“Fine, will do.” I sounded bitchy, but I couldn’t help it. What a shitty thing to do to someone. I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else the rest of the day. Dammit, why wouldn’t he finish his sentence?
“You take care, Persephone. Talk to you soon.”
“Yep.” I hung up before James had a chance to respond. So there.
Ken was sitting in the same room as the night before, staring at the wall. I cleared my throat, trying not to scare him.
“Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Persephone. I was just walking through the past. Are you ready?” His old knees cracked as he rose from his chair, and he winced.
“Um, yeah, sure. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m always fine.” His tone sounded way too much like mine when I wanted to be left the hell alone.
We spent the next two hours trying to lose ourselves in the world of the boy with the wrecked voice and his best friend Johnny. It didn’t work for either of us. When my throat was dry and mouth too tired to keep going, I finally looked up from the page. Ken was still wide awake.
Now what? He was always asleep when I left. I had no idea how to wrap this up with him staring at me like that.
“I think that’s enough for today, Persephone.”
“Oh, okay. When would you like me to come back?”
“Whenever you want to. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I guess I could come tomorrow after school.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That soon? Don’t you have any friends? Something to do besides come over here?” His bluntness took me by surprise. I should have been offended, but Ken sounded legitimately concerned there was nothing else in my life. It was the tone that kept me from snapping back at him with a pithy comment about having much better things to do.
The sad truth was, other than Maggie, I didn’t have anyone else. And there was nothing else for me to do. I was actually beginning to like Ken. Not everyone in the world would let some strange teenager crash at their house for the night, no questions asked.
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“Monday will be fine then. Goodbye, Persephone.”
“Bye, Ken.”
I didn’t want to go home, but I didn’t want to be out in public. The unusual ending to the afternoon, the thing unsaid by James, my own thoughts—everything felt so wrong. Outside, my car felt too open. I was exposed and there was too much air to breathe. My car was too small and cramped—it felt like the seatbelt was cutting off my circulation. I couldn’t handle going home. There was a good chance both my parents would be up and around, and I didn’t want to face them. I pulled up Maggie’s number on my phone but didn’t know what to say to her.
I drove around as long as I could. My brain could not wrap itself around the fact Ken actually seemed to care about me. It didn’t make sense. I finally realized it didn’t matter why he cared, only that he did. That was enough. I flipped the last cigarette from my pack out the window and pointed my car towards home.
“Persephone, I thought we had a discussion about you coming and going as you please. Didn’t we?” I couldn’t figure out if he was talking about the fact I wasn’t there the night before or if it was because I was walking in at nine at night. Either way, I didn’t care.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we did. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry about that? Do you think that’s an acceptable response to the fact I came down to check on my daughter last night, and she was not in her bed? Do you know what that was like? To not have any idea where you were?”
Yes, it must have been excruciating, I’m sure. All revved up and ready to play only to find your favorite toy missing. Absolutely tragic.
I couldn’t explain what came over me at that moment. Natural instinct was to duck and cover, mumble through an apology and get as far away as fast as possible. But from somewhere inside, a person I didn’t know existed reared up and said, “Check on me? Really? Since when do you come down to check on me? Does Mom know you were checking on me?”
I had never seen fear on his face before, and I don’t think it was exactly fear I saw this time. Shock, maybe? He looked like a child who had fallen, scraped his knee and was trying to decide if tears were the most proper, profitable response.
“Listen, Persephone—”
“Leave me alone.” With that, I hitched my backpack over my shoulder and walked down the stairs as my dad stood there, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy. Damn if it didn’t feel good.
9.
Two nights later, I showed up at Ken’s front door again. At first, I wasn’t sure what brought me there. Dad was on a trip. Mom was passed out. There was no drama, nothing to run away from. When I put my key in the door, I realized what it was. Safety. Comfort. I had to know those feelings were still there—that they weren’t something I had imagined. I wanted something I could hold on to.
Ken was sitting in his recliner as if he were waiting for me. When I walked in, he got up, nodded once, patted my head, and went to his own room. He didn’t ask for an explanation, and I didn’t offer one. He accepted me as a part of his home, his routine. That night I slept holding on to the key he had given me. There was an impression of it in my palm the next morning that didn’t fade completely until almost lunch.
Over the next few weeks, I spent the night several more times and was there every other afternoon to read. James and I talked often, but he never broached the subject of Ken’s big secret again. I didn’t ask. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know. I wanted everything to stay the same—safe and unshaken.
Most mornings when I woke at Ken’s house, I would find a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me on the entry table. One morning, two weeks before the deadline, I found an application for federal student aid, obviously downloaded off a website. So you have a computer hidden around here, you little sneak. I was too amused to be angry. I filled it out the same night and stuck it in the mail. Ken never asked about it, but he did look a little Cheshire cat-ish over the next few days.
We fell into a nice routine. It was comforting and stable. I knew Ken would always be there when I walked in the front door. James always answered when I called. Happy wasn’t exactly a word I was familiar with, but I thought this must have been pretty damn close.
