Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred

by Melody Carlson

  I look outside. Still no sign of Dad. I realize that I haven't heard a peep from my mom, not that it's so unusual for her. But what if something is wrong? What if she did it again, tried to kill herself, I mean? Or what if something happened to Caleb? Feeling seriously freaked, I hurry to Mom's room, knock on the door, and then go in. But there she is, just sitting in her glider rocker, the homely old afghan around her shoulders, and a blank stare on her face. The blank expression is quickly replaced with one of surprise.

  "Sorry to burst in on you like this," I say, "but I wondered where Dad is."

  "He went out."

  "Did he say where?"

  She seems to think about this, almost as if she's not sure or can't remember. "He's looking for Caleb," she finally says. But she shows no emotion. Shouldn't she be concerned that her fourteen-year-old son is missing? And does she have any idea that he's with her own mother? Her mother, who she hasn't seen in months? Apparently not. I'm not about to tell her either. After all, I promised Caleb I wouldn't tell Dad. And there's no telling whether our mother could keep that a secret. She's not exactly reliable these days.

  "Well, I was going to go out ... " I begin, wondering why I'm even bothering.

  "Just leave a note."

  "Okay." I slowly nod. "That's what I'll do." And so I go out and write a note to Dad. I tell him that I already talked to Mom and she said to leave him a note-like that will get me off the hook. Then I tell him that I'm going to a movie with Glen (it's no use to lie; he'll just find out and then be really angry), and I tell him when I'll be back and that I hope he likes his cookies.

  I even sign it "love Ruth" and draw another stupid happy face. Man, I am so pathetic. But, hey, whatever it takes, right?

  ten

  IT'S A GOOD THING I PUT ON PLENTY OF DEODORANT EARLIER, BECAUSE I AM seriously beginning to sweat. I feel like I'm about to pull off some big heist or something. Really, should life be this difficult? This complicated? I'm sure most girls don't have to jump through this many hoops just to go see a movie with a guy. I mean, it's not like we're even serious or anything.

  I hear a car pull up. I can tell it's not Dad's pickup because it's not that noisy. To my relief, it's Glen. And instead of letting him get all the way up the walk and into the house, I dash out and meet him midway.

  "No one's home," I announce, as if that explains everything.

  "You ready to go then?"

  I smile at him, hoping to appear casual and relaxed. "Yeah. Sure."

  I start to breathe more easily after we're a few blocks away from my house. And that's when I realize I AM ON A REAL DATE. Suddenly I'm a whole new kind of nervous. But at least it's kind of a happy nervous. Not an I'm-about-to-be-yelled-at nervous. Even so, I really don't want to blow things with Glen.

  So now I'm wondering-what do you say on a date? Like is there some special way I should talk? And how should I act? I mean, do I wait for him to open doors the way my mom used to do for my dad? He did open the door to his car for me at my house. But what about when we get to the theater? And just because he asked me out, does it mean that he pays for everything tonight? Or do we go dutch? Why did I ever agree to go out in the first place? It's making me into a freaking basket case.

  Then I look over at him. He is so cute. And we really do have a lot in common. Then I realize that he actually seems a little nervous too. Could it be?

  "I have to admit that I haven't really dated much," I tell him, deciding that honesty might be the best policy for me tonight. Who knows, maybe it will help me to not look so stupid if I'm just upfront about things.

  "Don't feel bad. I haven't really dated much either. In fact, I've never even had a real girlfriend. And I'm seventeen. Is that pathetic or what?"

  I laugh. "No, I think it's kind of nice. The truth is, I haven't had a real boyfriend either."

  "Is it because of stuff with your family?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. I mean, my life's complicated already. Why add to it, you know?" Of course, as soon as I say this, I realize it could sound like I'm not interested in him or that I think he's a complication. Not exactly the message I wanted to send.

  "I know what you mean."

