I force a laugh that is unconvincing. "My dad has it all figured out. I'll be working the counter at the tire store. Full time. And lie's going to handle the money for me. Part of it will be used as my contribution to the household income, you know, since my mom doesn't work anymore. And the rest will be put into my college account. And, oh yeah, if there's any left over, and if I'm good, I will continue to get an allowance." I don't mention that I will be getting no allowance while I'm grounded-although I'm still expected to do the same chores. Well, the same plus Caleb's too.
"That's like slavery!" exclaims Abby.
"Tell me about it."
"Can't your mom do anything?"
Okay, I'm thinking Abby should know the answer to this by now. But in all fairness, her life is so totally different from mine that sometimes she just does not get it.
I try to explain that Mom is barely here. That she is the ghost mother, the green phantom, and I cannot expect one bit of support from her.
And finally there's a long pause. "Ruth?" she says in a serious voice. "How about, you know, the cutting thing?"
As much as I hate to lie to my best friend, I just cannot handle her getting on my case right now. "I'm fine," I tell her.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I can see how stupid that was. Really, I'm okay. Well, other than being totally frustrated about being grounded."
"Yeah. It seems really unfair. I just totally don't get your dad, Ruth."
"You and me both."
The next day I tell Glen about being grounded. He seems to understand this a little better than Abby.
"It's just the way those messed-up kind of guys think," he tells me as he walks me to the bus after school. "My dad was the same wayy A real control freak. If Mom or I did anything he didn't approve of, man, you better watch out. We always felt like we were walking on eggshells when he was around."
"Yeah. That's exactly what it's like," I admit.
He looks at the big yellow buses lined up like kid-eating beasts, ready to devour the unfortunate losers who are forced to ride in their bellies. "I wish I could give you a ride home."
"Me too."
"You really think your dad would know?"
I shrug. "I don't honestly know how, but I wouldn't be surprised if he has spies watching me. Or maybe he'll take a break from work just to check on me." I squint down the street, looking for his ugly red truck amid the after-school traffic. "Who knows, he could be watching me even as we speak."
Glen nods. "That's like something my dad used to do. He even had this creepy set of field glasses hidden beneath the seat of his car."
"Right." My dad has binoculars too, and I think he does keep them in his pickup. So weird. "Anyway," I continue. "I think for at least the first day, I should just go along with it."
"Yeah." Glen gives me a little half smile. "Maybe things will lighten up later. My dad was like that. He'd blow up and lay down the law one day, and after a while, he'd sort of forget."
"Yeah, maybe." But even as I say this, I know this is where my dad and Glen's dad differ. Although Glen's dad was physically abusive, according to Glen, he was usually sorry afterward. But my dad, though verbally abusive, is never, ever sorry. And no matter what he does, he is always, always right. He is always justified, and the rest of us are stupid or rebellious or whatever adjective he's glommed onto for that day. And if anyone (at least in his immediate family) doesn't agree with him, he will blast them until they do. End of story.
A week passes, and I continue to comply with Dictator Dad's uncompromising rules. I can't really explain it, but it's like I've gone numb. I don't really care anymore. Nothing really matters. I've heard that people can endure a lot of pain if they're convinced there is an end in sight. Maybe that's the difference for me. That somehow, in the midst of all this, I think there is an end for me. And that in itself is comforting.
It's like when you're at the dentist and he tells you he's almost done, but he also tells you to let him know if you need any more anesthesia as he finishes his drilling. And even though it hurts, because you believe the end is in sight, you can actually put up with more drilling and pain than you could if you thought it was going to go on forever.
I think that's where I'm at right now. I have a feeling that the end is in sight. Like my pain doesn't have to last much longer. That I will soon be able to take control again. First I have to make it to the end of the school year. Don't ask me why. I just do. And then maybe I can end this thing. Stop the pain for good. Does this mean I'm going to cut too deeply one day? Perhaps. More likely, I'll just run away and live somewhere else. I'm not even sure what I'll do. But one way or another, I feel certain that, once and for all, I'm going to end this thing.
