Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (5 page)

I feel a warm rush and hope that my cheeks aren't flushed. "Well, my mom's had a hard time with my dad. I mean, he never hits her or
us, but my mom has been pretty well heat-up by his words after all
these years. She kind of cracked up last winter."

His brow creases in concern. "Man, that must be tough, Ruth."

His sympathy only causes a large lump to grow in my throat.
"Yeah, it can get pretty depressing."

"Good that you have your art." He overlays the mat on one of
my drawings. "It's a good outlet for pain."

I nod. "Yeah, I guess. But my dad thinks I should do happier
subjects."

Glen kind of laughs. "Well, tell your dad he should do the
same."

"Yeah, right."

Finally I have to redirect the conversation. All this focus on
family is making me feel stressed. I mean, I'm glad that Glen understands. But his life has settled down. He's finally experiencing some
relief and stability. I'm happy for him and everything, but my life is
still pretty much a mess. And, well, there's the whole cutting thing.
No way am I going to tell him about that.

It's almost six, and even though I already phoned home to leave
a message about where I am and what I'm doing, I know it's time to
get going. "Do you mind if we quit now?" I ask.

He glances up at the clock. "Sure. I had no idea it was so late. I'll
bet we can finish up these last few tomorrow."

So we put stuff away, turn out the lights, and head out to the
parking lot. I am surprised at how nice Glen's car is. Somehow after
hearing the story of the abusive dad, I imagined that he and his
mom would be strapped. But here he is, driving a fairly new Honda
Accord.

"Nice car," I tell him as I get in.

"Thanks." He starts the ignition. "My mom tried to talk me into
trading it for something else-because my dad got it for me on my
sixteenth birthday-but I was already kind of used to it. Besides,
I think this has to be one of the most common cars in the country.
I can't imagine my dad tracking us down based on the make of my
car."

"You wouldn't think so."

"Yeah. My dad got me this car as kind of a payoff after he beat
me up one night. No broken bones, but my mom took photos, and
not long after that came the restraining order. But I refused to press
charges."

.Why,,

He shrugs. "I don't know. It just didn't seem right. I mean, he's
my dad. And then, of course, he got me the car, and ... well, I didn't
know what to do."

"Yeah, it gets pretty complicated."

I give him directions to my house. "It's not a very impressive
neighborhood," I tell him. I don't know why I even care, but after
seeing his car, I'm guessing that he and his mom might live in a
fairly nice house. And my friend Abby and most of my relatives live
in better neighborhoods. So I guess insecurity lust comes with the
territory.

Not that we live in the slums or the projects. Its not that bad.
And, as my dad will point out to any of us, at least we own our
house. He'll also point out that he works hard managing the tire
store, and that "unlike some of your mom's low-life relatives who
live off of the government, I pay my own way. I put food on the
table and a roof over your heads!" How many times have I heard
that little speech?

But as Glen pulls his car into the asphalt driveway of our yellow ranch-style house with three bedrooms and two baths, I still feel
embarrassed. "Well, this is it," I say unceremoniously. "Thanks for
the lift."

"No problem. And thanks for the help with the matting today."
He smiles a totally endearing smile. "And thanks for listening. It is
totally cool to meet someone who really gets me."

I nod and smile. "Yeah."

"See you tomorrow."

I close the car door and walk slowly toward my house. I'm
hoping that Glen will drive away before I make it to the door. I don't
want to risk having my dad make a sudden appearance and doing
something that will thoroughly embarrass me. Thankfully, I make it
quietly into the house.

But that's where the quiet ends.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" MY DAD DEMANDS WHEN I'M BARELY THROUGH
the front door.

"I told you this morning that I planned to stay late after school.
And I left a phone message."

"Why did you have to stay late?" He blocks my way to the
kitchen. "Were you in trouble?"

"I was working in the art room. Getting things ready for the art
fair tomorrow." Although I'm exasperated, I try to keep my voice
even. I don't want to be accused of "sassing" him.

"Who brought you home?"

I look down at the floor and consider lying and saying it was Abby,
and that she was using someone else's car, but this whole thing could
get blown totally out of proportion if he figures it out. "Glen."

"Glen? Glen WHO? I don't know anyone named Glen."

"Glen Collins. He's a new kid at school. He was getting some of
his stuff ready for the show too. He offered me a ride."

"A new kid in school? So you hardly know this kid and you let
him drive you home?"

"He seems nice and responsible. And his car was nice."

"So you think that just because someone has a nice car means
that he's a nice person? Ruth Anne Wallace, don't be so naive! Next thing you know you'll be riding off with some serial killer, saying,
`He seemed so nice."'

"Sorry." I glance into the kitchen. "Want me to start some
dinner?" I offer in the hope that my interrogation is over.

"Where's your brother?"

I look up, slightly worried. Caleb is usually home by now. "I
don't know. Isn't he here?"

"If he was here, would I be asking you where he is?" My dad
swears. Not a really bad word, but it's a sure sign that he's losing
it. "You kids are so selfish. You think you can just take off and run
around, doing your own thing, without a thought or concern for
anyone else who lives in this house." He usually starts moving
around once he starts to rant. As a result, I'm able to slip past him
into the kitchen.

"Sorry, Dad," I say, hoping I sound more sincere than I am, "but
I haven't seen Caleb since this morning."

My dad stops and scowls at me. Then he moves closer and looks
at me with a distrustful expression. "And you really don't know
where he is, Ruth?"

I shake my head.