  "Not that I want my life to continue like this," I say quickly. "I'm ready for some changes, even if I have to bring them on myself." I don't tell him that my dad could be going totally ballistic by the time I get home tonight. I'm glad I didn't mention in my note exactly which theater or movie we were going to, since it wouldn't surprise me if Dad showed up and told me to come home. Okay, maybe that's too extreme. He wouldn't want to make a scene like that in public. Even so, who knows what I'll face when I get home?

  "Change is good," he says as he pulls into the newest theater complex. This is the biggest complex in town, and it would be difficult to find anyone in here.

  I'm not sure whether I should wait for him to open my door or not, but something in me says to just get out. I mean, how embarrassing would it be if I just sat there and he never came around to open it?

  We make small talk as we walk toward the theater. Mostly about last night's art fair and how well it went. I try not to think about how I flipped out when Glen tried to push my sleeve up. Hopefully, he has forgotten all about that. I'm sure he must think I'm fairly neurotic anyway.

  He gets in line and I stand next to him, but when we get to the ticket booth, he steps in front of me and purchases two tickets. So, at least I know that's how it goes. One less thing to worry about. Then he asks what I want from the concessions, and I boldly tell him that the popcorn smells pretty good.

  "And to drink?" he asks.

  "Sierra Mist?" This is weird and foreign to me. And I know how expensive theater food is. Maybe I shouldn't ask for anything. But the truth is, I haven't eaten anything but a couple of chocolate-chip cookies and milk since lunchtime, and I'm kind of hungry. I go and save us a place in the movie line, and before long, Glen is coming my way, carrying one huge bucket of popcorn and two big drinks.

  "Thanks," I tell him. As I take my drink, the line starts to move, and before long we're seated in the semidark theater. And as we watch the ads and previews, sharing from the same bucket of popcorn, I actually start to relax.

  The movie turns out to be so-so, but we go out for coffee afterward and enjoy totally tearing it apart. It seems we both have strong ideas on what makes a good film. But then I notice the time, remembering that I promised to be home by eleven.

  "I kind of have a curfew," I tell Glen. "We should probably go."

  "No problem." He smiles at me. "This has been really fun tonight, Ruth."

  And so we're driving to my house, and I'm thinking this really has been fun, but now I might have to pay the price for all this fun. Or is it possible that this is really my lucky night and my dad has gone out for the evening, either to jimmy's or The Dark Horse Tavern?

  But there his truck is, sitting like a giant red watchdog in our driveway. "You don't need to walk me to the door," I say, glancing at the darkened house to make sure my dad's not lurking somewhere, watching us from between the slits in the blinds.

  "Your dad?" he asks.

  I nod and reach for the door handle. "Yeah, this is where the whole dating thing gets a little complicated." Then I force a smile. "But I had a really great time tonight, Glen. Thanks so much!"

  He looks a little worried, like he's concerned for my welfare or something. "You'll be okay, won't you?"

  "Sure. My dad's bark is way worse than his bite." I keep the smile in place. "And, who knows, he might not even bark tonight. I mean, he's met you and he actually seemed to like you." But even as I say this, I know how my dad can put on an act.

  Glen seems encouraged by this. "Yeah, your dad seemed cool with everything last night."

  "See ya," I say lightly as I get out of the car. "And thanks again. I had fun."

  Okay, I wish things were different. I wish he could walk me to the door. Maybe linger a bit, and maybe even kiss me good-night. But while these things may be possible-
even for a girl like me-it will probably take time. I need to break my dad into this dating thing slowly, carefully.

  I wave to Glen from the front step as he backs out of the driveway, then I quietly open the door and go inside. The lights are off and I think this is kind of odd. But then maybe he's gone to bed. It's possible.

  "Where have you been?" His voice booms from the direction of the couch that's in front of the window. I was right. He's been sitting there watching the driveway all the while, just waiting for nee to come home so he could lay into me.

  I consider turning on a light, then decide that darkness might be better. "I left you a note," I tell him in what I hope is a calmsounding voice-no traces of guilt to give him something to latch on to.

  "A note? You think you can just leave me a note then take off, doing who knows what with who knows who, and everything will be okay?"

  "Mom suggested-"

  "Your mom's out of her head, Ruth! You do not go to your mom for permission to do things you know good and well I will not allow you to do."

