Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  “But we need to get home. No other way,” the girl replied. Then she gave me a concerned look. “You okay?”

  I nodded. Fighting the urge to huddle down inside my peasant shirt, I thrust out an arm. Almost forgot to stick out a thumb until I glanced at my balled fist. I blinked and lifted it off clenched fingers.

  A few minutes later, an old man in a battered truck pulled up. I stood back and let the couple take the ride. After wiping my nose on a sleeve, I made myself jut out a thumb again. As cars whizzed by, I thought of home, where I’d burrow under the sheets and shovel the floral comforter over my head until the blackness of sleep buried me.

  God, I wanted to escape this place. I kept shaking. But I shook my head at the next car. Said no to three more. So, don’t rag on me. I was being careful.

  “Hey, chick! You want a ride or what?” a girl around my age shouted from a Volkswagen van’s window.

  “Maybe,” I shouted back, before stepping closer to peer inside and see if they were from the concert. The orange van was filled with six teenaged gals who told me they were from Santa Barbara and had stayed in the Coliseum parking lot for some zzz’s before starting the long drive home.

  “So?” she asked.

  “Yes please!” I ran to the other side, where another girl with a red ‘fro was already sliding the side door open. Seated on the carpeted floor next to two dark-haired chicks, she had a round face and reminded of an Ewok from Star Wars. I stood there staring as if she wasn’t real.

  “Are you getting in, or what?” she asked, bending her legs so I could fit past.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I crawled over some Marrakesh-print pillows, through the sea of outstretched and Indian-style bent legs toward an empty spot on the other side. Once there, I leaned up against the wall, avoiding the redhead’s gaze.

  “Hi, I’m Wendy.” She introduced the two dark-haired girls on the floor and then pointed toward the platform bed. “The sleepyhead to your right is Carol. That’s our fearless driver, Deb, and the girl who stole shotgun is Andrea.”

  “Is it my fault that you’re so slow, you move backwards?” Andrea said, smiling.

  Wendy flipped her off and the two giggled. I pressed my back tighter into the van wall and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Wendy asked.

  “Yeah. I mean…” I paused. “No. No, I’m not…” My voice started breaking.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” She scooted up next to me and started to put an arm around my shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” Like a recoiling revolver, I jerked away.

  With my lower lip quivering, I crumpled to the floor and pulled my knees toward my chest. My whole body began to shudder, and I curled tighter into a ball. The inside of the heated van suddenly turned to a winter that even a fetal position couldn’t warm.

  “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

  As my chest heaved and my bruised lips sucked for air, two of the girls pulled a blanket up over me. And we drove toward home.

  Sixty-One

  Joy

  Someone gave my arm a gentle shake. “Hey, we’re almost there.”

  I drew a quick breath and felt fabric rushing into my mouth. Why is my face covered? A shroud!

  I squirmed and my eyes flew open to find, not a white sheet but geometric patterns. Blinking repeatedly, I pawed at the bunched-up blanket. I had to escape! Panting, I struggled toward the blanket’s edge.

  I sat up and turned to find Wendy peering at me, concern on her sunburned and freckled face. She went to squeeze my shoulder, but my body curled into itself before I could stop the knee-jerk response to her touch.

  “No! Don’t—” I began, but then covered my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She removed her hand and gave me a gentle smile. Then, jerking her head toward the girls who were splayed out in various sleeping positions, she said, “We figured you must have gone through something fucked-up. That’s a shit neighborhood down there.”

  They know? My mouth clamped shut like a hurricane door. Voices in my head shouted, Freak! Dirty freak!

  Now, it was all I’d ever be.

  Not daring to look at her or any of the others, I suddenly wanted to escape my own skin. I’d just be met with a mixture of disgust and revulsion.

  My gaze fixed on my shaking hands. Dirt was caked under each nail and my shredded cuticles were rimmed with old blood. When did I rip them?

  “Next exit is your town,” the driver said.

  “Yeah, get off on that one then you guys can drop me off anywhere. I’ll walk,” I offered, my voice hoarse and husky, like a stranger’s.

  “No way.”

  “I don’t want to be a burden. It’s late.”

  “More like early.” She jerked a thumb at the window, where black had given way to the grey of dawn. “Oh no, chickee. We’re taking you all the way.”

  “Yep. You’re going home,” Deb said.

  Home. Tears rimmed my swollen eyes with the word. I sniffed and swallowed the hard pit in my throat. Trying like hell to compose my shit, I said, “Okay, go straight ahead, then turn right on Main.”