"I can hear your brains rattling, Ruth. Are you saying you don't
know where your brother is? Or are you just trying to cover for
him?"

"I really don't know. Maybe you should call Andy's house."

"1 told him to stay away from Andy just last week. I saw that kid
hanging outside of the 7-Eleven, and he was smoking."

Of course, I don't reveal that Caleb smokes too. I've warned him
that Dad will totally freak if he ever catches on. But I guess smoking
is just Caleb's small way of rebelling. My dad launches into a lecture
on how stupid it is for teens to start smoking. On and on he goes, like he thinks someone is listening.

Just as he's getting onto tobacco companies and how they're plotting to take over the world, my unfortunate brother comes home.
And, man, does that set off a whole new bunch of fireworks. Dad
switches subjects midsentence, lashing into Caleb about responsibility and maturity and how Caleb is such a "sorry excuse of a son."
Regular stuff like that.

The weird thing is that Caleb's acting like he doesn't even care.
And he's got this strange look in his eyes. Like he's up to something
or has some kind of an escape plan. I don't know, but I can tell
something's up with him. Something's different.

There's nothing I can do to help Caleb. Who knows, maybe he
doesn't need any help. So I slink off to my room. But as I go, I notice
the door to my parents' bedroom is open a few inches, like maybe
she's been standing there listening to this whole thing. Then the
door silently closes. I don't even hear the latch click.

I imagine my mom standing behind it, probably still in her faded
green bathrobe, her graying hair drooping around her dull eyes. The
face that I used to think was pretty is probably just expressionless
now. Maybe she's clutching that ugly old afghan, wrapping it around
her despite the warmth of the afternoon.

And suddenly I'm furious. Why does she have to be like this?
Why can't she say something? Do something? Stand up for her children? Sometimes I really, really hate that woman.

Okay, I know that's not fair. And, really, I do love my mom and
I do feel sorry for her, but sometimes her weakness totally disgusts
me. I've heard that you dislike the same thing about others that you
can't stand in yourself. Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I'm just like
her. I mean, it's not like I'm standing up for my brother, either. But
like I said, he doesn't seem to need me tonight. Somehow I think he's getting the upper hand. But how? What's he doing differently?
Maybe he's just learned not to care. I plan to ask him. Later, when
things cool down. Maybe I'll make him a sandwich and go into his
room and we can have a real talk.

I hear a loud smack, like the sound of a piece of wood breaking, and the chaos of our lives takes on a whole new twist. I hear
Caleb yelling and cussing. I run out to see what's going on, and from
the hallway I can see that Caleb's nose is bleeding. He looks both
shocked and furious.

"Don't you ever use that kind of language around me again!" my
dad yells. I peek a bit farther around the corner until I can see my
dad. And I can tell that he is shocked too. I mean, he never hits us.
At least not until now.

"You're evil!" Caleb yells at my dad. "Totally evil. And I'm not
taking it anymore." Then Caleb turns and walks right out the front
door. Just like that. I mean he's only fourteen. Where's he going?
And what's he going to do? And what will happen when he wants to
come back? Poor Caleb.

I quietly retreat to my room, thankful that Dad didn't see me
watching. I can hear him storming around in the kitchen, probably
fixing himself something to eat. And after about twenty minutes he
is gone.

First I pace in my bedroom. So far, despite all the stress I'm feeling, I have somehow resisted the urge to cut myself. Maybe getting
to know Glen, hearing a story that's similar to mine, has given me
this speck of hope. Maybe that's what makes me want to handle my
life differently. To quit cutting.

Or maybe the shock of my dad crossing that line is what holds
me back. I still can't believe he actually hit Caleb. Hit him hard, it
looked like. What happens after this? Where do we go from here?

I can't take it anymore. I march down the hallway and knock
on my mom's door. Someone has to start being the grown-up in this
house.

After what seems to be a very long time, the door finally
opens about six inches wide, and I can see her thin face peering
at me. "What?" Her voice is small, like it's from a child who's been
punished.

"We need to talk," I say, pushing open the door. I walk right in.
I'm not even sure why I feel so bold. I usually avoid going into this
room at all. And I can tell she's surprised, but she says nothing, just
sits in her glider, sinking down as if it's a struggle to stand.

"Mom," I begin in a pleading voice, almost like I used to talk to
her before she had her breakdown. "This is all wrong. I can't stand
the way we live. I mean, Dad actually hit Caleb tonight. Did you
know that? Caleb's nose was actually bleeding. And then Caleb took
off. And who can blame him? I don't even know where he went, or if
he's coming back." I pause and just look at my mom, and her face is
so blank that you'd think the woman was deaf and dumb. "Can you
hear a single word I'm saying?" I demand loudly, disrespectfully. I'm
afraid I sound just like my dad.

Her eyes dart to the door, fearful, as if she can hear Dad in my
voice too. But still she says nothing. Just sits there. Good grief, this
woman can't even help herself. How can I expect her to help Caleb
or me?

"Fine." I turn around in anger. "Whatever!"

According to the little digital clock that I put in the bathroom to
keep Caleb moving, it is exactly 7:23 p.m. when I start running water
down the sink. I quickly find my hidden razor blade and at 7:27 I
carefully slice into my right arm. About halfway up this time. It's my
second cut today. At this rate, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.

But the rush of relief is worth it. The disaster that is my family
just fades away and I feel that I have control again. And I can breathe
again. It's just me and my wound and my blood, alone in the bathroom. Why does this feel so good?