  "But you weren't here-"

  "That's no excuse!" I hear him standing now. "You know that you went behind my back, Ruth. You and your stupid brother-you're both no good. You're both just a couple of good-for-nothing halfbreeds who would stab your own father in the back if you got the chance."

  His words continue to pummel me, like dull but painful bullets that can't break the skin, but they cut through the heart. It's halfbreed that I'm stuck on. As best I can remember, he's never used that one before. And the way he said it, spitting it out like it tasted nasty in his mouth, I am sure he meant it. That he believes it. And suddenly I can't take anymore. But instead of saying anything, instead of defending myself, I turn and walk away.

  You do not walk away when I'm talking to you, young lady!" He's in a real rage now. His footsteps arc coming up behind me, but I run faster, down the hallway and straight to my room. I close the door and then lean against it breathlessly. My heart pounds with as much force as my father pounds against my door as he commands me to come out.

  Oh, I know he has the power to break the door down. And maybe that's what I want him to do. Maybe I want him to force his way in here, to raise his fist and to beat me. Just beat me and beat me and beat me. And then, maybe, I would finally have permission, like Caleb, to just leave.

  But he just yells and pounds and finally he goes away. And it's not long before I hear the loud roar of his engine and he is gone. How I wish it were for good. How I wish that his pickup would slam into a power pole or drive off a cliff or be run down by a huge semi, and that he would die. I know it's horrible, but it's true. I wish my father were dead. And if I knew how to pray, or if I thought God cared, I would pray for my dad to die tonight.

  Instead, I go into the bathroom and break my promise to Abby. I cut myself. Not once. Not twice. But three times. And as I cut myself, I imagine that my sacrifice, my pain, my spilling of blood, might do the trick. Maybe it will get God's attention. Maybe he will kill my dad without the even asking.

  eleven

  WE USED TO GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAYS. BACK WHEN CALEB AND I WERE little and my mom still had some say, we'd all four pile into the family car and go to church together. But then my dad started saying how he needed to sleep in on Sundays-that it was his only day to catch up on his rest. And so my mom would just take Caleb and me. But after a while, Caleb and I followed our dad's example. We wanted to sleep in too. My mom went to church by herself for a while, but finally she just gave up. We haven't been to church for about four years now.

  I don't know why I'm thinking about this as I lay in bed this Sunday morning. It's not like I have any intention of going to church today.

  My left arm is throbbing from last night's cuts. And I feel ashamed. Like I'm just this hopeless failure. Why should I even bother to try? I am so pathetic.

  And at the same time, I'm thinking about what a good time I had with Glen and how much I like him and how I wish he really were my boyfriend. And then I'm thinking about how my best friend, Abby, really cares about me and how much she wants me to quit cutting. And I'm wondering-why isn't that enough? Why can't I keep my promise to Abby? Why can't I care enough about Glen that I would stop cutting myself? Surely Glen wouldn't want to hook up with a girl who does something like this. If 1 can't stop this for myself, why can't I stop it for them?

  But the truth is, I'm afraid I can't. It's like I don't have any real control. And at the same time, it's like it's my only source of control. And then there's the pain. The never-ending pain that seems only to be diminished by pain. Pain erasing pain. And yet it never really goes away.

  Sometimes the only answer seems to be to cut deeper. Cut deep enough to finally end it, to let all the blood drain away so I can rest. And then maybe the pain will finally leave me in peace. Like a long, endless sleep.

  I wish I could sleep all day today. But I know that if I'm not out of here, bed made and chores done, I will be hearing about it by the time my dad gets up. And I know that he's home now. I heard his pickup come in around two in the morning. As I expected, God did not strike him dead after all.

  So I get up and go through the paces. But even as I do these things, I am asking myself why. Why do I even bother? Why not just stop playing this loser's game? Why not let my dad flip out and beat the heck out of me? Why not just get it over with? Let it all hit the fan? Why not?

