These Gentle Wounds

by Helene Dunbar

  I want to kiss her again so badly.

  And that means getting through tonight, finding Jordan’s address, and holding it together until I see her tomorrow.

  I’m okay.

  I put my shaky hand in my pocket and walk around to the front door. I try to make it up the steps without looking at anything.

  A voice stops me as I enter the house. I have no doubt this one is real.

  “Come here, son.”

  I don’t have the energy to tell him, again, not to call me his son. I make the mistake of staring at him, though, and feel a pull of memory so strong it makes me stumble. It’s so hard to stop spinning once I start.

  “Sit down,” he says.

  I fall onto the sofa and rub my temples. My head feels like it’s going to break into two.

  “Are you sick? Do you need me to find a doctor?”

  “No,” I say, too loudly. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  He looks through me. “You see that mantel there?” he asks, pointing toward it.

  My eyes follow his finger to the wall and I nod.

  “Starting next week, you and I are going to be doing some intensive practices. You’re going to fill that mantel with trophies.”

  His words are so wistful and unexpected that I parrot them back. “With trophies?”

  I get up and walk over to the mantel and run my hand across it, picking up a coat of dust on my fingers. In spite of myself, I picture all my hockey trophies lined up next to each other. An endless assembly line of successes. Of normal.

  His breath on my neck makes my skin crawl. He reaches out and puts a beefy hand on my shoulder, squeezing until I wince.

  “You were in line to be great when you were a kid. Do you remember? ‘The best young goalie in the Metro area’ they all said. So, fine. You’ve slacked off for a while. But from now on that changes. From now on, you will breathe, eat, and shit hockey. Do you understand?”

  Only my father could turn something I love into a punishment. But that’s how it always was, from the time I could walk. Practice. Practice. Practice. He didn’t care about school, or friends, or anything else I wanted to do. He didn’t care about me.

  “You still have a year,” he continues, “to get up to speed. The scouts will start coming and then we’ll talk about scholarships and advances. You’re going to get all the money that people donated when you turn eighteen, and we’ll be able to move away from here and all of this.”

  I dig my nails into my palms and clench my teeth until my jaw aches. Whatever happens, I’m not leaving with him even if it means I never see a cent of the money.

  He shoves something into my hand as his face breaks into a wide smile filled with razor-sharp teeth. “Open it.”

  I turn it over in my hand. It’s just a white envelope. I don’t want anything he’d give me, but I don’t know how to get out of this, so I do my best to plaster a bored expression on my face and pull the flap.

  Two tickets fall out of the envelope and flutter like dying moths onto the floor. Tiny print covers them and I see a red and white symbol in the corner. I can’t stop myself. I bend down, pick them up, and flip them over.

  Before the thought even embeds itself in my head, he explains. “Season tickets for the Red Wings. For you and me.”

  Fuck. I never get to go to real games anymore. Tickets are so expensive that I pretty much only ask to go as my Christmas present from Jim and Kevin. I’ve never dreamed of having season tickets.

  His hand returns to my shoulder and he squeezes again, with enough force to crumble brick. “I think ‘thank you’ is the phrase you’re looking for.”

  I put the tickets back into the envelope and place it on the mantel. Then I shove my hand deep into my pocket.

  “Why did you want to take us to California?” I ask, without planning to. I can’t even believe my dumb mouth is letting these words out.

  He’s silent as he lets go of my shoulder and brings out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s like when people watch a car crash on the freeway. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it.

  He lights up and I watch the smoke rise, bracing myself for his answer.

  “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  “California,” I whisper. “You were going to take me and Kayla to California.” My hand jerks hard. I know he knows what I’m talking about. He has to. It was what caused everything.

  He sits down and picks up a newspaper like I’m not talking about anything that matters. “You must have been dreaming. I’ve never even been to California.”

  I want to scream. I want to hit something. He’s lying. I know he’s lying.

  But what if he’s not? If The Night Before didn’t happen, then why did Mom …

  The smell of smoke is suffocating.

  Either he’s just being a dick and screwing with my head, or I’m nuts and Mom hated us. Hated me. Wanted me dead.

  The newspaper covers his face and he isn’t looking at me. I clench my hands to stop myself from grabbing at it and ripping it up into shreds of confetti.

  I want to force him to admit everything.

  My mouth won’t work. I can’t feel anything. I chew on my sleeve until I can feel my tongue again and force out, “knife.”

  The paper rustles as he brings it down.

  “Get a hold of yourself, son. You know what happens to boys like you who make up lies, right?”

  Kevin was right. He’s going to have me locked up.

  His stare forces me backward and I just keep backing away until I hit the banister.

  I turn and run upstairs, leaving the envelope perched on the mantle like a white heron.

  It’s dark.

  I don’t think I’ve slept. But I haven’t really been awake either.

  I can’t help it. I’ve been lying here in a pool of sweat, replaying The Night Before over and over and over.