Unfortunately, Abby is getting really irritated at my lack of availability, not to mention the way I sort of check out a lot of the time. Maybe our friendship is on the line. But I can't do anything about it. I'm not sure I even care anymore.
"You're changing, Ruth," she tells me for like the hundredth time as we're walking to class. "It's like someone's done a lobotomy on you or something." She waves her hand in front of my face and then snaps her fingers. "Earth to Ruth. Come on, wake up, snap out of it."
I force a smile. "Sorry," I tell her. "Guess I'm just tired or something."
Glen is even concerned. "He's killing you, Ruth," he tells me this morning. "He's going to make you turn out just like your mom. Can't you see it?"
I just shrug. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Get help," he tells me.
"Help?" I just look at him, blankly I'm sure.
"Talk to a counselor or something."
"Like the school counselor?" I look at him like he's crazy. No one in their right mind would want to talk to Ms. Blanchard. Seriously, she looks like the biggest phony baloney of all time, like one of the Stepford wives.
"1 don't know." I can tell he's discouraged, which makes me feel guilty. Like I'm raining on everyone's parade these days.
"I'm okay," I tell him. "And, hey, if it makes you feel better, maybe I will talk to Ms. Blanchard. I guess it couldn't hurt."
He brightens. "Yeah. I mean, it's free. And it's confidential. And who knows?"
"Yeah, who knows?" But even so, I'm certain that 1 will not talk to Ms. Blanchard. What good would it do?
"Besides, there's only one more week of school," he reminds me. "And this could be your last chance for a while. I mean to talk to Ms. Blanchard." And then he walks me down to the office to "help me" make an appointment. What is it with this guy? Is he like codependent or something?
Fortunately it's not too painful to make an appointment. You just tell the receptionist your name and who you'd like to talk to, and she gives you a little card with the time and date on it. No big deal. My appointment is scheduled for Monday morning at nine thirty. Great. I can hardly wait. Maybe I'll be sick that day.
Or sooner, as it turns out. The truth is, I've been cutting more than ever this past week. It's like I'm addicted, like I can't stop. As freaky as it sounds, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's almost like I've actually scheduled certain times to do it. I keep telling myself this is just a temporary thing, a quick fix that will eventually become unnecessary, because I do feel certain it will end as soon as the school year ends. My stress level will go down then and everything will change for the better. But for now I find myself cutting daily, sometimes three times a day. I usually cut just before lunch just so that I can make it through the rest of the day, and then again after I get home from school just to help me to relax, and almost always following any sort of "conversation" that I'm forced to endure with my dad.
And then today, just as I was experiencing a little relief right before lunch, things got messy. The last thing I remember, I was standing in the john, breathing deeply and trying to block out everything as I returned my little Altoids box to my pack. And then my ears began to buzz and I felt kind of lightheaded, then wham! The lights went out.
And now I am totally
shocked to discover that I am lying on a couch in the health room. How did I even get here? I sit up and try to get my bearings, trying to remember what happened and listening to the conversation going on over by the doorway.
"Ruth is my best friend," I hear Abby pleading with someone. "Please, let me come in and see her."
"All right," says a woman's voice. "You might as well, since we've been unable to reach either of her parents."
"Ruth!" says Abby as she comes in and sits next to me. "Are you okay?"
I kind of shrug and look down at my hands, relieved to see that my sleeves are all the way down.
"What happened?" she demands.
It's coming back to me now, the bathroom, hitting my head ... I reach up to feel a lump on my forehead. "I fainted," I tell her.
"Yeah, I know. Everyone's talking about it. Sherise Barrett heard you go down. She and a couple of her friends helped you clown here."
"Yeah ... I kind of remember now. I told her I was okay."
"Right." Now Abby puts her hand on my shoulder. "Were you doing it?"
"Doing it?" I say weakly
"You know, cutting."
