“You little bastard!” he says, following me. “Do you know how stupid I looked?”
“That’s not my fault.”
He looks down at me incredulously. “Then whose fault is it?”
“Yours. You invited them here even though I said I wasn’t talking to them. I’m not just some little kid you can kick around, you know.”
His face is purple and his fists are clenched. He reminds me of a bull who has just entered the ring at a bullfight—he’s exhaling in angry little snorts. I expect to see him start pawing the ground any second.
“Where’s Kat?” I ask, craning my neck to look into the living room.
It’s as if he doesn’t hear the question. “They’ll be back here a week from next Wednesday, at 6:00,” he says. “And you better be here too. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
His eyes are narrowed. “Or else I take back that offer to let you stay on. You’ll go back to your mother as well.”
That’s the ultimate punishment and he knows it. I stare back at him, unable to speak. Eventually I remember Sammy. “I can’t. I baby-sit Samantha. You know that.”
“Tough,” he says, some of the anger leaving his face when he realizes he’s got me where he wants me. “You can call in sick for once. And you watch what you say to those newspaper guys. You tell them all about how well we’ve done for the past ten years, but how you’re willing to forgive your mom now. She’s paid for her crime, you’ll say, and just in time too, because Kat needs her mother.”
I really do feel sick. “Where is Kat?” I ask again, desperately needing to get away from him.
“In her bedroom. With the newspapers. I figured it’s about time she found out what’s going on. And, of course, you weren’t here to break it to her gently.”
For a second I figure it might be preferable to live with a murderous mother than a heartless father. I rush down the narrow hallway to Kat’s bedroom and burst in. She’s sitting on the floor with the newspapers spread out around her. Her eyes are red and swollen and she’s clutching her favorite stuffy, a tancolored dog that vaguely resembles a golden retriever. I remember buying it for her when I got my first paycheck from the Kippensteins’.
“Oh, Kat,” I say, slumping down beside her. I try to put my arm around her shoulder but she shoves me away.
“That’s not why you said she was in prison,” she signs. “You said it was because of the drugs.”
“I know. But the truth is so awful I thought I’d wait till you were older.”
She thinks about that and then her face crumples as a fresh onslaught of tears overcomes her. “I am older!”
I
T' S BEEN A
brutal day. I feel like crying now too, but, of course, I don’t. I’d never cry in front of Kat, or anyone else for that matter. But I know I won’t be able to resist the Swiss army knife again tonight. “I guess I should have told you.”
She doesn’t answer, but she must sense her big strong brother is on the verge of losing it, because she places the box of Kleenex between us. I ignore it.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asks after a few minutes.
“I don’t know for sure.” I consider sparing her any more horrible truths, but decide it’s time for complete honesty. “When she gets out of prison, Dad thinks you should live with her. He thinks you need a mother.”
She looks up at me, alarmed. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“What about you?”
“He says I can stay because I’m older. And I’m a guy.”
I watch her face as she tries to digest this.
“Do you remember her at all?” she asks finally.
I have to really think about that. I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember certain little things, like the warm curve of her body as I cuddled up to her on the couch while we watched TV, or while I watched TV. She was usually asleep—a drug-induced sleep I realize now. And I remember being a little ticked when Kat was born. Mom never seemed to have time for me after that. She cried a lot then too. Kat seemed to make her sad. And, of course, I remember the fall…
“Yeah, I remember a bit,” I sign. “She seemed to really love you. I don’t know why she did it,” I add, thinking that if Kat really is going to get returned to her, I’d better not describe her as the total bitch that I’ve come to imagine her as. “I think it must have been the drugs she was doing. She was out of control.”
Kat stares at her picture. “You look like her,” she says with her hands.
“So do you.”
Kat begins to tidy up the newspaper. She’s still sniffing, but I admire the tough façade she’s put on.
I stretch out on her bed, arms under my head, and stare at the ceiling. There’s a big water stain directly above the bed, and only a plain lightbulb hanging in the center of the room. The light shade got broken years ago and Dad never bothered to replace it.
