Stay Safe,
Ruby
They say black is the color of death.
Swirling all around,
The grim reaper’s cloak waiting to snatch you up.
Black like forever when you die.
But I think death is red.
Red like strawberries on the lips
On a hot summer day. Red like the
Mermaid’s hair floating in the sea.
Red like apples and hearts and the lollipop
I ate as a child.
Red like
the warm puddles
in June.
Part IV
2013
11 years old
September 19, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I’m still bothered by the time difference. I know it’s been a couple of weeks, but I still want to write 6:57 p.m. It doesn’t feel right. Not. At. All.
But Daddy says chess club has been good for me. He likes that it gets me around the other kids more. He thinks it will help me be more social. I don’t think he realizes that’s not exactly true. Really, I just sit and quietly play. I don’t speak to anyone. But it’s fun beating them. I do like getting to figure out the best moves. It’s all about knowing the rules and having the smarts to put the moves together. I don’t think it’s that hard, but the other kids seem to think it is. It makes me feel good to win, even if they complain that a weird kid beat them. I hate that word. But I’ve grown used to it. Apparently kids think quiet means weird. If only they knew.
Daddy taught me chess over the summer. His grandfather taught Daddy when he was young. Said it would keep him out of trouble. I don’t know if it did or not. Daddy doesn’t talk about when he was growing up very much. Neither does Grandma. I know, though, that Daddy had a brother named Dwayne. He died before I was born. Daddy won’t say what happened. Grandma has a picture of Daddy and Dwayne in her house, but when I ask about him, Grandma shakes her head and changes the subject to quilting or raisin-filled cookies or something dumb like that.
There are so many secrets, I’m realizing. There’s so much stuff Daddy doesn’t like to talk about.
For wanting me to be social and interact, Daddy is sort of clammy about a lot of his own life. Sure, he’s chatty and can hold a conversation with anyone we come across. He doesn’t shy away from people out in public like I do. He isn’t afraid to talk and laugh and chat about all sorts of things—but not everything. The past parts of him and the real parts of him—those things stay secret. But that’s okay. I get it. Everyone thinks you have to talk, talk, talk. You should tell everyone everything you are thinking and feeling all the time. I hate talking. Sometimes thinking is better. That’s why I like chess.
But chess club is after school and it throws our schedule off by a whole hour. I almost quit because of that. I was getting antsy. I was doing that thing with my hands, almost how Daddy’s hands shake when he’s getting angry inside. I couldn’t stop scratching my neck, so much so that it was bleeding. I was getting upset a lot and just feeling frustrated.
“Ruby,” Daddy finally said to me. “You’re getting older. You need to be flexible. The world isn’t perfectly black and white all the time. It doesn’t fit with your schedule. You’re going to have to figure that out.”
Daddy says he wants me to be successful when I go to the junior high school next year. He says he wants me to start blossoming and finding my way. Whatever that means.
I just want to keep writing, keep spending time with Daddy, and survive school. I wish I could just quit and be home schooled like Victoria Alders. She was a girl in my class last year who stopped coming because she had anxiety and actually had a meltdown in school. Worse than the ones I’ve had. I felt bad for her because I understand why she did that—but I also am jealous because now she is homeschooled and doesn’t have to come anymore. Daddy says he wouldn’t feel good about teaching me everything. He says we need to let it to the experts. Plus, Daddy has to work. I thought about trying to have a meltdown to beat Victoria, but I couldn’t do that to Daddy. He would be so upset, and what would he do? I’d probably get stuck with Grandma teaching me all day. That would lead to a real, true meltdown. Even going to school is better than being with her.
Mrs. Vickers, my teacher this year, is old, old, old. Her craggy face is always shrivelled. I do like, though, that she sticks to the rules. She yells meanly when the kids get too loud. She likes quiet. And even though Mrs. Vickers doesn’t really seem to like me, I like her. She likes peace and calm, so she’s okay in my book.