Now I firmly shake my head. "No. But I'm having my period, you know, and it's really had this month. I think that's why I fainted."
"Oh." She sounds relieved.
So that's the story I tell the school nurse, and she buys it.
"I've left messages at your home and your dad's business," she tells me. "But no one has called back yet."
"That's okay," I assure her. "I'm fine now." I look at the clock and see that it's still lunchtime. "Can I go get something to cat? I think that's part of the problem, you know, like low blood sugar or something."
"Or maybe anemia," she says as she jots down a note. "But how's your head feeling?"
I reach up to touch it. "It's a little sore, but I think it's fine."
"Well, it's up to you whether you go back to class or not. I can't release you to go home until I speak to your parents, though."
I force a smile. "That's okay, really I'll be fine. I just need to get something to eat."
"All right. I guess you can go. But if you start feeling bad, please, come hack and see me."
"Sure," I tell her. "No problem."
But as Abby and I walk toward the cafeteria, I am more anxious than ever. That was close. Too close. Of course, all my friends are very concerned, and Glen asks if I'm okay, and while I should enjoy this attention, all I want to do is get out of here. I know they don't actually know that I'm a cutter-well, other than Abby, and even she's in her own little fantasy world of belief that I've quit-but I'm sure they could easily find out. Every comment they make reminds me of clogs sniffing around, trying to uncover something, or dig up an old bone that is buried somewhere. But I force a smile and offer evasive answers as I hurry to finish my lunch and leave.
"You sure you're okay, Ruth?" asks Glen as he joins me.
I try not to look too exasperated. "Yeah," I say. "I'm fine. I just fainted, okay? It was humiliating enough and I'd just like to forget it now. You know?"
He puts an arm around my shoulders as we walk down the hall. "Okay. I just happen to care about you. Is that a problem?"
I look up at him. "No," I tell him. "That's not a problem."
fourteen
IT'S MONDAY MORNING, AND I FIND MYSELF BACK IN THE OFFICE AGAIN. Only this time I'm not in the health room. This time I'm waiting in the counseling area. Glen politely escorted me down here, making certain that I keep my appointment to talk to the divine Ms. Blanchard of the perfect smile, whitened teeth, matching shoes and belts and handbags. Like she's going to understand someone like me. Yeah, right.
What am I even going to say to her? That my dad is mean? That he yells a lot? What can she do about that anyway? It's not like he's beating on us or anything. And he does work hard, he provides food and housing. Even if he is a disciplinarian, it's only because he cares about us? Right? Maybe I should just leave-
"Ruth Wallace?"
I look up to see her. Blonde hair perfectly in place, as usual, and, God help me, she is wearing a pale-pink sweater set and pearls! "Yeah?" I straighten out from the slumped position I had assumed while waiting.
"Come on into my office." Her voice is sugary sweet and makes me want to gag. She introduces herself, as if I didn't already know who she was. Give me a break.
"Sorry you had to wait." She smiles and holds the door open.
I slowly stand, pick up my bag, and follow her into her office. I think I'm literally dragging my heels. I so don't want to talk to this woman.
"Have a seat, Ruth." She takes a seat behind her neatly arranged desk, folds her hands in front of her, and then flashes that disgusting Colgate smile. "Let's talk."
I want to ask her what planet she's from and how she thinks she can possibly understand anything about me or my problems. But I simply sink into the chair and wait.
"How's it going?" she asks.
I shrug. "So-so."
"Hmm?" She gets a thoughtful expression now. "So-so? I suspect that means not so well?"
I shrug again. "Yeah, maybe."
Now she leans forward. "Do you want to tell me about it? Or do you want me to keep asking you questions?"
I shrug for a third time and consider telling her that this is all just a big mistake and that I should get to class now.
"Okay then, Ruth. You're the one who made this appointment. How about if you tell me what's bugging you. Okay?" Her smile's a little stiffer now, like she actually wants to get down to business.
Fine, why don't I just tell her? Why don't I just sit here and spill my guts and see if there's a single thing she can do about it? Which I seriously doubt, by the way.
