by Jolene Perry
My phone buzzes. It’ll be Elias or Cecily, and I’m not sure how to talk to either of them. Some car race is on the TV, and the droning of the engines helps to dull the screaming in my head. How stupid am I? Did I really, really think I’d be able to be fixed?
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Dad tosses the remote over to my bed. “Watch whatever you like.”
“No thanks.” I tuck my knees closer to my chest, grasping my shins.
“Clara …” he starts, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that I’m not going to like what comes next. “We can do as much of the surgeries or as little as you want. I promise. We can talk to someone else if you like.”
I chew on my thumbnail. “I thought it was a mistake.”
“What was a mistake?” Dad asks, but I can’t answer him.
No.
I could answer.
I won’t.
All this time I thought being out there in the woods was a big mistake. That my scars didn’t belong on me. That they were also a mistake. I was wrong. They were for me. I’m just not sure what I did to deserve them.
I pull out my notebook to write but still can’t get words down. I need words. I need to write. My fingers shake with my desire to put something on the page.
I finally start to write.
How many times can I break till I shatter …
How many times can I break till I shatter
How many times can I break till I shatter
How many times can I break till I shatter
How many times can I break till I shatter
And then I stop when I realize my hand has followed the same rhythm over and over.
19
I will always be the scarred-face girl. Not the writer girl or the cool girl from Alaska. I’m stuck. Who would bother looking past this? I’m not sure I would.
All the next morning at the hotel I cough. A sore throat means I can’t talk. An illness could keep me from school. I’m planning ahead.
I’m numb as we move through the airport and climb on the plane. I watch some ridiculous family movie on the flight with a dog and a crazy brother, but I’m still numb.
And then we’re driving in the dim light of midnight, and my life isn’t different. I was supposed to come home hopeful, knowing different was on its way.
My future crumpled in front of me in a way that no one could possibly understand. I close my eyes as Dad drives and try to talk to Mom.
I need you here. Don’t you see that? Dad isn’t a girl. He won’t understand. I can’t believe so much was taken from me.
Where are you?
Some people say that they can hear the voices of people they know who died.
Why can’t I hear you?
WHY?
Mom?
My body shakes. My heart is crammed inside a box a million times too small. I hold my breath to stop the tears. My body shakes again. I’m being pushed apart from the inside. I can’t go to New York like this. I can’t. Columbia is out. University of Alaska is fine. It’s fine.
Why did we pick that day for a walk? Why weren’t we warned? Why didn’t we feel something telling us to go inside? People at church talk about being led out of dangerous situations all the time. Why weren’t we? What did I do that was so horrible?
Dad’s shushing pulls me out of my internal pleading but doesn’t slow the crying.
Even the guilt over how I’m sure I’m tearing Dad up isn’t enough for me to want to overcome the cracking and splintering.
The moment we’re home, I run for my room and lean against the door as it shuts behind me. I’m so done. I’m done with everything. My heart feels as if it’s been burned and shriveled from the inside, on fire and melted or crushed. I curl up in my bed and wish the world to disappear. I can’t do this. Everything was supposed to change after Seattle. My life was supposed to get better. I was supposed to get a face that I could stand to look at in the mirror. A face that would take me places. A face that had the chance of blending in.
I don’t want a lesser version of the face that was carved into me.
I want my face.
I want people to know me for me. I want to speak for myself. Use my own words, instead of my scars screaming about experiences I wish I could hide.
My phone rings for the millionth time, and I check the ID to see the only person I might want to talk to right now.
“Hi.”
“There you are!” Cecily.
My throat is too thick for talking. “I’m not … He can’t …” And I don’t say anything else.
“Oh.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, but I know she’s there. “Wish you were here.”
“Set your phone down. Let’s listen to Ed Sheeran and drown in sorrows, okay?”
A sobby, quiet laugh escapes, bringing more tears down my face. “Okay.”
The music starts almost immediately, tinny and faraway sounding. Cecily’s on the other end of this, being with me in the only way she can.
I let my wool socks slide on the stairs until my foot drops to the next step. The two days we’ve been home have felt like an eternity. An eternity where I sit in my room and don’t answer anyone’s calls or texts. I’m past caring how juvenile I’m being.
“Which spatula do you use for pancakes?” Dad calls from the kitchen.
“The black one with the silver handle,” I call back as I slowly slip down another step.
Dad’s been whispering to Rhodes in the kitchen, and I can only assume he’s talking about me. So strange that Dad and Rhodes have struck up this odd sort of friendship. I take a few silent steps closer and strain to listen.
Dad’s voice. “I don’t know what to say to her about Elias …” His voice fades with the sizzling bacon. “… She blurted it out, but I haven’t said anything … Like your idea … a weekend …”
So.
They’re talking about me. How totally unoriginal. Part of me wants to call them on it, but if I do, they might just drag me into their conversation. I’m so not up for that.
The sweet smell of pancakes and the salty smell of bacon hit my nose as I slip into the kitchen. Breakfast is the only thing Dad can cook unless the barbecue is lit. So, pancakes for dinner.