I can’t bear the thought of being separated from Kat. My life has revolved around her for so long. But I feel equally strongly about not living with Mom. I can never forgive her for what she did. And if she goes back to using drugs when Kat is with her, I don’t know what I’ll do. Possibly kill her.
Maybe there is a murder gene after all.
Kat plunks herself on the bed beside me, and I see her glance at my arm, but before I can pull it out from behind my head, she’s reached over and pulled my sleeve back. I yank my arm away, but not before she’s seen the fresh cuts.
“You promised me, Darcy,” she says, her eyes filling with tears again.
I sit up. “It’s no big deal,” I tell her, pulling my sleeve back down.
“Yes, it is,” she signs. “You scare me when you do that.”
Just like I scare myself. I wish I understood why it helps. All I know is that it does. “I’m in control,” I tell her. And that, I know, is true. I am in control of the cutting. It’s everything else I’m not in control of, and that’s what’s scary.
I
feel disorientated and groggy when I wake up. My room is too bright. I try pulling my blanket back over my head, willing the day to go away. I notice the throbbing in my arm and feel a little queasy at the memory of the fresh cuts I made last night.
An odd noise coming from the bathroom brings me out of my sleepy stupor. I check the clock. It’s after nine o’clock! Where the hell is Kat? Her bus will have come and gone an hour ago!
Pulling on sweatpants, I stumble down the hall and realize that the odd noise I hear is actually heartwrenching sobs. I find Kat curled up in a corner of the bathroom. She’s in a housecoat and her knees are drawn up to her chest. Her face is blotchy from crying. My first thought is that the truth about what Mom did to her has finally sunk in. Or maybe it’s the realization of what it would mean to go live with her…
I squat in front of her but she turns away. Grabbing her chin, I turn her head so she has to look at me.
“What is it? Are you sick?”
She yanks herself away and continues to sob.
“Kat!” I say, grabbing her chin again. “You have to tell me what’s wrong!” She doesn’t need to hear to know what I’m saying. She glances at me, and in that moment I see the terror in her eyes.
“What is it, Kat?”
She drops her face onto her knees and her shoulders heave. I’m at a total loss. I grab those skinny shoulders and give her a little shake, but remember, as I’m doing it, what Mom did to her all those years ago. I let go of her and move away.
Finally, she looks up at me, sitting helpless on the edge of the tub. She signs, “I’m bleeding.” Then she begins to wail again.
Bleeding. I think of the blood-soaked towel I shoved under my mattress last night. I squat down in front of her again. “Where are you bleeding?” I sign in front of her face.
She shakes her head from side to side. She’s not going to tell me.
I persist. “Kat, how can I help you if I don’t know where you’re hurt?”
She finally gives in and picks up a pair of pajama bottoms from a pile of clothes tossed on the floor beside her. She holds them in front of me, and I can see that the crotch is covered in blood.
Why would she be bleeding there? A horrible thought takes hold of me. “Kat,” I say, taking her by the shoulders again and forcing her to look at me. I speak slowly. “Did Dad do something?”
“Nooooooo,” she wails. I have no idea if she knows what I’m talking about, but at least I know it has nothing to do with Dad.
“Then…” I stare at her. She’s not old enough, is she? She’s only eleven. Oh my God!
“I think I’m dying!” she wails.
“Kat,” I say. I’m on my hands and knees, trying to make eye contact with her. “You are NOT dying. Definitely not.” I think fast. “I have to go to the drugstore and get you something, something to soak up the blood.” I can’t bring myself to say tampons or pads. They sound like dirty words. “It’s completely normal,” I tell her, trying to recall what they told us in family life class. I hadn’t paid much attention during the girl stuff, thinking, of course, that I didn’t really need to know about it. But how could I have forgotten about Kat? I guess I never pictured her growing up.
“You stay right here.” I point at the floor, which I realize is kind of stupid. Why should she stay on the bathroom floor?
She nods, drops her face into her knees and sobs again.
Now that I know the problem is not life threatening, I realize there is something else I can add to my mental list. Dramatics. Kat’s getting real good at dramatics. Oh yeah. And periods. I can add that too. Shit.
I pull on some clothes, grab my wallet and jog down the street. Fortunately there is a convenience store nearby.
