretty depressing scene, Ruth."

I glance up, stunned to hear my dad's voice. He's wearing a slight
frown as he looks at my canvas.

"You came!" I say when I recover enough to find my voice. And
not only did my dad come, but to my totally shocked surprise, my
mother is with him. I just stare at her-like I've never seen this
woman before in my life. She looks shorter than usual, or maybe I
have grown since last winter. And her denim jacket, which I always
thought looked so cool on her, seems to swallow her. At least she
has combed her hair and pulled it back into a silver barrette. Even
so, her eyes have that vacant expression, as if she's not really present.
Sometimes, like now, I am certain that she's gone. Maybe for good.

"Mom," I say as I step over and take her hand. "I can't believe
that you came. Are you feeling okay?"

A faint smile. Or perhaps a shadow of one from long ago. She
nods. "I'm okay" Then she seems to study my painting. "I like it,"
she finally says.

Glen has come over, and I have no choice but to introduce him
to my parents. I also mention the fact that he's the one who gave
me a ride home yesterday. To my relief, he shakes both my parents'
hands. He is very cordial and polite, and I see no reason that my dad
should find any fault with him.

"So you're an artist too," my dad says, using his public voice
now. "Let's see what you're working on." He steps over and looks at
the charcoal sketch. It's the beginning of an old pickup, and really
quite good. "Hey, I used to have a truck almost like that," my dad
tells him. "Fifty-four Ford?"

"Yep."

Dad nods and rubs his chin, smiling just like he's a normal guy, a
good of boy that you can count on when times are tough. Yeah, sure.
"Mine was red. Bright candy-apple red. Painted it myself. And rebuilt
the engine too. Wish I still had that old truck. She was a honey"

Glen is smiling and I think I can see the wheels in his brain turning. I'm sure he's thinking that my dad's just fine, perfectly normal,
and my mom is the real problem. She certainly looks like a problem as she hovers near me, glancing nervously around the crowded,
noisy room as if someone in here might be armed and dangerous,
out to get her.

I'm so relieved when my parents finally leave. I try to get back
into my painting, but it's like something in me just broke. Like I
don't even know how to paint anymore. So I just stand there, holding my paintbrush close to the canvas and pretend to be working. I'm actually just spacing and wishing I could get out of here.
Wishing I could just disappear. Wishing I were alone with a razor
blade. I am so pathetic.

Finally it's over. Glen is driving me home. But I feel numb and
tired and my stomach is tied in a square knot.

"You're awfully quiet, Ruth."

He's sitting behind the wheel, waiting for the light to turn green.
I take a deep breath, force a smile for him. "Sorry."

"Everything okay?"

I shrug. "I guess I'm just worn out from the art fair and everything. Its been a long day."

"Yeah. But I think it went really well tonight. Pollinni was sure
happy with how many people showed up."

"Yeah, he said we made some pretty good money, too."

"And you can't be too disappointed about the awards, Ruth. You
got more than anyone else."

"You didn't do too badly yourself," I say, trying to sound like a
normal girl.

"Well, for the new kid anyway."

"And it was cool meeting your mom," I tell him. "She seems
really nice." His mom had shown up during the last half hour with
sparkling blue eyes and a great smile.

"Yeah, she's okay."

But I can tell by the way he says "okay" that he really likes her.
And I could tell by the way he introduced her tonight that he was
proud to call her his mother. I wish I could've felt that way about
inine.

"Your parents seemed nice too." But his tone is unconvincing
and I can tell he's just being polite.

I sort of laugh. "You really think so?"

"Your clad was pretty friendly"

"Yeah, well, he had on his party face. Trust me, he's not always
like that."

"Your mom was pretty quiet."

"She's had a hard year."

"Oh."

"But it's probably a good sign that she came. She hardly ever
leaves the house." I sigh. "She wasn't always like that, Glen."

"You mentioned how your dad kind of got to her last year, and
that she kind of fell apart. But what happened exactly?"

I really do want to tell him the details, and I wish I could just
pour it all out. But where do I begin? I'm not even sure I know
exactly what happened myself. "It's a long story," I finally say. "The
short version is she's not herself anymore."

"Is that going to change?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"Is she getting help?"

"You mean, like a shrink?"

"Yeah, or counseling ... you know."

"She did at first. But then our insurance quit covering it and my
dad thought it was just a waste of time and money"

"Oh."

And here's what's weird. I don't tell Glen this, but I kind of sided
with my dad on that one at the time. I thought, Why can't Mom just
pull herself back together? Like, how hard can it be to get out of bed,
do a little housecleaning, get some groceries, do some laundry? And
while she does some of these things some of the time, Caleb and I
do most of it.