“I can ask a friend of mine,” Rhodes says. “Cool girl. Might be fun for—” He stops the second our eyes meet.
“Glad to see you,” Dad says with a too-wide smile.
Yeah. Because I just caught him talking to Rhodes about me.
My phone beeps again.
Elias: Clara? I’m seriously worried. I wanna talk.
I lean against the counter. After dinner, ok?
Elias: Perfect.
No one but him would put up with the silence I’ve given him—especially since I’m not sure I’ll be able to talk to him after dinner. I glance back and forth between Dad and Rhodes for just a moment, wondering if I’ll get any more clues about what they were discussing.
“Wow.” Rhodes is staring. “You look like hel—”
But he cuts off when Dad frowns.
“Tired.” Rhodes nods. “You look tired.”
This is the guy who I kissed. What do we do now? He licks his lips once and then again, and I should maybe stop staring at his lips.
“Yeah. Travel,” I say.
I’m waiting for him to say something else, but he steps toward Dad without a trace of tension on his face or his body.
“When do you need to give Columbia their deposit?” Dad asks.
I just stare. He can’t be serious. “I don’t remember,” I lie.
Rhodes glances back and forth between Dad and me a few times. I’m sure neither of them has any idea what to say right now.
“I can help with dinner,” Rhodes offers.
“Great.” Dad scoots over and I back out of the kitchen into the dining room, knowing that tonight I’m just going to count minutes until I can be alone again.
I clutch my phone and look over the texts from Elias over the past fe
w days.
Been thinking about you … want to talk … miss you … thinking about you … hope everything is okay … I love you … Can’t wait to see you again …
Why? Why am I afraid of this? Of him? Elias is offering the kind of solidarity and constancy I can’t get anywhere else. I glance up at Rhodes. Think about our kiss and what it might mean or not mean. There is nothing certain about Rhodes. Nothing. And he’s going to be all over the world. I can’t do that.
The idea of being with Elias. Of creating something permanent and something lasting … something I can count on when everything else is in the air … My shoulders fall a little, my chest loosens a little, and I finally relax into the chair.
No, Elias is definitely someone I shouldn’t be afraid of. For the first time, I make myself really think about all the good things that might come if I can say yes to the boy who loves me. And Elias is right—whatever I want, we can do together. I know him. He knows me. My scars won’t seem so horrible with someone as good as him. The permanence and foreverness of Elias is a lot less terrifying than the foreverness of my face.
20
It’s nearly midnight when Dad finally goes to sleep, but the yard is still lit up in near daylight—another sign of summer. Anxiety zips through me. I just want to move forward. I’m ready. I’m settled. The ripped-insides feeling has finally subsided. I’ve come to a decision, and it feels like the reprieve I’ve needed.
Rhodes didn’t follow me to the barn when I went to feed the horses. Another sign that he knows our kiss was as much of a mistake as I do.
I jump on my bike and start pedaling up the road. After a few miles, I’m in front of the wooden beams and rock facade that make up the front of the home Elias and his dad designed together. It’s so very Alaskan in its massive ruggedness.
I sit in his driveway and lean my bike on its side.
This is it. Why does seeing him now feel so different?
Maybe I had hope before that my life would be something bigger than what it’s going to be. I’m just going to need some time to settle into my decision. That’s all.
I walk around the manicured yard and head for the back of the house.
When I knock on Elias’s window, I wait maybe two seconds that feel way longer than only two seconds, so I knock again. And then again.
Today I realized I’ve been too afraid to choose. I wasn’t choosing Elias or choosing school … Now I’m making the choice that will keep me close to Dad and Elias and close to home. To Mom.
Why is Elias taking so freaking long to get here?
I use my fist this time and his window finally jerks up. “Impatient?”
“Yes.” I scowl.
Elias’s features soften. “I’m so glad you’re home. That you’re here.”
This is it. Him. The him. “Me too.”
“I wasn’t sure if we were going to talk. I fell asleep with my phone in my hand.” He tilts his head. “Come to the front and I’ll let you in.”
“But your parents …”
“My parents own this house. They’re allowed to know when I have people over, even when it’s in the middle of the night. It’s fine.” His voice is kind, but the words … Can anyone be as precise a rule-follower as him? That trait should not set me on edge.
Elias backs away. “Meet you in the front.”
I walk around the house, and he lets me into the front hall. He’s wearing an old T-shirt and basketball shorts.
Right. It’s the middle of the night. This now seems like something I could have talked to him about tomorrow. The clock on the mantel starts chiming, and I realize it is now tomorrow, so maybe it’s less weird that I’m here? Or more weird since no matter what, it’s the middle of the night.
“Your dad said that I shouldn’t feel bad if you didn’t return my calls after your appointment … which you didn’t.” His brows go up slightly. “So, I’m hoping I did the right thing by giving you space.”
Space. Doctor. Dad. The whole experience keeps crashing over me and shattering my insides.
