Scarred

by Joanne Macgregor

  And the world simply marched on as if this was a regular old thing.

  “In the midst of life we are in death,” the minister had said at the funeral.

  But it seemed to me, rather, that in the midst of death we are in life. Somehow, I was undeniably – obscenely even – alive. After a while, I even got hungry again and I ate, staying clear of the tastes that had been Mom’s favorites: sushi and fresh lemonade and homemade mac ‘n cheese. I ate, alone for the most part, looking at the empty chair across the table and thinking of Mom, and thinking, too, of that other family somewhere that was missing a member. His name was Andrew. They didn’t tell me much, but they told me that.

  I had not been well enough to attend the inquest. My witness statement was submitted by affidavit. The lawyers said that the family of the dead man had been there, determined to see justice done. It was, and it wasn’t. My mother was held responsible for causing the accident through driving while using the phone, but she was not around to take her punishment. Or, looking at it another way, she had paid the ultimate price: a death sentence for accidentally taking the life of another. Messrs. Bradley and Martinez tried to protect me from all that, though they reluctantly agreed to pass on a letter of condolence that I wrote to the family. I was allowed to express regret but not to apologize because, according to the lawmen, that would open me to lawsuits. That time is all a bit hazy now, a series of unconnected images remembered through the mists of pain meds and grief. I always knew that one day I would need to meet that family in person, but the thought of it scared me stupid. Turns out, I was right to be afraid.

  So that’s how I’ve spent the nine months since I got the scar – recovering and sleeping and crying and hiding. And even eating – though only after I’ve washed or wiped my hands. And, in spite of myself, living. More or less.

  And, of course, A.S. – I’ve finally met the cute guy.

  17

  Luke

  I don’t know what makes me maddest.

  That I’ve had to suffer her presence these last weeks, knowing who she is while she’s been living in ignorant bliss?

  That she’s been living, when Andrew is dead?

  That she thought I was the sort of guy who would hate a girl because she’s scarred?

  Or that she didn’t even remember his name! Oh yeah, that’s the one. That’s what enrages me most. She didn’t even remember Andrew’s name.

  All this time, she’s been happily getting on with her life, forgetting his name – hell, forgetting his death, for all I know – while mom and dad and I have been stuck at ground-zero.

  I actually began to feel sorry for her when I saw how she lived – all alone with the reminders of the past on her shelves, and all those clippings of other peoples’ tragedies. It was weird. And a bit sad. I guess I understood for the first time that she’d lost her mother. And I kind of know what that feels like.

  But then she was all you’re rude, I can’t help my face! And I was blown away because I suddenly realized she didn’t even know I was Andrew’s brother. She didn’t even remember his name. And then there was no more room inside me for sorry. I was too full of fury.

  I wish there was such a thing as a pain-transplant. I’d like to collect all the Naughton tears and silence and hurt and pack it into her. Let her see what pain feels like. I need to punish someone, but her mother checked out at the very moment she killed Andrew and ended the family we once had. Because Andrew took all the good stuff when he left, no doubt about it. Only the husks of us were left behind, rattling around the house where Andrew isn’t anymore.

  Dad is crushed. Mom is … I don’t even have words for what mom is. And I’m trapped here, a skin of rage and guilt and grief stretched tight around a great big hole where my brother and my family and my old life used to be.

  Tonight I’m going to train until I’m so tired I can’t feel a thing. And tomorrow I’m bringing my Banjo home. I don’t care what mom and dad say. Andrew might be the one who’s dead, but we’re the ones who live in a morgue, and I can’t handle the lifeless silence that is our house any more.

  18

  Cuts and bruises

  It’s the Saturday morning after the Friday night confrontation with Luke and I’m going to spend the morning with Sienna, doing some shopping downtown before catching a movie.

  She takes one look at my face and asks, “Oh you poor thing! Are you sick?”

  “No,” I say. Do I look that bad?

  “Maybe you have hay fever or allergies or something.”

