Scars. Part 8

"What? Where?" I stare at her.

"Out of the city. Now that your dad's income's been cut in half, we're looking to lower our expenses. It would mean you couldn't see Carolyn any more or go to your art therapy-"

My breath is gone, punched out by her words. I sag against the wall, staring at the row of vitamin bottles that Mom's alphabetized. "I thought we already talked about this! I thought I could keep going."

"I know, honey. I'm sorry. I don't want to move, either. We've been here twenty-six years and I love this place. But we may not have a choice."

I can't grasp what she's saying. "I told you, I'll pay for therapy. I'll get a part-time job, help out around here more-"

"Honey, that's not it. It's the loans, the bills-it's things that we can't control."

"Can't you get another loan? Talk to the bank?"

Mom purses her lips. "Your father tried just this morning. They turned him down."

My hands are fists. I want to smash something. "Why can't we just move to a smaller house? An apartment, even? Why do we have to move so far away?"

Mom picks up a bottle of hand cream, then sets it back down. "Houses are significantly cheaper in the suburbs, Kendra. And your dad and I-we've been worried about you for a while, now. You're retreating further from us, becoming even more withdrawn and moody. I guess we thought the change might do you some good."

I can feel the blood rising in my face, the tears starting in my eyes. "How do you think yanking me out of therapy will help? Or out of school or away from my friends? I need them! I need-"

I want to smash my hand through the window, let the gla.s.s rip into my skin. I want to make the pain go away.

"Yes? What do you need?"

"I need Carolyn, Mom. I can't face it all alone!" His hand, gripping my wrist. His breath against my cheek.

"You're not alone, honey," Mom says. "You've got us."

A scream rises inside me. "Don't you get it? You're not enough!" The words are out before I can stop them. Hard, hurtful words. But the truth.

Mom turns her face away and I can see she's trying not to cry.

I dig my hand into my pocket, close my fingers around the blade, and let the edge bite into me, press against my flesh. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry. It's just-you're not a therapist, Mom. I need someone who knows what she's doing. I need someone who understands."

Mom's face twists in anger. "I've read every book on s.e.xual abuse I could find! I've joined a support group. I've done everything I'm supposed to! Why aren't I ever enough for you?"

Oh G.o.d, she's melting down, and I don't know how to fix it. "Mom-"

"Don't you Mom me! I've worked d.a.m.n hard at trying to be there for you, at trying to make things up to you. But you never let me in!"

I think of showing her my arm, of sharing that with her-but I'm not that stupid.

"You never told me," I say. "How do you expect me to know you've read about it when you hide the books like they're something shameful, some dirty secret?"

"That's not fair!" Mom cries. "I didn't want to burden you."

"But you weren't letting me in, either," I say. "And-" I try to shove down the words, but they're spewing out of me like vomit- "I don't feel like I can talk to you. You're always turning everything around, twisting what I say into a positive-or into a criticism of you."

I wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. "If you really want me to talk to you, then I need you to hear what I have to say; you have to listen. If you're willing to do that, then I'm willing to try. But that won't change how much I need Carolyn."

Mom's lips tighten so much that they turn white.

I rush on. "I need someone who knows about abuse and knows how to help me deal with it. I need someone who's not family. And that someone is Carolyn."

"I'll bet you wish she was me, don't you, Kendra? I'll bet you wish she was your mother. I can see it in your eyes; I can hear it in the way you talk about her."

I don't say anything. It's true.

Mom puts her hands on her hips. "Well, I've got news for you, Kendra. Your Carolyn isn't as great as you think. Your Carolyn, your precious Carolyn, only understands so much because she was raped, too. She's a s.e.xual abuse survivor."

My head feels like it's squeezing inward. I can't take any more.

Mom nods, a thin smile on her lips. "Yes, that's why she's so understanding. She's a victim herself. You think I should go get raped, just so I can understand you?"

"You don't understand anything!" I yell. And then I'm running out of the house and into the night, Mom screaming after me.

15.

I run fast and hard, my shoes pounding against the pavement, jarring my bones. Carolyn, a s.e.xual abuse survivor. It all fits now: the empathic looks, the sadness in her eyes I sometimes catch, the way she really gets my fear and pain. The way she understands me.

Why did she hide it from me? Why didn't she trust me enough to tell me?

My blade is in my pocket. I can't stop thinking about how much I want to cut, how much I need that comfort. All I'd have to do is duck into the bathroom of some all-night coffee shop....

I reach for my blade, and my fingers touch the smooth warmth of the stone instead. I take it out and press it against my cheek, remembering the tenderness in Carolyn's eyes as she offered me the basket of sh.e.l.ls and stones.

Carolyn is still Carolyn. Even if she didn't tell me herself, it doesn't change the way she's been there for me. Or how much she cares.

I slow down.

Or maybe it does change things. She understands on a gut level what I'm talking about-and she's made it to the other side. She's happy, and she's got a life that doesn't revolve around pain. I want that so bad-but I never believed I could have it. But if Carolyn can do it, maybe I can, too. I just have to hold onto what makes me happy. Carolyn. Meghan. Sandy. Mrs. Archer. And my art.

My cell rings. Mom. I can't talk to her right now, not without screaming. I shut my cell off and keep running, not even knowing where I'm going, until I find myself in front of Sandy's. His kitchen windows are warm squares of yellow light pus.h.i.+ng back the darkness.

I raise my hand to knock.

Sandy swings open the door before I do, letting light and the warm aroma of garlic and tomato out into the night. "Kendra! I'm glad you're okay," he says. "Come on in." He opens the door wider.

Why wouldn't I be okay?

Sandy shuts the door on the night, then ushers me into the kitchen. The table is laid out with dishes: a bowl of asparagus and slivered almonds; a plate of crusty bread; bowls of pasta with cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, and some kind of herb on top. There are two half-drunk gla.s.ses of wine.