“He … the doctor …” I sniff as emotion wells up behind my eyes again. “I can’t be fixed. Not really. It’ll take forever, and he’s not even sure …” I hiccup over the words. “He’s not sure …”
Elias’s smile doesn’t falter as he steps closer, his fingers lightly touching mine. “I wasn’t aware you were broken.”
“I meant my face.”
“Clara.” His lips slowly graze my cheek. “You have to believe that your scars aren’t an issue for me. I get why you hate them. It’s not like they’re something you can hide. I get it, but … they don’t change who you are. Not to me.”
Of course I don’t believe that, but I can’t keep this binding sadness pressed inside my chest either. I need to try and believe him.
I slide my fingers through his. Elias’s hands are so familiar that it’s almost like holding my own. This is good, I think. It means I’m comfortable with him and feel safe with him, and that’s super important. I hear married people at church talking about that all the time. Super important. I stare at where our hands come together and rub my fingers over his, sort of taking them in again like he was new. This is what I should focus on—all the things I love about home.
Even his palms are calloused from working hard, but not scratchy calloused. Smooth. Nails so short it looks like he bites them, but he’d never do that. Strong. Super strong hands. But then Elias has a super strong body from all the hauling of wood he does. I close my eyes and try to picture him naked. The weighted feeling that’s been making it hard to breathe turns into a dancing-in-my-stomach feeling that’s decidedly better.
“Clara?”
“Thinking about you,” I say.
“I’m right here.”
“Kiss?” I ask as I turn to face him.
His nose touches my cheek.
I tug on Elias’s waist, bringing our hips together and making that butterfly feeling overshadow everything else.
His lips touch mine far too briefly, and then again. And then I part my lips and our kiss deepens. His hands cup my face, and I feel the rhythm of him—all soft sonnets and lullabies. I can do this. Just as fast as his calming energy comes in, my nerves take over. I’m doing it. Now.
I pull away and stare at the guy I know better than maybe anyone else. “My trip made me think about me and you, and what I want and where I want to be, and I love you and I want to be here, and I want the house you’re building for us, and I do. I want you. Everything. A life together. So, yes. My answer is yes.”
I’m panting when I’m done because the words just sort of flew out of my mouth. But I do feel how much I love him. It’s desperate and has a tight hold on my chest, and I miss him even though we’re in the same room. Has to be love.
“Just …” He bends down for a soft kiss. “Stay. Right there.”
Elias backs up and sprints down the hall. He emerges seconds later, not stopping until he’s inches from me. “I love you, Clara. I know we’re young. I know this is sort of crazy, but I promise you won’t be sorry.”
He takes my hand in his shaking one. The sincerity of it all nearly sends me into hysterics, which would definitely not be the right way to react in this situation. It’s just too real to feel real.
As he slides the ring on, I do feel settled. I close my eyes, feel his hand on mine, and let myself take in a breath that loosens the tension in my chest.
Decision made.
Now I know how to move forward. From here on out, I’ll move forward in all the ways that brought me to this decision. The one that’s done. Something can be cleared out of the cluttered mess that’s my brain.
“Thank you,” I say. “I love you. Really.”
Elias stares at my hand, the ring resting on my finger. He touches the ring, smiling, before softly pressing his lips to mine.
“Is that how you’re going to kiss your new fiancé?” I tease.
He takes my face in his hands again. “Yes. Because I love her th
at much.”
I’m not sure what he means, but the whole thing feels incredibly genuine and sweet and sort of perfect, so I decide not to ruin it with my rambled thoughts.
“I should get home. I’m pretty sure Dad isn’t going to let me miss school.”
“Wait. I want to hold you for a minute.” Elias wraps his arms around me and pulls me to his broad chest, which feels like the perfect place to celebrate this moment. Because this is one of those big moments you should be celebrating.
And I totally am.
I’m way too restless when I get home, so I slide out my small notebook and start writing.
Settled
In a way that calms and breathes
Wants
Peaceful in a way that pushes and holds
Off
Directed in a way that’s chosen and safe
Done
Lost in a way that’s not expected
Lonely
I watch as the words scrawl across the page and then I stop. That’s not my point. My point is that the decision has made me feel better about everything. I have a direction. I have a purpose. I have that feeling of safety in a boy who knows me. I crumple up the paper and throw it in the direction of my trash. But just like every time I try to throw something away I’ve written, I can’t do it. Sliding out of bed, I pick up the crumpled paper and smooth it out on my desk.
21
I sigh as Elias leans against me backstage. Performance night, and I should be feeling more excitement before the show starts, but it’s just another show and just another cast that I only sort of know. I stand by the curtain, my script in hand, watching for my cues.
When the show’s over and the final curtain is drawn, I’m dragged into a group hug and I should be feeling elated and excited. I’ve helped with the plays since I started here freshman year, and this was the last one I’ll be a part of, but the experience is … It’s just one more thing that’s signaling the end of something and the beginning of something else that I don’t quite understand yet.
A wedding?
A new kind of life?
