The Merciful Scar

by Rebecca St. James

  “Don’t try to grab me and physically stop me,” I said. “I could slip and slash an artery by mistake. That’s what made everyone think I was suicidal in the first place.”

  “I know you’re not suicidal,” Emma said. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Besides, I don’t see that in you.”

  I tossed the razor blade onto the towel I’d spread across the sink and looked at her.

  “How is it that you get it?” I said.

  “I get what it’s like to need an outlet for stuff you can’t look at.” Emma pointed to the blade that still lay on the towel. “I actually kind of envy you.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t see myself doing this. I get queasy when I have to get a shot. But at least you let it out, even if it’s only temporary. All I seem to be able to do with my pain is bury it.”

  “Is that why you have nightmares?”

  She didn’t look like she was going to scurry back to her cave, but I didn’t push it by adding, And why you freaked out that day the bear killed Petey’s mother?

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Does it help?”

  Emma grunted. “For about seven seconds. Then here comes the guilt.” She pulled a Band-Aid from the first aid kit. “I wish they had these for our insides.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I dropped the blade in the trash can and folded the towel. Emma closed the box.

  “Coffee?” she said.

  “With cream,” I said.

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  I wish they had Band-Aids for our insides. #TheMercifulScar

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  We had just finished improving the moment when Undie and Norwich heralded Frankie’s arrival on the porch.

  “May I ask a favor of you two ladies?” she said.

  We said yes in unison. I didn’t know about Emma, but I’d had enough of my own thoughts for now.

  “I need you to take some things in the truck up to where Joseph and Andy have gone with the auger to repair some fence.” She only grinned with her eyes. “They left without the posts.”

  A little distracted, were we?

  “Sure, we got this,” Emma said.

  The grin spread to Frankie’s face.

  See? I knew you two would learn to play well together.

  Emma drove and I rode shotgun—almost literally, since Frankie handed me her thirty-thirty before we left—with Bathsheba in my lap, drooling out the window. Fortunately we never went fast enough for her saliva to blow back into my face.

  When we’d gone past the gate at the south pasture and were crawling in low gear up a roadless hill, Emma said, “I bet she sent the two of them up here to duke it out.”

  “Andy didn’t want to go,” I said.

  “And I’m sure Joseph didn’t want to take him. He’s being as stubborn as Andy now.”

  I didn’t see that coming.

  “I don’t know what could’ve gone down between them,” I said. “Frankie said Joseph was like Andy’s dad when he was little.”

  Emma gave me a deadpan look. “An issue with a dad couldn’t possibly be the problem.”

  “Oh yeah, huh?” I pulled some Bathsheba hair out of my mouth and let it go out the window. It gave me a minute to consider whether I ought to ask the next question.

  “Spit it out, Petersen.”

  “I just did.”

  “No, I mean whatever it is you’re dying to say.”

  “Promise you won’t throw me out of the truck?”

  “Ask it already!”

  “Okay, okay.” I shaped the words carefully. “Has Joseph ever said anything to you about being in prison? Because I’m wondering if that has anything to do with Andy’s issue with him. I mean it’s none of my business—”

  “Sure it is. They’re family.”

  Is it just me or wasn’t she the one who said you were being nosey in the first place?

  I didn’t remind Emma of that.

  She took off her ball cap and stuck it back on. “Joseph said to me one time that we’ve all done things we aren’t proud of but we have to accept God’s forgiveness or we never get past them. He said that was what got him through a prison term.” Emma pulled the truck to the crest of a hill and stopped. “He didn’t tell me what he was in for and I didn’t ask. But he’s not a criminal. Not in here.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest. I nodded and hoped my disappointment wasn’t smeared all over my face.

  Don’t you hate it when your old man’s right?

  The fence Andy and Joseph were working on was at the bottom of a hill. Following Emma’s lead, I rolled several poles that looked like large pencils down the slope before joining them on foot. Rotted fence posts lay in a pile, looking almost grateful to be relieved of duty. The holes that had been augured out went as deep as the silence between Andy and Joseph.

  Awkward Moment alert.

  “So what happened?” Emma said.

  My stomach lurched until I saw she was pointing to the fence.

  “Bull went through it.”

  Joseph bit off the ends of his words and spit them out like they were cigar tips. Andy didn’t say anything at all.

  “You bring the dibbler?” Joseph said.

  “It’s probably in the truck,” Emma said.

  “We’re gonna need that and the shovel and the rest of the poles.”

  “I’ll get them,” Andy said. His voice sounded rusty.

  But Joseph shook his head. “I need you to place the poles.”

  I refused to look at Andy, though I imagined his face resembled one of the Black Angus steers about now, and hurried up the hill behind Emma. Actually, hurried didn’t quite describe it. Huffed and puffed and heaved like the bull that charged the fence—that was more accurate.

  “Good for the glutes and thighs,” Emma said when we got to the truck. She narrowed her eyes at me. “As if you had either one.”

  “Are you serious? I have body envy every time I look at your figure.”

  She grunted.

  By the time we got back to the fence, laden with tools I couldn’t have named even on a multiple choice, Andy had placed the gigantic pencil-poles next to the holes they were apparently going to be stuck into.