  “Thank you so much. Maybe sometime we could…” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I stopped, knowing it was a lie. I would never see them again. The last thing I wanted was a reminder of the night I planned to bury forever.

  When the van door slid closed, Wendy pressed her face up to the glass and made a silly face. I gave her a half smile, like the one I used to give Dad when he left after one of his rare visits. Deb stuck a hand out the window and waved as the clattering Volkswagen pulled away from the curb and turned a corner. I kept staring at the empty street until the engine was a rattling echo.

  The sun’s orange head had just topped the rise of the hills when I turned toward home. After fisting my hands, I threw my shoulders back and shuffled toward the third house from the corner.

  I climbed two steps and walked up to the heavy wooden door. Now that I was closer, I noticed that the paint had begun to peel on the frame. When had that happened? Ronny was usually so anal about maintenance. Maybe I’d been gone years instead of hours, trapped in some sort of time warp that had taken me far into the future.

  Beyond the shit that was about to go down.

  “If only.” I took a deep breath and reached inside my purse for the key.

  I had just got it in the lock when the door swung open, pulling me and a few dead leaves along with it. “Joy, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

  Mom’s uncombed hair looked like she’d been pulling at clumps of it all night. Silvery salt trails scored her bone-white cheeks and her eyes were hollow sockets, with circles so dark they looked like Ronny had gone after her.

  I wanted so much to reach out and hug her.

  Instead, I started to lie. Speaking quickly, I said that Janice knew some people in Los Angeles that wanted to party after the concert. We’d gone by, hung out and started drinking but couldn’t drive until we’d sobered up.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “We were having fun. I wasn’t thinking,” I choked out, my tongue disappearing into the back of my throat. The look on her face was destroying my resolve and I needed to convince her that I had just been a stupid teen getting high.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. So sorry.

  Now a red-faced Ronny came up, angry eyes flashing. “Fucking whore!”

  I had been holding it together until then. But now I stumbled, reaching for the wall to stay upright. “I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I repeated again and again. “I’m horrible. I know. A freak. A dog. I shouldn’t have gone there. It was so wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I’m a horrible daughter.”

  “Don’t you say that! You do stupid things but you’re not horrible.”

  The sound of Mom’s cracked voice slashed through any defenses I had left. Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. “I didn’t mean to worry you guys… I swear. I�
��m-so-sorry…”

  Mom reached out for my shoulder and squeezed. I buried my face in my hands as long, agonizing sobs racked my body.

  “Okay, kiddo. Enough of that,” Ronny said, with a gentle punch in the shoulder.

  I lifted my chin and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, surprised that Ronny’s anger had dissipated like Point Magu fog in summer.

  “Go rest. We’ll talk more later.” Mom gave me a little shove toward the hallway.

  Once in the bathroom, I stood for long moments, my arms hanging limply at my sides. Each gold fleck in the linoleum glittered like dying stars in a universe forever changed. They held my gaze until my bowed neck kinked and an overall buckle dug into my throat. I reached for the metal and then closed my eyes before undoing the clasp.

  Yesterday, these had shone as yellow as the loquats on the tree next door, but today, soot dusted the jean fabric. If each cuff was ringed in dark grime, what stains might be smeared inside? I stopped, unable to the lower the bib. Instead, I gently removed Carl’s necklace and laid it on the bathroom counter.

  The ugly side of man. One of the reasons I’m here, he had said.

  Carl had survived and so did I.

  With that abalone sea to strengthen my resolve, I began to remove my clothes one article at a time. First, I undid each clasp and lowered the overalls. Next, I slowly stepped out so as not to turn them inside out. Now, with as much care as a grieving mother might give a stillborn’s swaddling blanket, I folded them in half. Then in half again.

  I smoothed the fabric with my hands and cradled it for a moment before placing it in the empty wastebasket. Repeating this with my peasant top, I hesitated before removing the rest. Behind me waited the mirror. Below, wicker, like a basinet of nestling cloth. To my right, the shower.

  I slipped off the last two items and placed them atop the others before grasping the grey shower curtain. With the mirror continuing to loom behind, I averted my eyes as I turned to step into the shower. Prickling fingers from the blasting water hit me full in the face, to mix with the torrent of tears finally unleashed. I picked up the white bar of Dove.

  Lather, scrub. Lather, scrub.