One particular morning, I was almost on the verge of admitting life might actually have some value—my life specifically. The sun was warming everything it touched, almost as if it was smiling down on the world. I had a cigarette hanging out the window and not a single fresh cut on my body. It was as close to perfect a day as possible. Stupid me actually thought it would last.
There were pop quizzes in two of my classes I was woefully unprepared for, Maggie seemed cranky and off-kilter every time I tried to talk to her, and the strap on my backpack broke during lunch. In the grand scheme of things, they were minor irritations. But they were enough to bring me to breaking point even before Mom called.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
“I need you to come straight home after school. No sneaking off to wherever you have been hiding out the past few weeks. Straight home, young lady.” What the hell?
“Uh, sure. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“We need to talk about a few things.” Well shit, now what had I done?
“Ten four. On my way then.” No goodbye, drive carefully or I love you. Just the click of the phone. She obviously had her temper up about something. God only knew what.
When I walked in the door, she was perched on the edge of the couch, hands clenching and unclenching.
“So what exactly have you been doing?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, I’m sure you should be sorry. Now you tell me what you’re sorry for.”
“I don’t have a clue. Really, Mom. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am well aware of the fact you have been sneaking off somewhere after school. I also know you have been out overnight—without permission, I
might add—at least twice in the past week. So once again, what exactly have you been doing?”
Holy hell, he had done it again. My father’s favorite trick was to bitch and complain to Mom about something until she finally had enough and came after me. It kept us in an almost constant state of conflict, focused on each other instead of him. I should have known I hadn’t shut him down—he’d sent in the reserve troops.
“Mom, I haven’t been doing anything. I may not have been in bed when Dad came down, but I was just out walking. I wasn’t gone overnight.”
“At three in the morning? Do you think I’m stupid?” Obviously Dad didn’t give her much credit for intelligence if he actually admitted to being in my room at three in the morning. Why didn’t she question him on what he was doing there in the first place?
“Mom, calm down. I really haven’t been doing anything wrong. I promise. I don’t know what Dad has told you—”
“Your father has nothing to do with this.” Yeah right. “I am capable of being a parent without his help.” Actually you’re a better parent when he isn’t helping. You’re a better you, for that matter. But that was something I could only think and not say, unfortunately.
“I know, Mom. That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying if Dad thinks I’ve been out overnight he’s wrong. As for where I go after school, I’m out with friends, like I always am.”
“Persephone Ann Daniels, I am going to give you one last chance to come clean with me. I think you have some boy you’re hiding and lying about, and I will not have it.” How funny she was so close to the truth, except “the boy” was a seventy year old man.
“Mom, there is no boy. I haven’t been on a date in at least six months, and you know it.” It was true. Between combating home life, trying to maintain my grades to ensure graduation, and now Ken, a boyfriend was a distraction I didn’t need at that moment. Plus I never kept a boy around for long—maybe three months if he was really lucky.
I learned the hard way my sophomore year that after three months, relationships got too intense for my liking. Don’t get me wrong, the kissing was nice, as long as he realized he didn’t need to imitate a puppy and slobber all over my face. But around the ninety day mark, feeling me up under my shirt wasn’t good enough. He wanted full access, and why did I keep pushing his hand away every time it trailed below my waistline? God, the way a high school boy whined could put a two-year-old to shame.
The boy I dated my sophomore year actually remained patient until well into the fifth month. I knew it wasn’t love, but it was the closest thing two fifteen-year-olds could feel to love. He made me feel special. He was gentle. He seemed to intuitively know where my boundaries were and didn’t try to cross them. Until that damn fifth month.
He started with gentle prodding that became more insistent with each date. I finally gave in. Part of me wanted to shut him up, part of me thought it was my obligation (he had, after all, put up with so much from me and been so sweet up until then), and, let’s be honest, I was fifteen. Part of me really wanted to. I wanted to know what it was like to be touched with gentleness and affection.
So the shirt came off, followed quickly by the bra. It was humiliating. He immediately started touching the scars and quizzing me about the fresh cut on my shoulder. He wanted to know what happened, why were there marks all over my torso? I didn’t have any good answers. I told him it was none of his business. That wasn’t good enough. I told him to take me home. That was fine with him.
We saw each other in the hallway the following Monday. He was holding hands with some cheerleader. I took it as his way of breaking up with me. To his credit, I don’t think he ever told anyone the real reason we stopped dating. Thank God. But I learned my lesson. Three months was the limit.
“Go to your room, Persephone. You’re grounded until you can decide to be honest with me. I can’t believe you think this is acceptable.” I wanted to argue. I wanted to cry and scream and tell her where I was at night and why. I wanted to tell her that her husband was the reason I was running off—the only guy her daughter was lying about was her own father. But what good would it do? I would be gone soon. With any luck, I would be a few blocks away in the National Place Cemetery or thousands of miles away at college. Just a few more months one way or the other, and I would escape.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Mom would remember for more than an hour she had grounded me. Dad was due home from his trip, and she would have other things to focus on. Apparently, so would I. There would be no escaping to Ken’s. Dear God, just make it quick. Please.