  You guys have fun with that.

  “Em, you’re with Andy,” Joseph said. “Kirsten, you’re with me.”

  “Whatever it is we’re doing,” I said, “I guarantee you I’ve never done it before.”

  Joseph let one side of his mouth go up. “Well, fancy that.”

  He was going to hold the pole in the hole, he said, and I was going to use a long metal pole—the dibbler, he called it—to push the sod back in so the pole would stand upright.

  I got a great idea: you hold the pole and he does the dibbling.

  I was about to suggest that when Joseph said, “Doc says it’ll be two more weeks before I can do anything with this arm. Besides”—he shrugged the sinewy shoulders—“I think every woman ought to know how to set a pole. You can’t tell when you’ll need it in your skill set.”

  I can. How ’bout never!

  I was supposed to start with the dibbler end to push a layer of soil into the hole. That sounded easy enough, until I tried to lift the thing.

  Yeah, you’re gonna need to work on that upper-body strength.

  No wonder Emma did those push-ups every morning. Somebody could have mentioned that might come in handy.

  “Now use the tamper end to press that soil in there nice and tight,” Joseph said.

  I pressed.

  “You’re gonna have to do it harder than that. Lift and then jam it down. Lift and jam.”

  I tried.

  “That was pretty puny. Don’t just use your arms. Use your whole body.”

  Suddenly I would have loved to have used my whole body to shove Joseph headfirst into the hole. I felt more uncoordinated than I had since I’d tried to hook a sheep, and now I was showing my extreme inept spastic clu
msiness in front of Andy, while without looking I knew Emma had one pole secured and was working on her second, still perspiration free.

  And somehow that just ticked. Me. Off.

  I lifted the pole and jammed. I was doing just fine with the sheep. Lift. Jam. Why was I now being held responsible for things I wasn’t even capable of doing? Lift. Jam. Things that weren’t my fault in the first place. I wasn’t the one who rammed through this fence. Dump in more soil. Lift. Jam. I was sick of not living up to people’s expectations. I was sick of it always coming back on me and my loser-ness. Sick of having anger I had no right to feel because apparently everything was my fault to begin with. Jam. Jam. Jam.

  “Hey.”

  I stopped jamming and looked at Joseph. “What?”

  He nodded at the hole, which was no longer there. “I think you’ve killed this one.”

  I could feel the blood surging through my veins. “You got another one?”

  “Come on.”

  Joseph led me to the next hole. “What’s this one’s name?” he said.

  “This one’s Michelle,” I said.

  “All right. Have at her.”

  Each of the four more poles I secured in the ground that day had a name. Michelle. Sandy. Wes. Isabel. Each one received the wrath of the dibbler and the wrath of Kirsten. Whenever the guilt began to slow me down, Joseph said, “You’re not gonna get it done that way,” and I let the rage return. Lift. Jam. You hurt me. You hurt me. You hurt me bad. Jam. Jam. Jam.

  When we got to the last one, Joseph stood the pole upright in the hole and looked at me, brows raised. There was only one more name, but I couldn’t say it.

  “I’ve got nothing left,” I said, and handed the dibbler to Joseph.

  The unearthly strength seeped out of me and my legs wobbled. The muscles in my throat let go and an unbidden sob was set free. I tried to run from it, down along the fence, away from Joseph and Emma and the anger I’d left in those holes. Sob after sob burst from the throat I’d depended on to hold them back. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t control where I went, I could only weep . . . right into a pair of sweat-damp arms.

  They held me there only long enough for the sobs to stop rocking me. When Andy let go, I looked at my own arms to make sure I hadn’t cut them somehow, because the rush of relief I felt was cutting-real.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For . . . ?”

  “Andy!”

  Joseph’s bark was sharp. Andy’s face hardened, as if that were the only way he could keep from barking back.

  “There’s not enough wire in the truck. Need you to drive back and get more.”

  Andy gave my hand a squeeze and turned to go. By then Joseph had almost reached us. When Andy swerved to get around him, Joseph stuck out his arm.

  “What you two do is none of my business,” he said.

  “I’d have to agree with that,” Andy said.

  What’s that noise? Oh, it’s teeth grinding.

  “But I can’t be part of keeping secrets.”

  “Look, I talked to Aunt Frankie. She’s cool with our friendship.” Andy spread out both hands. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to be honest. Things being kept in the dark just about ruined my life, and if you’re not careful, son, they’ll ruin yours.” Joseph looked hard at me. “Like I said earlier, that has nothing to do with you. But if there’s something more than friendship going on between you two, you better come clean with Frankie.”

  “We’re adults,” Andy said.

  “Then act like it. Because you know what’s at stake here, Andy.”

  I am so confused.

  Emma arrived, winded, and bent over at the waist to lean on her knees.

  Or to avoid looking at this Awkward Moment.

  “Em, why don’t you stay here with me and we’ll get started with the wire we have. Kirsten can go back with Andy.”

  Emma raised only her head and looked at me, forehead furrowed. I nodded at her.

  Andy didn’t say anything until he and I and Bathsheba were in the truck. She didn’t sit on my lap but scooted herself next to the window so I had to slide closer to Andy. He smelled warm and perspire-y and musky.