  “Nope, no allergies.”

  “But your eyes are red and puffy and your face looks kind of swollen.” She tilts her head to take in all my glory, her dark eyes are full of concern.

  “I’m not sick, I’ve just been crying. A lot.” This is no understatement. It’s been – I consult my watch – sixteen hours, off and on.

  “Why? Has something happened? Is it a boy?” she asks. Rabid curiosity has replaced the concern in her expression.

  We go into a coffee shop and over an iced mochaccino (me), a hot chocolate (her) and two enormous slices of cheesecake (we both need our protein), I tell her how I got my scar in a car accident.

  “I wondered, but I never wanted to ask. I thought you’d tell me when you were ready,” Sienna says.

  I tell her everything. The accident. My mother. The other driver. My injuries. The last year. And Luke Naughton. She is shocked, but she responds just as a real friend should – with compassion and understanding and reassurances.

  “It was an accident, Sloane, it was nobody’s fault. Sometimes dreadful things just happen.”

  “Yes, it was an accident, but my mother was trying to text on her cellphone at the time, Sienna, she was negligent. She wasn’t looking and she went through a traffic light that had already turned red.”

  “Oh,” says Sienna. Right, oh. “That’s … bad.”

  “Yeah, and it gets worse. It’s really my fault. I’m the one who made our car hit the other car.”

  I tell her about how I saw the two school kids in the road in front of us, how I yanked on the steering wheel and sent us straight into the other car – straight into Andrew Naughton.

  “Well …” she says and pauses to take a long sip of her hot chocolate. I know she’s buying time, trying to think of what to say. But, really, there is nothing to say. It is what it is.

  “It’s a tragedy,” she says and I nod. It’s freaking tragic alright, no doubt about that.

  “But you’re not to blame, and it’s wrong of Luke to blame you. You were trying to avoid an accident, to not kill someone. If you hadn’t turned the wheel, two kids might now be dead.”

  I shrug. I’ve spent days and nights trying to figure out the various permutations of “what if?” It doesn’t change anything. My mother is dead. Andrew Naughton is dead – because of my mother and because of me. And I’m alive. Luke Naughton resents that and hates me.

  “And look what he tweeted last night.” I show her the latest of Luke’s infrequent tweets.

  There are no words for this.

  “You think that’s about you? About what happened last night?” Sienna asks.

  I shrug unhappily.

  “It must be really tough having to work together on that project.”

  “You have no idea. On Monday, I’m going to try to get Copeman to allow us to change partners. She already said ‘no’ once, but maybe if she knows how things are, she’ll cut him some slack.”

  “And you, too” says Sienna.

  “What?”

  “This is not an easy situation for you, either, Sloane.”

  That’s true, but I reckon it’s a cakewalk for me compared to what it must be like for him. And although he hasn’t been understanding, let alone forgiving, I don’t feel like I’m entitled to kid gloves from him. Not after what I’ve done. Not given who I am. I try to shake myself out of the heaviness that constricts my chest and pushes down on my shoulders. I call for the check and pay.

 
“Do you mind if we pop into the drugstore before the movie? There are a couple of things I need to get.”

  “Sure,” she says and we head out.

  In the drugstore, Sienna goes to examine the cosmetic counters while I grab a shopping basket and fill it with antibacterial soap dispensers, antiseptic throat sprays, germ-killing cleaners for my kitchen and bathroom, three tubes of vitamin C fizzy tablets, and half-a-dozen travel packs of anti-bacterial wipes. You can never have too many anti-bacterial wipes. I’ll use up a whole pack at the movies alone, between wiping the arm-rests, the toilet seat, flusher handle and door-latch, and schools are a hotbed of sources of infection.

  I check on Sienna. She has several red and pink lipstick stripes on her left wrist and is now happily sniffing at different perfume samples. I head to the back of the store, where a registered nurse runs a Saturday clinic, weighing babies and giving them their vaccinations, testing blood sugar levels for diabetics, checking the blood pressure of old folks and talking to embarrassed teens about contraception. I’m in luck. There’s no line and I can go straight in.