And so I do. I tell her how mean my dad is. I tell her about how my mom had a breakdown last winter and how my brother couldn't take it anymore, how he ran away from home, but how it's just a matter of time before my dad figures it out and forces him to come back. I go on and on, not in an emotional way, but like I'm talking about someone else, like I'm describing somebody else's messed-up life. I don't mention cutting. What's the point?
"Wow," she says when I finally stop and lean back in my chair. "That's a heavy load. I'm surprised that you're holding up this well, Ruth." Then she studies me closely "You've talked a lot about your family, but you haven't said much about how you're handling all this. How are you doing, Ruth?"
I sigh then shrug again. "I don't know."
"How do you feel when your dad yells at you?"
I don't say anything.
"How do you feel when you see your mom suffering? Do you miss how she used to be?"
"Of course."
"Do you miss your brother?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"How does that make you feel? How do you feel toward your dad about all this?"
"How do you think it makes me feel?" I snap. "How would you feel if you had to live like that?"
Now she doesn't answer, and I think I've probably got her stumped. I mean, seriously, what's she going to do? What can anyone do?
I pick up my bag and stand up. "I didn't figure there was anything you could do to help me," I say in a matter-of-fact voice. "I only came here because my friend wanted me to talk to someone. But thanks for your time anyway"
"Wait a minute, Ruth."
"Why?"
"Can you do something for me before you go?"
"What?"
She looks at me evenly and says, "Can you push up your sleeves for me, Ruth? On both arms?"
I just stare at her.
"Please?"
I glance at the door, ready to bolt. I wonder who told her about me? It tnust've been Abby. But how did Abby know that I was coming here today? I never mentioned it to her. Glen must've told Abby. But why? Why are my friends ganging up on me like this?
"Sit back down, Ruth," she says quietly.
I sit.
"Are you a cutter?" She is as calm and natter-of-fact as me.
"W
ho told you?" I demand, looking her straight in the eyes. "Was it Abby?"
She shakes her head. "No one told inc anything, Ruth. I just guessed."
I'm feeling a little surprised here. I mean, this woman looks like a total airhead. How could she possibly guess about something like this?
"1 know a little bit about cutting."
I'm sure my expression is skeptical, and she continues to explain.
"In fact, your story is familiar to me. Your dad sounds a lot like my dad. Only my dad didn't just yell. He hit us too."
I can tell by her face that what she's saying is true. And suddenly she looks like a real person to one, not a Stepford wife. Her eyes have a depth of sadness that I never noticed before.
"Really?" I say, falling into this. "Your dad was like that too?" Then how did you turn out so freaking normal?
"Yeah, it was pretty miserable."
"So ... " I begin, unsure that I really want to go here. "Were you a cutter too?" She shakes her head. "No. But my younger sister was. She was fourteen when I left home for college. She started cutting that same year."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I couldn't believe it when I figured it out. I was so sad. It's probably one of the main reasons I started to take psych classes and finally decided to major in counseling."
"Did your sister ever quit?"
"Yeah. But she had to get help, Ruth. She couldn't do it on her own. And back then, there wasn't much help to be found." Now Ms. Blanchard is smiling, and for the life of the I can't figure out why. "But things have changed, Ruth. There's help now."
"Help?"
"For cutters." She flips through a Rolodex then writes something down on a slip of paper. "My sister works at one of the few clinics that help cutters. It's called Promise House. I'm writing down the phone number for you." She hands me the paper. "Will you call her?"
"I ... uh ... I don't know. I mean, what does this involve? I'm sure it costs money ... and there's no way I can tell my dad what I've been doing. He'd totally freak."
She nods. "Yeah. You're probably right. How about this? How about I call my sister and see what she recommends. Okay?"
"And you won't tell anyone else? I mean, like my parents-you won't call them and tell them about this, will you? Don't I have some kind of client confidentiality, or something like that?"
Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred Page 9