I didn’t bother closing my door—not even when I was tracing little cuts across my stomach, reopening old scars, making new ones. I heard the front door open on hash mark number five and my parents talking in Mom’s room during cuts seven through eleven. I stopped at fifteen and laid a towel over my stomach. It would soak up the blood until it clotted.
At midnight, he was in my doorway. “So you’re still here. Mom told me she grounded you.” I stared at him. “That’s a shame.” He sat down on the edge of my bed, cupping my face in his hand.
“I told her she was being too hard on you. Teenagers will be teenagers. You need a little bit of freedom. She just wouldn’t listen. I tried to get you out of it, honey.” When I was younger, I fell for this good cop/bad cop thing. I really thought my mother was the shrew and Dad was trying to be a good parent. If I would just let him touch me here, kiss me there then he made sure I got what I wanted. He made Mom be nicer to me, stop yelling at me all the time. Sure enough, the day after a late night visit to my room, the punishment was lifted or the new shirt I wanted would appear. Funny thing, I never enjoyed it much once I got it.
There was one time when I was ten. Everyone I knew was getting a new gaming system for Christmas. I wanted one so badly. I begged and whined every chance I got. Mom flat out put her foot down. There was no way I was turning into some zombie sitting in front of the TV all day. She said if I asked one more time I was grounded. I was ten. Of course I asked one more time. Multiple more times, in fact. I got yelled at. I got grounded. I got told I probably wouldn’t get any Christmas presents at all. This was two weeks before Christmas and the night before Dad got home from a trip.
When he came home his first order of business, after getting the rundown from Mom, was to come to my room. I was savvy enough to know how this went. He got what he wanted, and I would get what I wanted. I didn’t even have to wait until Christmas. The system was waiting for me the next day when I got off the bus. I played with it three times and then told Mom to sell it. She never said a word.
It wasn’t until I got older I realized these situations were his creations—playing Mom and me off each other like chess pieces. Knowing it didn’t help. I was too numb to do anything about it.
“I know I’ve been gone a lot lately. It’s rough on Mom when she has to take care of you by herself. She doesn’t love you like I do. You’re so special to me.” He leaned down to kiss my nose. “You know that, right? You know how much I love you?”
The silence was filled with touching and kissing and tears. I tried not to react. I tried to stay still and silent, but when his fingers brushed against the fresh cuts on my stomach I cried out. “Shhh, your mom is sleeping. You know how cranky she gets when you wake her up.” He didn’t even notice the smear of blood on his hand.
10.
I had to wear a dress to school the next day. There was no way a waistband was going over those cuts. Mom told me I looked nice as I was walking out the door. I silently told her to go to hell—at least I would have company.
About three blocks from the house I knew there was no way I was going to make it through the day around all those people and inane teachers. It felt like there was a slick layer of scum all over my body, and my head hurt. I had all of the symptoms of a hangover without any of the fun of drinking the night before.
I couldn’t go back home. If Mom bought that I was sick, she might spend the whole day hovering over me. If she didn�
��t believe me, I would only increase the odds my grounding would stick for more than twenty-four hours. Neither option appealed to me.
Maggie would already be settled into first hour, cell phone safely tucked away and silent in her purse. No way to get her to skip with me. Frankly, I didn’t feel like being around her anyway. Or anyone else for that matter. Turning my car around, I hoped Ken wouldn’t completely flip when I appeared at his front door.
I was tempted to use my key but didn’t want to scare him showing up in the morning, unexpected. I knocked several times, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. After several minutes, he answered, looking out of sorts again. He was still in his robe and unshaven. I had never seen him like this and was suddenly, painfully reminded why my presence had first been requested by James in the first place. Ken was sick. Ken was dying. Like the first time we met, I fought the urge to run.
“Persephone! What are you doing here?” His face went from confusion to concern to I think embarrassment I caught him looking like hell.
“I’m sorry, Ken. I shouldn’t have come. I couldn’t handle school today, and I couldn’t stay at home. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” And you’re sick, and I don’t know if I want to face that today, too. I’m scared. I need to be safe.
“No, no. Come in. Go into the living room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He shuffled down the hallway, and I heard the shower start. I wandered around the living room, looking at the photos again, skimming the books crammed into the shelves. One thing I had to give him, he certainly had an eclectic taste in reading material. There was everything from true crime, political biographies and philosophy to Stephen King and Amy Tan.
It wasn’t long before Ken was back, clean shaven and presentable. “Have a seat, Persephone.”
I could see it all over his face. We were about to have “the talk”. I hated “the talk”. I had been hearing versions of it since I was eleven. It would start with something about me being a bright girl with a good future if I would just “apply myself” and “stop being so unhappy all the time.” I had a good life with “no reason to be so angry all the time.”
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