  It’s a small consulting room, with an examination table on one side and a set of baby scales under a hanging musical mobile on the other. Nurse Linda sits behind a desk on which there are two large, glass jars; one is filled with green lollipops, and the other with foil-wrapped condoms.

  “Better be sure not to mix up those bottles, Linda,” I say, “or the kids will get disappointed and the boys will get –”

  “Sloane!” she interrupts in happy surprise. “How are you?”

  “Good, fine. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m always well. How have you been? Staying healthy?”

  “Yup. No infections. My temperature was up a bit a few days ago, but I’ve been taking vitamin C and Echinacea and I’ve been fine since. I think it’s time to get my flu shot, though.”

  I hop onto the examining table and roll up my left sleeve.

  “Definitely. The Fall flu season is on its way,” she says, smiling as she sticks the needle into the inside crease of my elbow. “We should give you an H1N1 shot, too, just to be on the safe side.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “Swine flu.” Another jab. She makes a note on my card and says, “Your pneumococcal is still good for a few more years.”

  “Good, because three shots and you’re out,” I say as I pay her.

  “Sloane, always the jokes with you. Now, off you go and stay well,” she orders, pointing me to the door.

  “Be sure and save some of those condoms for me,” I call out a final tease as I head out, tugging my sleeve back down over my elbow.

  “You just keep a close eye on your temperature,” she shouts loudly after me.

  I stop dead. Two steps in front of me in the aisle, looking straight at me, is Himself. He is holding a tiny black and tan beagle puppy in his arms. It squirms and tries to climb up his chest, and finally settles for licking his face as we stare at each other. Then Luke takes a long look at the contents of my basket. My face is on fire. I’m fairly sure he heard the condom crack, and I’m certain he heard Linda’s warning. He probably thinks I’m an obsessive-compulsive, hypochondriacal nymphomaniac.

  “Expecting a plague?” he says, nodding at the basket.

  Where’s a deep sinkhole when you need one?

  “Or just looking for some attention?” He lifts his chin in the direction of the clinic.

  “I was injured in the accident, you know – quite seriously. I could have died,” I say. Even I can hear the defensive note in my voice. It’s cringe-worthy; I don’t blame him for sneering.

  “The cop at the scene said you walked away with only a few cuts and bruises, not even a broken bone.” His eyes flick to my scar.

  “Only a few cuts and bruises. Well, that’s one way to describe it,” I say, thinking of my severed femoral artery, my dislocated knee, my perforated outside and insides, while I watch the puppy chewing on his long fingers.

  “So isn’t all this a little excessive – even for you?” He gestures with a hand to my shopping and the clinic behind me, while the puppy moves its head to follow the movement of his fingers, trying to catch them with its mouth again. I empathize.

  I could try to explain, but what would be the point? I can tell he doesn’t want to hear – it would only sound like I’m trying to make excuses.

  “I’m a hypochondriac. Just add to the list of my sins, Luke. Write it under H. It comes after G for Guilty and before I for …” I draw a blank. “I for, for … ‘ideous.”

  His mouth twitches, but it may just be a wince because the puppy’s needle-like teeth are clamped over the pad of flesh at the base of his thumb. Good, I think savagely, I hope it draws blood.

  “Hey, Banjo, take it easy,” he says, nuzzling the wriggling puppy’s ear.

  “Excuse me, but dogs aren’t allowed in the store!” A prune-mouthed assistant is glaring at Luke, hands on hips.

  Just then, Sienna turns the corner into the aisle. She sees Luke and hurries to my side, glaring up at him like a fierce pixie.

  “Are you picking on her again?” She waves a lipstick tube reprovingly at him.

  “Been telling tales to get some sympathy?” Luke looks only at me. Then he spins around and heads out.