  He has to be lying. He has to be.

  Otherwise I’m never going to be normal, and next year will be the same as this year, and last year, and every year to come.

  I need one normal day. One normal night. No spins or memories. That isn’t going to happen so long as I’m anywhere near him.

  I hope it’s close to morning. Close to school, and Kevin, and Sarah. Close to getting the hell out of here.

  I look at my watch.

  11:23.

  I rip my watch from my wrist and throw it across the room.

  I hate 11:23.

  Even though that was a.m. and this is p.m., it’s the same.

  I see the numbers typed on the form. Each digit in its own box.

  1

  1

  2

  3

  They couldn’t tell what time the kids died. But they knew Mom died around then. And that’s the time they chose for them all.

  11:23 would have been typed on my death certificate, too.

  It’s strange to know what time you were supposed to die.

  I never look at the clock during fourth period.

  Once the numbers get in my head, that’s it.

  They’re in attack mode now.

  I get up and tug on my T-shirt, damp with sweat and stress. I pull it off. It takes a while because my hands are shaking and I can’t get a grip on the thin fabric. My boxers follow.

  I touch my face. I feel like I’m on fire.

  I crawl over to my backpack and pull out the other leather band. I put it on before pushing myself against the cool wall. It feels good against my naked back, but even though I’m snapping the band against my wrist as hard and as fast as I can, the numbers don’t go away.

  I unzip the bottom compartment of my bag.

  Ms. DeSilva’s business card has other numbers on it. I run my fingers over them and imagine them holding up
knives, fighting the clock’s numbers.

  11:23 falls over. Bloodied and bruised. Gasping.

  I wonder if numbers can die.

  I wonder why I didn’t.

  The chattering of my teeth wakes me up.

  The floor is hard and cold, and it’s dark, and I’m lying here naked and cramped.

  I groan when I try to get up, then clamp my lips together. The very last thing I want is for him to come in here.

  I pull myself over to the closet and layer shirt over shirt until I can almost remember what warm feels like. Jeans follow, before I lean my ear against the door to listen to the silence.

  I turn the knob as quietly as I can, holding my breath so even that won’t make a sound.

  The door to Mom’s room is closed. I hope he’s on the other side of it as I make my way down the steps.

  I avoid the fourth one.

  Mom had an old sewing table in the living room. She used to throw bills and letters and receipts and other bits of random paper in there.

  I pull it open, hoping it won’t squeak.

  The stacks of envelopes in the drawer are too new to be hers. Every single one of them is from a law firm downtown.

  They’ve been opened. I scan one of the letters. Something about child support payments for Jordan.

  And there’s an address.

  I wonder if I survived the river so that I could save Jordan. My brother.

  Sticking the letter into my jeans pocket, I take it back to Kevin’s room. The fact that I’m wearing almost every shirt I brought here isn’t keeping me from shivering.

  I pull out the letter and DeSilva’s card.

  I hold them close to my chest and rock back and forth on the floor, watching the red numbers on the clock change, one after another after another after another.

  Waiting for morning.

  Twenty-Six

  Mr. Brooks is always in his office before homeroom. He says it’s the quietest part of the day. When he was teaching middle school, there were full weeks that he’d find me on his beat-up old couch every morning, waiting for him.

  Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes I’d just sit there. He always let me be the one to decide.

  I don’t remember the last time I did that.

  His door is open and, as usual, he’s stretched out on his couch reading some dog-eared paperback. He smiles when I come in and goes back to his book.

  I set my bag down and stumble over my feet as I make my way to the rocking chair.

  The chair has a perfect view of Mr. Brooks’ letter-filled wall. There’s stuff from old students and collages of photos detailing his years of teaching. You wouldn’t think it would be relaxing to look at, but it is.

  It would be easy to sit here until class, but that isn’t what I came here for. When I start to doze off, I force myself over to the air hockey table and push the puck back and forth.

  Mr. Brooks is suddenly next to me. “Do you want to play?” I nod. He closes the door and fires up the machine.

  Mr. Brooks always plays to win. He says that kids need to learn to be graceful losers as well as graceful winners. He doesn’t believe in mercy rules.

  I like that about him.

  He always wipes the floor with me in foosball; I can’t get my hands to do that many things at once. But usually I can beat him at air hockey. Today he scores three straight goals against me. My reactions are sluggish. I always seem to be moving the wrong way in response to his shots.

  I don’t really care about beating Mr. Brooks. I just don’t know how my father could have lied to me about The Night Before.

  Crash. I beat the mallet into the side of the table.

  Then again, maybe he’s telling the truth and I’m just crazy and making everything up, like hearing Mom’s voice.

  Crash. The mallet hits again, harder this time.

  Maybe I was always nuts and that’s why Mom tried to kill me. Who would want a crazy kid anyhow?

  Crash.

