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?
SIX
CALEB NEVER CAME HOME LAST NIGHT. AND MY DAD ALREADY LEFT, I ASSUME for work, by the time I got up this morning. The house is still and quiet and, I can almost make myself believe, peaceful. But it's a false sort of peace. A temporary illusion.
One benefit of Caleb's absence is that I have the bathroom all to myself this morning. I can shower for as long as I like. I'm careful as I rub soap over my recent cuts. They're still pretty raw and sore. But even though it stings, the cleansing feels good, and I imagine that it will help them heal. I assure myself that I won't cut again today. And maybe not tomorrow either. I remind myself that tonight is the art fair, and this has the potential to be a really good day. I can make it a good day.
Because Caleb isn't around to pester me, I spend as much time as I want in front of the bathroom mirror. I even take the time to blowdry my hair. And instead of braiding it as usual, I let it hang loose down my back. Abby says I have the best hair. A deep, almost-black shade of brown, it's thick and heavy and straight. I don't usually bother to dry it since it takes forever. But today I think it may be worth it. And, okay, I still remember how Kelsey draped herself over Glen's art project yesterday, her blonde hair falling all over the place. Not that I plan to imitate her, but I don't see how it could hurt anything to wear my hair down for a change.
I take extra time to put on mascara, a little blush, and some lip gloss. It's not much, really, but it does improve things. Then I stare at myself in the mirror with any towel wrapped around me like a sarong. If I stand far enough back and squint just a little, I almost don't notice the dark lines and welts that cover my arms. I can almost imagine they're not there. But then I open my eyes wide and look. They are still there. Red and ugly and telling.
Don't think about it. I go back to my room. Someday this will all just be a memory.
According to my radio, today's weather forecast is for "warm and sunny, heading into the low eighties." Even so, I know I'll wear a long-sleeved top. But today I pick one that's lighter weight. It's a white linen shirt with shell buttons up the front and on the cuffs. I got it on sale at Banana Republic last summer. Funny that I knew to buy long sleeves back when I wasn't even cutting yet.
First I put on a pale blue camisole that's got a little lace in front, and then I layer the shirt over that, taking care to button the cuffs. I don't want them slipping up my wrists. There can be no cutting today. One drop of blood on this shirt will shout my issues to the world. And since I plan to remain at school until the art fair begins-I promised Mr. Pollinni that I'd help with setup-there won't be time to come home and change in between. I decide to forgo my usual overalls, opting instead for a short denim skirt that I haven't worn in ages. And I go barelegged. One of the benefits of my Native American heritage is that my legs have enough color to pass for a tan even when they haven't been in the sun for months. I promise myself, not for the first time, I will never cut on my legs. I've read on websites that some girls cut all over their bodies. I am determined not to cut anything but my arms. And I plan to stop doing that immediately. Today is a brand-new day.
I look at my reflection in the mirror one more time and think I look almost normal. Then I add some beaded earrings and a necklace that I made last winter, back before my mom got sick, when I was still into beading. I used five shades of blue, and the set actually looks pretty good. Abby thinks I have a knack for putting beads together. I gave her a similar set for her birthday, except in shades of pink, and she wears it all the time and even gets compliments on it.
It's still early enough to have some breakfast. I usually skip it, but since I'm trying to do today right, I have a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast. And then I write a very specific note to my parents, reminding them about the art fair tonight, and how I won't be home until late. I even invite them to come, though I don't really expect to see them there. They haven't been out together in a long, long time.
At just a few minutes past eight, I finally see Abby's car pull into the driveway. We have this little unspoken agreement that she's to wait out there for me, without honking, and I will get out of the house as fast as possible without having Daddy Dearest running interference.
Abby is one of the few people outside my immediate family who has actually witnessed my dad losing it. Of course, he made a remarkable recovery when he realized I had a friend in the house. He even joked with her about how cranky parents can get sometimes. I was grateful that she didn't buy it, and that she didn't make a big deal about it either. I haven't told her everything about my family, but she knows enough to be fairly understanding. And, thankfully, she knows enough to keep her mouth shut.
"Whoa, girlfriend," she says when I climb into her Bronco. "You're looking pretty good today"
I kind of smile. "Thanks."
"What's the occasion? Or, let me guess, you finally figured out that Glen really is into you and you've decided to play along? Baiting the hook, are we?"
"No. I just wanted to look nice for the art fair tonight."
"Oh." She's clearly disappointed.
"Okay, and I guess I don't mind if Glen notices."
She laughs. "That's better. I was starting to get worried about you."
I glance at her. She almost sounded serious. "Huh?"
"Well, you know, what with the way you've been dressing lately . . . and how you've been acting ... I guess I thought you might've been depressed or something."
"Oh."
"But now you're giving me hope, girlfriend."
I smile. "Good. I'm feeling a little hopeful myself."
And, amazingly, that's sort of how my whole day goes. Maybe it's because I look better than usual, or maybe I am actually smiling for a change, but it's like everyone is being a whole lot nicer to me than they normally are. By lunchtime I get to thinking that I've cleared some major kind of obstacle in my life, and I'm thinking this really could be the big day-the day I quit cutting myself for good. I'm more hopeful than ever before.