We finished the book we’re reading in English class, The Giver. A lot of the kids were angry about it, about how they kill people in the eerie little society. They kill babies if they’re twins. They kill you when you get too old. One girl in class cried. It made me nervous. I know I cry a lot when I’m frustrated, but I just don’t know how to handle it when someone else is crying. It makes me really uncomfortable and aggravated, like I want to run out of the room. Sometimes I do.
I wanted to raise my hand and say that killing isn’t always bad when we were discussing the book. Sometimes it’s the best option. Sometimes it can be okay. I thought of the garage and Daddy and how expertly he executed it. I wondered what he would think of the book.
“Daddy, have you read The Giver?” I asked him at dinner tonight. Chicken nuggets and fries, my favorite.
“Yeah, I think so. A long time ago.”
“What did you think? Of the killing?”
He looked up from his plate. “I don’t know, Ruby. That’s a tough question. I think that world in the book was very different than ours, and maybe we’d have to think of it on their terms. I don’t think there’s a single right answer.”
“Because not everything’s black and white?”
He smirked. “That’s right.”
But I noticed his hands were a little unsteady as he forked the steak he cooked for himself into his mouth. I wish we could talk more. He’s the one person I want to talk more to. I want to know so many things, but he clams up.
Sometimes I wonder if I really know Daddy at all, and that hurts.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 23, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Today at school, Daddy had to come in. We had a special meeting. It’s basically a meeting because the school thinks I need special help because of some of my differences. Daddy says it’s all a money game, that I don’t need help. That I do just fine. But he wants me to have the best chance, so he swallows his pride and goes along with it. Just in case it might help me. Personally, I think I do fine and get along and don’t cause too much trouble most of the time. Not like some of the kids. I don’t know why they focus on me when kids like Randy and Josh and Margaret are always throwing true tantrums and being super mean. And of course, Clarissa is always being nasty and telling lies. Those are the kids who need meetings, not the quiet ones.
Daddy tries his best, though, to be nice at the school even though I get the sense he didn’t like it when he went. He listens to their ideas and tries to be openminded, as he tells me. But he isn’t openminded to everything. He makes sure to put the principal and the other people at the meeting in their place if they say something he doesn’t like. Watching him at the meeting, it makes me realize what he must have been like when he was my age.
Strong. Powerful.
I wonder if I could be that way if I needed to be.
While they talked about transition plans and behaviour modification plans, I sunk into myself like I often do. I thought about yesterday, how Chloe and Sarah and Clarissa have been lurking again. They’re in different classes than me, but they still find ways to get to me. To harass me at recess. To have the kids chant things around me on the playground.
I don’t know why they picked me, but it makes me angry.
They call me stupid and dunce and all sorts of synonyms. The thing is, their vocabulary is weak. I want to shout
out dozens of better words they could use—I like synonyms. I don’t shout them out, though, even when I want to. I just let them think they’re so smart.
I notice now that when they bother me, I wring my hands. Over and over. Sometimes, I imagine what it would feel like to have their tiny, twiggy necks between my fingers, to crunch and squeeze until they were gasping, until they couldn’t talk. Until they’re quiet.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 8, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary.
He came home empty-handed last night. And he caught me awake, like that one time when I was younger. I know now that I can never, ever tell him I know what happens in there.
Maybe what Daddy is doing is wrong—because why is he so mad about it?
I’ll start from the beginning. I jolted awake when I heard his truck leave. I couldn’t believe it. It’s been so long. So, so long. I, of course, got myself out of bed. I knew that I had plenty of time, that there was no rush. It was 10:57 p.m. I knew I had at least an hour until I had to be positioned to watch. I was in the mood for a good cleaning, after all. I could almost see the blood swirling with the bleach, the puddles disappearing. So satisfying.