  I discharge some of my anger with a few choice swear words, while Sienna nods and pats me consolingly on the shoulder.

  “Idiot! Imbecile!” I say, as we head to the cashier at the front of the store. Oh, right, now I can come up with apt words starting with I. Why does my brain never work properly when I’m talking to Luke, only afterwards?

  “He is, he really is,” says Sienna loyally.

  “Ignorant, imperfect, inferior, injured, ill!” It’s like I have Tourette’s now, too, and can only spit out I-insults.

  “Is he?” Sienna asks.

  “Is he what?”

  “Injured and ill?”

  “I’m talking about myself,” I say, absently, almost dropping the money I’m trying to hand to the cashier because I’m staring out the storefront to where Luke is playing with the puppy.

  He has put it on a lead and let it down onto the sidewalk, and he’s chasing the clumsy blur of fur around and around a bench. Then he scoops it up and holds it high up in the air above his head. He’s laughing. Luke, I mean, not the puppy – obviously. His face is open with pure joy, his smile is wide. I have never seen him like this, never seen him happy and carefree. A fresh wave of guilt clenches at my throat and heart. This is who he is, or should be. The bitter, angry, hostile Luke that he is with me? That’s because of me.

  Now he has the pup on its back in the cradle of his arms, and he’s gently tickling its fuzzy belly with a look of tenderness on his face. I may be falling in love.

  “Insane,” I say. “Impossible.”

  19

  Clear and present danger

  Girl, 16, missing after witnessing boyfriend’s murder.

  Question: Worse?

  Answer: Probably.

  I imagine what might be happening to the missing girl, amend my answer to ‘definitely’ and stick the news report on my wall. What will I do when the line reaches the door? Cover this whole wall or double-back and come down the opposite wall? Take the line outside and into the apartment hallway to the elevators?

  First thing on Monday, I head for the school faculty lounge because I want a private word with Mrs. Copeman. Students are not allowed inside. Perhaps all their authority would be lost if we discovered what they actually did in there (eat cake and gossip all day, is Sienna’s theory), but I get another teacher to call her out for me. It’s no big surprise, however, when she refuses to split up the mortal enemy dream-team.

  “I’m afraid not, Sloane. I said ‘no swapping partners’ for good reasons, you know. We can’t just change partners when we don’t like who we’re working with. Part of being in the real world, part of life itself, is having to work with all kinds of people and learning to get along with them. And tha
t’s also true of relationships – even marriage!”

  “But Luke and I aren’t in a relationship, ma’am,” I point out. Not in this lifetime.

  “The point is, Sloane, we can’t just swap partners when the going gets tough.”

  It’s preachy little homilies like this that make students hate L.O., I think, but I don’t say it. I didn’t want to blub the truth, but I’m getting desperate. I’ll try anything now, even the truth.

  “But, ma’am, you don’t understand,” I say. “His brother was killed – last year, in a car accident. Another car crashed into him, killing him instantly. My mother was the driver of that car. Luke’s brother died, I survived.”

  Mrs. Copeman looks shocked and distressed.

  “Luke hates me. He can’t bear to look at me. There’s no way we can work on this project as partners.”

  Mrs. Copeman studies me for a long time, then she says, “That’s hard. I can imagine how that’s very difficult for both of you. But there’s an opportunity here for you two to work things out. We don’t solve problems by ignoring them, or running away from them”.

  “But, Mrs. Copeman!” I’m pleading now.

  “No, Sloane. I’m sorry, but that’s my final decision. I suggest that the two of you get together and talk this through, otherwise you’re going to struggle with the second part of the assignment.”

  “We’ve already done most of both parts,” I mumble.

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t even assigned the second part of the project yet.”

  “But … but … you said there were two parts – the theory and the practical,” I protest.

  “I said there were two parts to the project, and two sections to the first part,” she corrects. “You’ve still got a whole other part of the project to do, and it will take up much of the rest of the quarter.”

  I groan.