"Did I tell you my brother ran away last night?" I'm not sure
if I'm trying to change the subject or just suddenly worried about
Caleb.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He and my dad got into it pretty good. And then Caleb
just walked out."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Probably a friend's house."

"Is he going to be in trouble?"

I slowly exhale as I consider this. "Yeah, you could say that."

Glen pulls into my driveway now. "Well, hang in there, Ruth."

"Thanks," I tell him. "And thanks for the ride."

"No problem." He smiles. "Any time."

"See ya." I hop out and head toward my house. I have no idea
what will happen once I open the door, but I suspect it won't be
good. I can hear yelling inside. I pause, trying to appear as if I have
a key that I'm using to unlock it, but I'm really just giving Glen time
to drive away. When he's gone, I slowly open the door.

"What do you mean you're not coming home?" my dad is
screaming into the phone. "You're fourteen, Caleb. This isn't your
decision. You want me to call the police?" He pauses and I attempt
to tiptoe past him. "You keep this up, Caleb, and you're going to end
up in juvi court-and worse!" He slams the phone down and turns
to me.

"What're you sneaking around for?"

I stop just a few feet from my bedroom door. "I didn't want to
disturb-"

"What is with you kids?" Dad yells at me. "Sneaking around,
running away from home, acting disrespectful. What is wrong with
kids these days?" And then he lets loose with word after word,
sentence after sentence of ranting and raging. I don't even know how
he can go on for so long. How is he able to come up with all this
stuff? Most of his words go right over me. But some of them hit their
target. Words like "stupid" and "loser" and "useless" seem to stick.
Those are the kinds of words that come back and taunt me later.

"You're just like your mother!" he finally screams. As if that
should explain everything. "A useless squaw who's as cold as a fish. Get out of here, Ruth! I can't stand to look at you."

And so I slink into my bedroom, silently close the door, and
wait. It's not long before his pickup roars to life and then tears off
down the street.

This day started out so good. Everything was going so well. I
really believed that I could get through it without cutting. Maybe I
still can. Maybe if 1 just breathe deeply and think positively, maybe
I can get through this.

But after a few minutes, I know that I can't. It's like I'm going to
burst. The pain is all around me-inside and out-and all I want is
an escape. Just a little escape.

I move silently to the bathroom and get out my razor blade. Just
one more time. I lower the blade to an uncut space on my right arm.
Then I'll get better. Just one more cut. I need some relief. I need to be able
to breathe again.

I slice across my arm. Perhaps a little more deeply than necessary, but it's high enough up that I'm sure I didn't cut any main
arteries. The blood oozes out quickly and I have to scramble to grab
a towel before it drips on the floor. I press the hand towel onto my
wound and sink into a crouched position, leaning my back into the
cold porcelain of the tub. At least I can breathe now.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I can quit this thing tomorrow.

"SO WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU AND GLEN?" ABBY ASKS ME ON THE PHONE
the next morning.

"I don't know." I turn on the dishwasher. It's Saturday and I'm
trying to get all the chores done before my dad comes home from
work, which is at one on Saturdays.

"Come on," she urges as I wipe the countertops with the dishrag. "Tell me what's going on."

"He's cool," I say as I scrub the stove top, careful to get the deepest grooves clean. My dad will check.

"Yeah, I know he's cool. But is he into you?"

"I really don't know. I mean, he's nice to me, and I think we're
friends. But that's all I can say right now, Abby."

"Are you into him?"

I consider this as I rinse the dishrag in hot water, balancing the
phone between my shoulder and head as I squeeze the excess water
out. "I guess so."

"Well, I think he's into you too," says Abby. "I saw him watching
you last night. You were painting and he was just staring at you like
he couldn't get enough."

"Seriously?" I pause from wiping down the front of the refrigerator. "He was really watching me like that?"

"Yeah. I think he really likes you."

I feel a warm rush of excitement. But at the same time I'm almost
afraid to get my hopes up. Like, what if Abby's wrong or just trying
to be nice? I mean really, why would someone like Glen like someone like me?

"So aren't you happy, Ruth?"

"Yeah, I guess."

'Yeah, I guess? Can't you do any better than that?"

"What do you want me to do? Jump up and down and
scream?"

"Maybe. I'd like to see you get excited about something for a
change."

I don't respond to this. Instead I scrub even harder on the fridge,
determined to make it shine.

"Want to go to the mall with me today?"

"Sure, but I can't go until I'm done with chores."

"No problem. I don't plan on getting out of bed for another hour
or two. How about I pick you up around one?"

"Can you come a little before that?" I'd rather not be here when
my dad gets home. Fin sure he's still really irritated about Caleb's
little disappearing act. The truth is, I'm irritated too. It means twice
as much work for me.