Now, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen enough TV commercials to know exactly what to buy. Something with wings. Something with maximum absorbency but minimum bulkiness. Something ultra-thin and disposable. But when I find the aisle I’m looking for and see the display, I’m stunned. Christ! There must be thirty different brands and types! What does an eleven-year-old girl who is just starting need? Overnighters? Light days? Medium protection? Heavy protection? Extra long? Extra narrow? All of the above? There are even thong-shaped ones!
“Can I help you?”
I find myself looking straight into the eyes of a young salesgirl. She’s wearing a geeky vest, which I guess is supposed to be a uniform. A badge pinned to her chest proves she really does work here. I stare at the badge too long, trying to avoid her eyes. “Uh, no,” I say. “Just looking.” Jeez. I’m so pathetic.
“Okay,” she says, giving me the once-over. “Just let me know if you need some,” she pauses, “help.” She glances at the display, looks at me once more and then turns abruptly and sashays down the aisle. Oh yeah. Just what I need right now. A smart-ass salesgirl who thinks she’s hot.
I can’t do this. The display is totally overwhelming and I’m too embarrassed to stand around reading each package, trying to figure out which brand Kat needs. I leave the store and drop onto a bus-stop bench. I have to help Kat. What can I do?
I decide to call Mrs. K. She’ll help me. There’s a pay phone right outside the store.
Mrs. K picks up after one ring. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Kippenstein, it’s me, Darcy.”
“Darcy.” She sounds alarmed. “Is everything okay? Aren’t you in school today?”
“Yeah, everything’s okay, sort of, but no, I’m not in school. Kat woke up with this problem and…”
“What’s the problem?”
I swallow hard and then let it fly. “She’s bleeding. I think she’s got her first…period. I went to the store to get her, you know, stuff, but I didn’t know what to buy.”
“No, why would you?” she laughs a little, but she sounds about as uncomfortable as I feel. “Is she at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen,” she says in a take-charge voice. “I’ll pick up what she needs and be at your house in about half an hour. How does that sound?”
“That’d be great. Thanks, Mrs. Kippenstein.”
“You’re welcome. And tell her everything is okay. It’s perfectly normal.”
“I did. But she’s pretty upset.”
There’s a pause. “She does know what it’s all about, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t. “I assume so.”
Another pause. “My God, maybe nobody has ever told her!”
I suddenly feel extremely negligent. Is that why she was so hysterical?
“Tell her I’m on my way.” She hangs up. So do I.
I walk home slowly, disturbed by what has happened. Things are changing way too fast. Something tells me that the universe is not as erratic and random as I’ve always assumed, or wanted to assume. First I find out that Mom might be getting out of jail. Then Dad says Kat needs her mom. I disagree, but two days later she gets her period and I can’t even help her. She does need her mom. Or a mom. A big brother is just not good enough. If her starting her period today is not some kind of wake-up call for me, what is?
M
RS.K COMES
into the kitchen, where I’m putting together a Winnie-the-Pooh puzzle with Sammy. “She’s never even heard of menstruation,” Mrs. K says, very clinically.
“Really?” I guide Sammy’s hand to the hole in the puzzle where the piece she is clutching fits in. “Don’t all schools go over that stuff in family life class?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe not at her school. Or maybe she was away that day. I dunno.” She sighs and slumps into a chair. “She’s fallen through the cracks somehow. The poor wee thing is pretty traumatized.” I decide to strike dramatics off my list. Poor kid. She probably did think she was dying.
“Anyway, she has plenty of…of supplies to get her through this month and next, although at her age it might be six months before she gets it again. I think your dad should buy her a book about puberty.”
I guess my expression painted a pretty clear picture of the possibility of that ever happening.
“Okay, how about I find one at the library for her,” Mrs. K suggests.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And Darcy, I’m glad you called me this morning. It was the right thing to do.”
“I’m just glad you were home.” That is the understatement of the century.
“I’ll call work and say I can’t make it today,” she says, “so you and Kat can stay home.”
That reminds me. “Actually, my dad has planned something for us a week from Wednesday night, so we can’t baby-sit then. Maybe we should come tonight, seeing as…”