Even Glen seems more interested in me. We chat like old buddies at lunch then even hang together during art. Nothing anyone would really notice-except for nme-but it feels like something's happening. And maybe Kelsey is a little jealous.
"Hey, Ruth," Mr. Pollinni approaches my table just before class ends. "Can I ask a favor of you, for the art fair?"
"Sure," I tell him. "What is it?"
"Well, I had Claire Engstrom down for the pottery demonstra tion from seven to eight, but she's home with the flu. Do you think you could take her place?
"I guess so. But I might be kind of rusty. I haven't done much pottery this term."
Pollinni laughs. "I doubt it, Ruth. The last time I saw you throw a pot, I don't think you even had your eyes open."
Well, I seriously doubt that. Although pottery is more about feeling than seeing. Even so, I'm feeling a little nervous about agreeing to do this. I might screw up in front of everyone. I feel a familiar tightening in my stomach. The gnawing fear that I might fail, that I'll blow it and end up looking stupid. I hate looking stupid. Why did I agree to do this?
"Something wrong?" Glen asks as we're leaving art.
I shrug.
"Come on. Tell me."
"It's no biggie," I say. "I'm just a little uncomfortable about throwing pots in front of everyone. I mean, what if I mess up?"
He laughs. "Then you mess up-and just start over again."
"Easy for you to say"
"How about this," he says. "What if we split up the shift? You throw for half an hour and I'll do the next one."
"You do pottery?"
He grins and nods.
"A man of many hidden talents ... "
"You should talk."
So now I'm feeling a little bit better. And it's sweet that Glen wa
nts to help me with this. I think maybe he does like me. And so the day progresses, and I'm really feeling like I've almost got the upper hand on my life now. Like things are finally going forward, and maybe I'm really going to make it.
It's a mad rush to get everything set up after school. But about a dozen of the art students, including Glen and me, are really taking tonight seriously. Mr. Pollinni has it completely worked out-where everything should go, and exactly how it should all look. When we're done, I'm impressed.
The cafeteria looks as if it's been transformed into a real gallery. Even the lighting, brought in by one of Pollinni's talented friends, looks great. All the outside signs are in place and there's a cafe-like area with desserts and coffee for sale and a section where student art, as well as some that's been donated by local artists, is for sale. He even lined up a small jazz ensemble to play background music.
"Everything looks great!" I tell Mr. Pollinni. "And we have time to spare."
Altogether there are about twenty art students scattered at stations throughout the cafeteria so we can demonstrate our skills. I already set up my easel in a somewhat out-of-the-way corner. I plan to do an acrylic demonstration (that is, if I survive my stint on the potter's wheel). I notice that Glen is setting up his easel right next to mine. He's going to be working on a charcoal drawing tonight.
"You ready to hit the wheel?" he asks as I lay several tubes of paint out in a fan around my palette.
I glance up at the clock to see it's about ten minutes until seven. "Guess I better go for it," 1 say as I pick up my paint smock, which is actually just an oversized flannel shirt that I scavenged from my dad last year.
"Break a leg." He winks at me.
"Right."
"Just relax, Ruth, you'll be fine."
"Thanks." I'm thinking that if I hurry, I might actually get in a few minutes of warm-up time before anyone gets here. So I wave good-bye and head over to the wheel. Its in a fairly open area right next to the entrance, like it's the main event. Just what I need.
I try not to think about that as I tie back my hair and pull on my smock. I use a wire to cut several blocks of clay and begin slapping the pieces around until they're all bubble-free and lined up and ready to throw. Then I pick up the first slab and slam it into the metal surface of the wheel with an air of confidence that is only skin-deep. But at least I hit dead center. That's always a good start.
So far, so good. I turn on the electric wheel, dip my hands in water, and the next thing you know I'm off to the races. And it's funny; as I sit there really getting into it, my hands working the smooth, wet clay, absorbing its coolness and feeling it take shape beneath my fingers, I hardly notice that people have begun to trickle in. Several grade-schoolers are standing around the fast-moving wheel watching me work.
"Cool," says a blonde girl who looks to be around ten or so. "I wish I could do that."
I look up and smile at her. "You can. Just start taking art in middle school. They do pottery there."
"Really?" Her eyes are wide.
I nod. "That's where I started."
The spectators all ooh and ah as I make a small indentation on top of the spinning ball, opening it up into what is quickly becoming a pot. Then I pull it up taller, creating a slender cylinder, and this impresses them even more. Really, I suppose it does look like magic to them. To my surprise, it's actually kind of fun. I'm really getting into this!
"Looking good, Ruth," says Glen from behind me. "You sure you want to give this up?"
"Is it time?" I ask.
"You've got about five more minutes." Then he leans down. "Hey, you're getting your sleeves all messy"
I look down and see that the cuffs of my nice white blouse are totally splattered with the reddish-brown clay.
"Here, let me help you."
I take in a quick breath. "It's okay. Just leave it-"
But it's too late, he's already reached down for my right hand, like he's going to push up my sleeve for me. With pounding heart, I jerk my hands off the pot so quickly that I accidentally knock it and it warps-badly. Thrown off balance, it flops over and looks as if it's been murdered. The spectators make disappointed noises.