  The pathetic thing is, I don't even know why not. Maybe it's just the way I've been conditioned. Oh, sure, I may be broken, but it's like I can't operate any other way.

  I look at the family computer as I straighten up the den, throwing away old newspapers, picking up my dad's smelly socks. I feel guilty for not e-mailing Abby last night. But how could I? How could I e-mail her about how great the date was and how much I like Glen after breaking my promise to her-times three? I mean, I may be pathetic and stupid and hopeless, but I don't have to be a hypocrite too. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

  I see a shadow of green slipping by-my mom, the green phantom, in her shabby bathrobe. She must've gotten up early, thinking she had the house to herself for a while. But I spoiled it for her. Too bad.

  I finish my straightening, quickly eat a bowl of cereal, hiding the evidence of bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then, without even writing a note, I leave.

  I have no idea where I'm going. Or even why. But I can't stand to be in that house for another minute. It's killing me. My dad is killing me. I am killing me. And I can't take it anymore.

  I walk and walk, and before I know it, I'm on the block where my dad's parents live. I must've walked about a mile. Now, I like my grandparents just fine. In fact, they're not very much like my dad-which actually confuses me-but his relationship with them has always been so good that I always feel the need to keep up my guard when I'm around them. Like they might tell on me if I revealed anything about my dad that was questionable. It's weird, I know, but just another part of this weird game I've been taught to play

  "Ruth?" calls a female voice. "Is that you?"

  I look over toward the side porch to see Grandma Wallace standing there and shaking out a throw rug. I wave and call hello. "Just taking a walk," I say as I casually stroll up to her.

  "Well, for goodness' sake," she says. "Come on in. Can I fix you some breakfast?"

  "No, thanks anyway, but I already ate." I follow her as she slowly makes her way into her favorite place, the kitchen. Grandma Wallace is nearly as wide as she is tall, and she loves to feed people.

  "How about some coffee then? A donut?"

  "Okay," I say as I sit at her kitchen table.

  "You still take your coffee with cream and sugar?"

  "Uh-huh." I fiddle with the plastic placernats that have been on her table for years now. Each one has a different scene from the Grand Canyon. I suspect she got them at some little tourist shop along the side of the road when she and Grandpa took a trip down there back when I was little. I remember how I wished I could go with them at t
he time.

  She sets a colorful coffee cup in the blue sky above a steep canyon wall, and I briefly wonder why it doesn't fall to the ground.

  "How's your mother, dear?" She places a plate of glazed donuts in the center of the table then sets her own cup on a rust-colored mountaintop and takes the seat across from me.

  "About the same."

  She sighs. "That's too bad."

  Now I have a decision to make. Do I keep playing the game, or do I ask if she's heard about Caleb? Feeling just a bit reckless, not to mention hopeless, I go ahead and ask.

  Her brown eyes get big with alarm. "Caleb is missing?"

  "Well, sort of." Now that the cat's out of the bag, I'm not sure how to play this down.

  "What happened?"

  I consider my response, fully aware that I could be getting myself into an even bigger mess. I decide that I don't freaking care. "Yeah, he and Dad got into it one time too many," I say in a casual voice, like it's no big deal, like this is something that everyone is aware of.

  "One time too many?" Her brows come together. "Meaning they get into it a lot?" I nod without speaking.

  "Oh, my."

  "But Dad doesn't usually hit us. He just yells a lot."

  "Well, he's been under a lot of stress since your mother, uh, got sick."

  "Oh, this has been going on forever," I tell her. "Dad yells at all of us over everything and anything. I think the reason Mom cracked up was because she just couldn't take it anymore. And that's why Caleb left ... " And why I'm so screwed up.

  "Really?" She stands and goes to the stove now, as if she has a pot or something to check there, but there is nothing cooking.

  "Yeah. I probably shouldn't have said anything, Grandma, but I guess I'm just fed up too." Now I feel myself starting to choke, and I'm afraid I might cry. I reach over to my left arm and touch the area where I cut myself last night. I press it just lightly enough that the pain brings me back to myself, giving me the strength not to cry. "I don't think I can take it much longer either," I admit.