Emil stands, wiping at his mouth with a cloth napkin. He picks up the bottle of wine. "Good to see you, Kendra," he says, coming around the table and hugging me with one arm. "I'll just be in the living room, if either of you need me."

He kisses Sandy, and leaves.

I look at their half-eaten meal. I shouldn't be here. I turn to Sandy. "I should have called first. I'm sorry!"

"Nonsense," Sandy says firmly, steering me to the table and sitting me down. "You are welcome here any time, day or night. You know that." He ruffles my hair, takes a plate down from the cupboard. "Have you eaten? Would you like some pasta? It's good, if I say so myself."

I bow my head. "No, thanks."

Sandy sits down across from me. "I'm glad you came to me. I was worried."

"My mother called you," I say slowly.

"When you ran off like that, she was scared. We all hoped you'd come here."

I hate that my mom can interfere in my friends.h.i.+p with Sandy like that. That she can call him and tell him her side of things before I even get a chance to. I cross my arms over my chest.

"So, you want to tell me what's going on?" Sandy asks, leaning forward.

"Why? Didn't she already tell you everything?" I slouch down in my chair.

"Kendra." Sandy reaches for my hand. "Your mom told me a few things, it's true. But that's between her and me as friends. I try to keep that separate-as separate as I can. I want to hear what's going on with you. I can see you're upset."

"They're talking about moving, Sandy-right out of the city!" I say. "I need my therapy! G.o.d, I don't know how I would have gotten through the last few months without it. Or without you. It's like ripping my life supports away." I swallow. "And things were just starting to get better. I met a girl I like-"

Sandy's eyes light up.

"I don't know where that's going," I say quickly. "I need time to find out. But most of all-I need to stay around the people who love me. Carolyn, and you. It's too hard alone."

"I know you need us," Sandy says. "If you have to move, I promise we'll stay in touch. You're important to me, Kendra. No way am I letting you out of my life that easily." He squeezes my hand. "Your parents love you, too, though."

I choke back the tears. I realize now that I was hoping Sandy would let me stay with him. But Sandy's in an uncomfortable position, being friends with both my mom and me. Like being pulled apart by two opposing magnets. Still, I have to try.

I draw my hand away, pick at my cuticle. Try to keep the tears from coming. What do I do if he says no?

"Kendra?" Sandy says.

"Can I stay with you if my parents move?" I say it all in a rush, not looking at him. "I can't handle leaving here-" My voice wobbles. I clench my teeth, hating how weak I sound.

There's a silence. I look up and see Sandy's face shadowed with pain. "I want to help you; you know I do. But Kendra-you're a minor," he says, spreading his hands apart. "I don't have any legal right to keep you here. I'm not your guardian. If your parents want to stop you from staying here, they can do it." Sandy pushes his plate away. "But I promise you, I'll negotiate on your behalf. I'll try to get your mother to agree to let you stay here. It's craziness to take you away from your support system right now."

But my mother is bullheaded and close-minded, especially when it comes to me. She's always resented how close I am to Sandy-and to my dad, too. And I know Sandy feels he owes her, because she's the one who introduced him to the local art world.

"I shouldn't have asked you," I say, clenching my hands together.

"No, I'm glad you did," Sandy says. "I want you to be able to ask me for what you need. I might not always be able to give it, but if I can, I will."

Sandy takes a mouthful of wine, and swallows it. "I'll try to convince your mom that it's not in your best interest to move right now, and I'll let her know that I'd be happy to open my home to you. But you know how your mom gets about me being gay. She probably won't be able to stomach the idea of you staying under the same roof with me. She'll think I'm corrupting you." The pain in his face deepens.

"Why are you even friends with her, when you know she thinks like that?" I ask.

"Your mom's a good person," Sandy says. "And-"

"You owe her," I say.

"Well, yes, I do. Your mom helped connect me with the right people. I couldn't have established myself here so quickly if she hadn't. But that's not what I was going to say. Your mom tries to do the right thing, even when she doesn't know what it is. She just needs a little time-"

"A little? You guys have been friends for more than twenty years, and she's still h.o.m.ophobic!"

"She's changed a lot, Kendra. You wouldn't know it, but she has. But we're getting off track here."

"I didn't know we were on a track."

Sandy sits there silently. I look up at him.

"Kendra-the years I spent on the street were some of the worst years of my life. Worse even than all the h.o.m.ophobic c.r.a.p I grew up with. Sometimes I don't know how I survived it." He reaches for my hand again. "I wouldn't ever want you to make the same mistake I did. Promise me that no matter how bad things seem, you'll always come to me before you try anything stupid." He squeezes my hand.

For a second, I wonder if Sandy's hand is his hand. But it can't be.

Tears well up in my eyes, and I look away. What's the point of turning to Sandy if he can't help me?

"We'll work something out, Kendra," he says. "I'll never leave you hanging. Now promise me you'll come to me-"

"I promise," I say.

Sandy's on my side. I know he is. But he'll try to convince my mom without breaking their friends.h.i.+p. And I'm not sure I have the right to ask him to do more.

Sandy's still looking at me worriedly.

"I'm not going to run away," I say. At least, I don't think I am. "And I promise I'll come to you if I get to that point."

"Before you get to that point," Sandy says determinedly.

"Right!"

The phone shrills from the other room. I stiffen. I just know it's my mom.

Sandy looks at me unhappily. The phone rings again. I hear Emil pick it up in the other room, hear his voice rumble.

"Sandy, it's Lori Marshall!" Emil calls.

"I have to tell her you're here," Sandy says quietly. "But I promise I won't tell her anything you said. I can probably convince her to let you stay the night...."

"No, that's okay."

"Sandy!" Emil shouts again.