"Bummer!" says a middle-school boy.
"Sorry," Glen tells me, moving away from me now. "I was just trying to-"
"It's okay," I say quickly, standing and grabbing for a rag to wipe my hands. "You just startled me is all."
"Sorry," he says again, looking uncomfortable.
"It's fine," I say in a stiff voice. "Why don't you go ahead and take over now?"
"Hey, Ruth, I'm really-"
But I'm already walking away. I cannot take this! I head straight for the bathroom, holding back tears of humiliation. I rinse the remaining wet clay from my hands, washing and washing even after they are clean. When I look up into the mirror, I can see that my face is flushed and blotchy. And my shirt sleeves are a total mess. I'm a mess. Why did I think I could do this? I am so stupid! So clueless. Such a total loser. What makes me think I can pull off a normal life? I feel so frustrated now that all I want to do is go get my backpack, find my Altoids box, and escape all this. Escape this pathetic excuse of a life.
seven
No, RUTH, I TELL MYSELF AS I STARE AT MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR. AND then I imagine myself sliced up like I've been through a giant shredder, not just my arms, but my face and the rest of my body too. I imagine myself bleeding all over the place. This has to stop. I can't let a little thing like Glen trying to pull up my sleeve totally undo me like this. I have to just shake this thing off and move on.
So I try to rinse the splattered clay out of my shirt cuffs, but I only make a worse mess. Instead of just being splattered, they're soaking wet and a light shade of orange now. I blot them as dry as I can with paper towels, then force myself to go back out to the art fair. I can't give up.
At least my pottery session is done. And despite the strong urge, I didn't resort to cutting. That's something. So I go back to my easel, congratulating myself for being strong, and start to paint. I've got a postcard of a lighthouse draped in fog taped to the corner of my canvas. It's mostly shades of gray and blue. So the only paint colors I need seem to be black and white and blue. I squirt generous dollops of those onto my palette. And I begin to paint. Something about the sparseness of the colors pulls me in, and it's not long before I start to lose myself as I move the paint across the canvas, blending and shading to get the fog just right.
"Sorry I messed you up," says Glen as he returns to his easel and picks up a piece of charcoal.
"I'm sorry I overreacted," I tell him, paintbrush poised in midair as I study how the trail of light from the lighthouse penetrates the fog.
"I should know better than to sneak up on an artist at work."
I want to say something more, to reassure him that it wasn't his fault, that it was me and my own stupid hang-up. But what can I really say without exposing what a loser I am? "Did T. J. take over the wheel?" I ask absently
"Yeah. But, between you and me, I think he could use some practice."
I laugh. "Just don't tell him that."
"That's a pretty depressing scene, Ruth."
I glance up, stunned to hear my dad's voice. He's wearing a slight frown as he looks at my canvas.
"You came!" I say when I recover enough to find my voice. And not only did my dad come, but to my totally shocked surprise, my mother is with him. I just stare at her-like I've never seen this woman before in my life. She looks shorter than usual, or maybe I have grown since last winter. And her denim jacket, which I always thought looked so cool on her, seems to swallow her. At least she has combed her hair and pulled it back into a silver barrette. Even so, her eyes have that vacant expression, as if she's not really present. Sometimes, like now, I am certain that she's gone. Maybe for good.
"Mom," I say as I step over and take her hand. "I can't believe that you came. Are you feeling okay?"
A faint smile. Or perhaps a shadow of one from long
ago. She nods. "I'm okay" Then she seems to study my painting. "I like it," she finally says.
Glen has come over, and I have no choice but to introduce him to my parents. I also mention the fact that he's the one who gave me a ride home yesterday. To my relief, he shakes both my parents' hands. He is very cordial and polite, and I see no reason that my dad should find any fault with him.
"So you're an artist too," my dad says, using his public voice now. "Let's see what you're working on." He steps over and looks at the charcoal sketch. It's the beginning of an old pickup, and really quite good. "Hey, I used to have a truck almost like that," my dad tells him. "Fifty-four Ford?"
"Yep."
Dad nods and rubs his chin, smiling just like he's a normal guy, a good of boy that you can count on when times are tough. Yeah, sure. "Mine was red. Bright candy-apple red. Painted it myself. And rebuilt the engine too. Wish I still had that old truck. She was a honey"
Glen is smiling and I think I can see the wheels in his brain turning. I'm sure he's thinking that my dad's just fine, perfectly normal, and my mom is the real problem. She certainly looks like a problem as she hovers near me, glancing nervously around the crowded, noisy room as if someone in here might be armed and dangerous, out to get her.
I'm so relieved when my parents finally leave. I try to get back into my painting, but it's like something in me just broke. Like I don't even know how to paint anymore. So I just stand there, holding my paintbrush close to the canvas and pretend to be working. I'm actually just spacing and wishing I could get out of here. Wishing I could just disappear. Wishing I were alone with a razor blade. I am so pathetic.
Finally it's over. Glen is driving me home. But I feel numb and tired and my stomach is tied in a square knot.
Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred Page 4