  No. No getting high on his scent. Absolutely not.

  I pulled Bathsheba onto my lap and moved back toward the door. Andy started the truck down the other side of the hill.

  “Joseph is overreacting,” he said.

  “Is he?” I said. “That doesn’t sound like Joseph to me.”

  He barely reacts at all if you ask me.

  Andy waited until the truck lurched over a rock before he went on. “That first day you and I were sitting in the pen together—the day Petey was born—Frankie told me I shouldn’t distract you from the work you were here to do. She didn’t tell me in so many words to stay away from you. She just asked me to be considerate of you.” Andy looked across the seat at me and grinned. “That’s been harder than it sounds.”

  So correct me if I’m wrong, but this guy was way ahead of you.

  Andy tried to downshift but the truck gave an asthmatic protest. “Do you know she’s had this thing since I was three? It’s twenty years old. She needs to give it a rest.”

  Yo, could we get back to that whole harder-than-it-sounds thing?

  He found a gear that worked and opened and closed his hands on the steering wheel. “Here’s the thing. I’m the one who’s distracted by you. Have been ever since I saw you dump that hay bale ten minutes after I showed up—and that just doesn’t happen to me. At least it never has before.” He wiped one hand on the top of his thigh. “I came back here to figure out why I just flunked out of graduate school, and now . . .” He stole a glance at me. “I’m not sure I care why.”

  Andy stopped the truck just short of the gate that separated the sheep from the public road. They grazed a few yards away, completely uninterested in us. Bathsheba whined restlessly and jumped out the window.

  “Alone at last.” Andy’s grin softened. “Before I go making a confession to Sister Frankie, I guess you better tell me whether you have anything to confess . . . about me.”

  Tell him you think he’s hot. Do it.

  I would have, if hot had been all of it. But I wasn’t even sure what it was. I was so caught off guard I could only stammer, “I like you. I do—”

  Andy smiled, but the hand he put on my shoulder was clammy. “If you’re going to say like a brother, just nod and I’ll drive on and pretend this conversation never happened.”

  “No! I just didn’t know you felt . . . I haven’t even thought this all through . . . But, Andy, the thing is, I only have six days left here.”

  “You’re allowed to stay more than thirty days. Emma’s been here for three months.”

  “I have a lot of work to do in six days.” I spread my hand on my chest. “In here.”

  Andy pulled my hand away and pressed it between both of his. “I’m no Sister Frankie, okay, but from what I saw up there just now, you’re getting a lot of stuff out. Only you’re just getting started, am I right?”

  I had to nod.

  He grinned. “I’m not trying to sell it just so you’ll stay, but if you need more time here all you have to do is ask. And that would be no problem for me.”

  I closed my eyes and felt like I was falling, in that weightless, eager way you fall when you know you’re going to land on a pile of pillows. A cushion? Didn’t Frankie tell me I needed a cushion? Someplace to rest when working on the pain was too much?

  “Hey, Bo.”

  I opened my eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making this harder for you.” Andy squeezed my hands. “What do you need?”

  Say again?

  I did want to hear it again. Because search as I might through my memory, I was sure I would find no time when anyone had ever said, “Kirsten, what do you need?” It was an unfamiliar question I didn’t know how to answer. Except to say—

  “Support?”

  “Do
ne. I’m already praying for you.” He tried to stifle the dimples. “Not to mention the fact that I have already saved you from a killer cow, pulled you out of the bum pen, taught you how to fire a weapon—although I have to say I don’t see you ever shooting one beyond target practice.”

  You did not just giggle.

  “I know, right?”

  “How does this sound to you?” Andy said, still holding on to my hand. “I’ll tell Frankie I’m supporting you in your work here—”

  “And I’m supporting you. I don’t want to feel like a project. This can’t be one-sided.”

  Way to grow a backbone, Kirsten.

  “I’ll tell her that, but I know she’s going to say that’s a distraction for you.”

  “We can’t leave that out, though. I want her to have the whole truth.”

  Andy brushed the tip of my nose with his finger. “That right there—that is why I like you so much. One of about fifty reasons.” He put the finger to my forehead as if he was going to brush back a strand of my hair, but he pulled back. “I’m also going to tell her that I’ll do my best to keep my hands off you.”

  Rats.

  It was hard not to protest. I wanted his arms around me again. Sometime. Soon.

  He kissed me on the forehead and whispered, “Last time. For now.”

  When he climbed out of the truck to open the gate, he turned back and said, “I’m serious. I don’t want to get in the way of what you’re trying to do up here.”

  Get in the way?

  No, he wasn’t going to get in the way. For all I knew as I sank against the lumpy, rode-hard back of the seat, Andy DeLuca was part of the way.

  Hmmm . . .

  Frankie and Joseph had to go into Conrad for a meeting that night, which meant Andy wouldn’t be able to talk to her until at least morning. Still, I fell asleep cocooned, not just in Andy and Emma and Frankie and Petey and Bathsheba and now maybe even in Joseph, but in a soft kind of safety that felt like maybe it could be God.

  “Thank You,” I whispered.