I decided to read for a while to pass the time. I picked up the first book in the Harry Potter series—the first is always the best, after all. I read the words I had memorized, languishing in the tranquillity of it. I was getting ready to go downstairs, to head to my spot, when the truck came squealing in, practically crashing to a stop. Something was wrong. I tossed down the book, leaning to look out the window.
Daddy got out of the truck and rushed towards the house. He was empty-handed. Where was the woman? Why wasn’t he going in the garage? He looked up, saw my light, and my heart stopped.
“Ruby,” he bellowed when he barged through the door downstairs, flinging it open with such force that I heard it smash against the wall. I was rocking on my bed, scared that I was caught. I hated being caught breaking the rules. My fingers were doing the wringing thing, and I couldn’t stop it. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing from the tone I was in trouble. I didn’t do anything, Daddy. I didn’t. I love you.
“Ruby,” he yelled again, stomping up the steps. He looked red and flushed, out of sorts. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He was a fit man. Why was he so exhausted?
“Ruby, what the fuck are you doing up? Huh?” he yelled as he stormed in my room.
“I . . . I heard you leave . . .” I murmured, staring at the flooring, tracing patterns in the carpet with my big toe.
He came forward, grabbing my arms. “Listen, okay? This is important. I didn’t leave. Okay? I didn’t leave tonight.”
There was panic in his voice, something I’ve never seen. He’s always cool and calm and collected.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, confused, still staring at the carpet as my toe danced over the fuzzy texture.
“Ruby, listen. Do you love me?”
“Of course, Daddy.”
“Then do this for me. Repeat it. I never left. Okay? I was here the whole time.”
“But that’s a lie,” I said. I shook my head as anger surged within.
“Dammit, Ruby, get your head out of your ass. This is important. What the hell were you doing up anyway? Snooping around? What I do is my business, you hear? You need to stay out of it. You got it?”
His hands squeezed my arms. They started to hurt.
“Yes, Daddy,” I replied. “You were here.”
My bottom lip quivered. I tried to hold it together. Daddy let go, sinking to the floor, burying his head in his hands.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Ruby, I’m sorry.” Now Daddy looked like he might cry too.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
He looked up at me. For a moment, I thought maybe he would tell me something. Maybe he’d let me in. I know all about it, you can tell me, I tried to convey with my eyes. My eyes, however, rarely reveal the true inner workings of my mind, of my feelings. They betray me all the time.
“Nothing for you to worry about. I’m okay, Ruby. I’m okay. It’ll all be okay. All that matters is you. Fuck me, how could I be so stupid? You’re all that matters.”
It felt like he was talking to himself, forgetting I was in the room, just like so many others often do. Sometimes it’s like I’m wearing an invisibility spell, even if I don’t want to. Tears welled at the thought.
“Ruby?” he asked after we sat in quiet, sweet, sweet quiet, for a long moment.
“Yeah, Daddy?”
“Have you ever stayed up other nights?” His face was pale.
I looked at him. I didn’t lie. Not ever. Not to Daddy. Not to anyone. But especially not to Daddy. However, my mouth wouldn’t move. It was like it was pasted shut, my dry throat constricted and my tongue uncooperative. I couldn’t say the words that were the truth. I saw how angry he was when I was looking out the window. What would he do if I told him yes? It might break him. I hated seeing him upset.
My teachers have said before that sometimes white lies are okay. Sometimes white lies save relationships, are a kindness. Like when she told me I shouldn’t tell Cindy her new haircut was hideous and made her face look fat. My teacher said I could lie about that, that it was a white lie to help Cindy’s feelings. I didn’t understand. If I were Cindy, I would want to know my hair looked bad and my face fat. But apparently other people don’t think like me. I’m different that way, they said, because most people don’t want to know the complete truth all the time.
Maybe this was one of those moments when lying could help Daddy. Perhaps it was better to ignore the complete truth, to shield him from it. I would give it a try. I needed to be flexible and try new things, after all. Daddy had said so himself.
I exhaled. “No. I just couldn’t sleep, Daddy.”