  Mr. Brooks covers my hand with his own and gently pries the mallet away from me. He guides me over to the couch. I sit in the corner of it and pull my legs up to my chest. Mr. Brooks doesn’t care if we put our shoes on the cushions. This couch is already like a hundred years old.

  I run a hand through my hair. It’s damp. My hands are shaking.

  Mr. Brooks sits on the arm and says my name, but nothing more. I came here to talk to him, but I don’t know where to start. Anything I say is going to sound demented, so I just spew out all the words at once. “How do you know if something you remember really happened or if you’re making it up?” My thumb starts up, so I shove my whole hand under the cushion, where it wraps around a nickel.

  He answers carefully, like he always does. It’s one of the ways you know he’s really thinking about what you’ve asked. “If you remember something, it probably did happen. Maybe not exactly as you picture it, though. Memories are like that sometimes.”

  Mr. Brooks rarely answers a question in a way that just gives you an answer. I think he likes to make you figure it out on your own.

  I like that about him, too.

  So I think that means there was a Night Before. But what if my father didn’t really want to take us to California? What if it was some grown-up joke I didn’t understand when I was ten?

  Still, Mom was crying and there was the knife; I know I saw the knife. There’s no way I could have made that up.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  I let go of the nickel, leaving it there for someone else to find, and pull my hand out from the cushion.

  “How do you know if you’re crazy?”

  Mr. Brooks pauses, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to tell me that I am and that I shouldn’t move because he’s going to call the counseling office. Or that someone from the hospital will come and get me.

  “I’m going to guess that if you’re thinking straight enough to ask the question, it’s a safe bet you’re okay.” He pulls on my sleeve. “You aren’t crazy, Gordie. You know that. Well, not any more than the rest of us, anyhow.”

  I take a really deep breath and try to relax.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?” he asks.

  “I have a little brother,” I blurt out. I know, I know, I know I shouldn’t say anything to anybody, but Mr. Brooks always seems to know what to do, and I’m hoping he can tell me now.

  He cocks his head. “You do?”

  I nod. I’m just about to tell him that I think my asshole father is hurting Jordan when Sarah comes flying in through the door with a paper in her hand.

  She stops and smiles when she sees me. I have to hold onto the cushions to keep from launching myself over to her.

  “Sorry I missed the deadline yesterday, Mr. Brooks. Here’s my paper,” she says without taking her eyes off me.

  “Hmm … ” He takes it from her and I feel all the blood rush to my face. “Thanks, Sarah. See you in class.”

  We kind of stare at each other for a minute before she leaves. My eyes stay glued to the doorway until I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Sarah Miller? That’s why you’ve been so distracted in class lately?”

  I cross my arms in front of me. Have I been distracted in class? I’ve tried really hard to pay attention, but with all this stuff about my father and all the spins …

  “Gordie?”

  Crap.

  “Yeah. I mean, no. I’m sorry,” I squeak out.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles. “It’s okay. That’s … interesting.” He gets up and walks to his desk and sits down, which is strange because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him use that chair. He’s usually on the couch, or playing a game, or sitting on top of the desk.

  Just as he sits, someone else bursts through the door.

  This time it isn’t Sarah, but
a junior girl with a paint-

  covered skirt and long disheveled hair. She looks like she was playing paintball and forgot to change clothes. I think it’s possible she might need to talk to Mr. Brooks even worse than I do.

  I start to get up, but Mr. Brooks waves me back down.

  “Lizzie,” he says with a sigh. “Do I even want to know what happened to you this time?”

  “This is the second time in a week that those f … ” She glances at me and shrugs.

  I’m surprised to find that something in her half smile says kindred spirits, something says that she gets it, and I wonder if maybe we could be friends or something one day. Assuming I don’t get locked up or have my brain fried in some hospital.

  The girl pushes down her painted skirt and says, “I’ll just come back,” and then we’re alone again.

  Mr. Brooks rolls his eyes and lines a couple of pens up on his desk. “So, what were you saying?”

  I know he isn’t going to let this go, but now I’m kind of regretting that I said anything about Jordan, so I just shrug and stare down at my shoes.

  He doesn’t say anything for a minute and then sighs. He’s good at waiting for me to want to tell him stuff, instead of trying to pull it out of me like Kevin.

  “Well,” he finally says, “I have a secret of my own that I need to talk to you about.”

  I look up at him and my heart flutters. I wish he didn’t have something to say if it’s going to make him look so serious, like a typical teacher.

  “I’m taking a sabbatical next year. I’m going to do some studying of my own, in theaters in England.”

  Mr. Brooks is head of our drama club, so I guess this makes sense, but … “For the whole year?”

  He smiles and leans forward. “Yeah. I leave a week after graduation.”

  I get up and walk over to the window. He has this cool feeder that suctions onto the window and it’s always crowded with hungry birds and the occasional squirrel.