Relief flooded his face as he accepted my words so quickly. Sometimes, I guess we believe the words we want to hear the most.
“Okay. I just . . . I want to make sure you’re getting enough sleep. I’m trying to be a good Dad, Ruby. I’m trying.” I crossed the room, sat beside him, and nuzzled into him.
“I know. You are a good Dad,” I whispered.
And he is. He is such a good dad, I’ll do anything for him.
Lie to him.
Lie to others.
I’d do anything to protect him. Anything. And for the first time, Diary, it’s become clear that Daddy needs protected. I don’t know what happened, but I think maybe he almost got caught tonight. I’ve seen the news and heard about stories of bad guys getting caught. One boy in our class, Francis, his dad accidentally ran over another man with his car because he was driving too fast. He didn’t follow the rules, and now he’s in jail. I can’t imagine Daddy going away. I can’t imagine being without him. Who would take care of me? Who would take care of Daddy?
We need each other, plain and simple. There’s no other option.
So I need to be careful. I need to watch out for him, no matter what.
I’m not letting some stupid woman or anyone ruin it for Daddy. I’ll do whatever I have to do. Rules are so important—but Daddy is more important.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 15, 2013
8:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Daddy exploded today. It happened at school.
In English class, we were writing poems. It’s my favorite, as you know. I love poetry. I took my time and wrote a poem that I felt proud of, that I felt was really good. I was so proud, I decided to let my teacher, Mrs. Vickers, read it to the class. Let me tell you the truth: I never let anyone hear my work. I never volunteer. But I was really feeling like it was a good poem. I was feeling inspired. I wanted to be flexible and try something new.
She started reading it to the class. I thought this might be my chance. Maybe people would see what a good poet I was and leave me alone, stop picking on me. Stop stealing my stuff and putting ketchup on my seat at lunch and calling me gross.
Maybe I could have a friend, someone to sit with at lunch and to share secrets with. Someone to laugh with and to share my poetry with. Being alone at school got tiresome, especially since Daddy wasn’t there.
But once Mrs. Vickers got past the first stanza—we learned that’s what each paragraph is called—she stopped. My eyes stung. I didn’t understand. She got really quiet and said, “I think that’s enough for now, Ruby.”
The kids laughed, teasing that my poem was so bad, she couldn’t finish it. She hushed them and then had Clarissa share her poem. It was a rhyming mess about puppies. So stupid. So terrible. But everyone clapped and Clarissa grinned that devilishly annoying grin. She made sure to turn around and give me a wink. I swore I’d never share again. Ever. Eyes burning, I realized that I would never have a friend. Never. I’d have to be strong, like Daddy said. The world isn’t black and white. You have to be strong.
So I wiped away my tears and kept doodling on the paper in front of me. I swore I’d let it go, shake off the hurt. I thought I’d heard the last of the poetry situation. After school, though, when I headed out to wait for Daddy to pick me up, Mrs. Vickers stopped me.
“Ruby. I’ve called your father. He’s coming after school for a meeting with us and the principal.”
“Why?” I asked. My heart fluttered.
“You know why.”
But I didn’t, Diary. I had no idea. I figured it had something to do with the poem. My mind started racing. Maybe, I thought, it was so good that Mrs. Vickers wanted to give me an award. Maybe she would tell Daddy I was a prodigy—vocab word—and that we should look into a writing school for me. Not that I’d ever leave Daddy, of course. I waited patiently. I had to pee, but I squirmed in my seat, doodling on a piece of paper, waiting for Mrs. Vickers to escort me down to the office. How proud Daddy would be.
When we got to the office, though, and I rushed to hug Daddy, the principal didn’t look very happy. He didn’t look like he was ready to give out an award. But maybe he was just tired.
“Mr. Marlowe, I’m sorry to call you in like this. But we’re quite alarmed by Ruby, to be honest. Some of the poetry she is writing is very, well, disturbing for a girl her age. And if she keeps this up, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter Page 6