  But even though the flying bird etched on the Dove bar melted away until the wings dissolved and glided down the drain, it wasn’t enough. The bar turned to pulp, but I knew I’d never feel clean again. Squeezing the white mass between my fingers, I put my head under the shower.

  Where I stayed until the water turned cold.

  Sixty-Two

  Joy

  So, you’re wondering why I didn’t tell. I’m sure you’re thinking, You were home and safe. You should have reported it. And you’re right. I should have.

  But I couldn’t.

  First, there were the lies I’d told. Ronny hadn’t been rough in a whole month but if he found out… I couldn’t do that to Mom. Counseling had made her so hopeful.

  Then came the paranoia, this constant feeling of being watched. They had sentinels observing my every move and if I went public, they’d know and come after me and my family. Over the next few hours, flashes of looming figures appeared in my peripheral vision and twice, I saw a gun-wielding shadow in the hall. Heart pounding, I turned, sure that the nightmare was about to start all over again.

  Huh? But they were there.

  I might have been able to push past those fears if it weren’t for the shame-encrusted shroud I now wore. And would never be able to remove. I was now sullied, tainted, a defiled stain. Forever debased, only a tightly shut mouth could hide what I was from the world.

  Did I want to tell? Feel Mom’s cradling arms rocking me? Brushing my hair with the palm of her hand?

  Only every moment.

  When I smelled the sweet waffles on the iron and heard the sizzling of bacon, I almost rushed from my room with arms outstretched. Then I saw my hand on the doorknob and remembered. Mold. Filth. Rot.

  With a shake of my head, I changed my expression. Donning the mask I’d worn most of my life, I went to breakfast. And pretended.

  Monday morning, I got up, smoothed every wrinkle in my sheets, making my bed so perfectly Mom raised her eyebrows, and then, although I’d taken two the night before, jumped in the shower. I stayed in so long that I was late and had to run a comb through my hair while trying to choke down some toast. Next, I full-on ran to the bus stop, getting there right before the last kid was boarding.

  I know, a senior on the bus? Humiliating. But what choice did I have? Janice used to be my ride and that stopped after our blow-up. Lisa didn’t have a car and I never quite made it to girlfriend status with any guy.

  That thought made me want to shrink farther into my sweater.

  I stood in the aisle trying to decide where to sit. In the front were a couple of freshmen, staring straight ahead as if looking my way might bring down the wrath of God. In the middle, a couple of band geeks with open instrument cases on their laps and heads together chittered away. I headed for the back, where stoners’ splayed-out legs dominated the seats.

  With a quick nod, I sat in front of a long-haired dude named Pete, who was under the false assumption that those long strings were hiding the zits on his cheeks. When he glanced my way, I wondered if he knew.

  Do I look different?

  The driver yanked the knobbed gearshift and the bus lurched forward. Then it stopped.

  “Newbie. Get a clue!” Pete shouted from behind me as the poor driver ground the gears.

  I fought the urge to exchange a glance with Pete, opting instead to shake my head without turning around. My nostrils twitched from the faint odor of bong water. Pete was notorious for spilling.

  While the bus driver tried to figure out where second gear was, I pressed a cheek to the window. The glass was cool and beginning to fog from all the giggling mouths on the bus. I drew a squiggle in the haze, then more. Multiple curlicues appeared beneath my finger. A surreal roller coaster with no beginning and no end.

  My stomach clenched and I twitched. In jerky movements, my finger continued etching a curved labyrinth over the glass. One I found myself lost in.

  There was a nudge on my shoulder. “Joy, wake up. You high or what?”

  “Huh?” I shook my head. We were parked in the bus lane. But hadn’t we pulled out of my neighborhood only seconds before?

  I stared, unbelieving.

  With absolutely no memory of the drive.

  I wish I could tell you that the rest of the day was better. That every friend and teacher was a comforting blanket. That I stayed after class with Mrs. Plante and sought solace in her wisdom. Or at least cried on Lisa’s shoulder during lunch.

  I did none of those things. Instead, I did what I’d learned to do for so many years. I masked my face in placid smiles, turning the corners of my mouth upward while my vacant eyes gazed at nothing.

  And made it through the day.

  The next few weeks went by in a fog. Every day was the same. I got up, showered, choked down a few bites, and rushed out the door. There was some comfort in the routine of it all. I even washed in the same order, starting with my feet and working upward. When I got there, I scrubbed roughly, wishing all femaleness would slough off and close, turning me into an asexual doll.

  And that’s kind of how I coped. By trying not to. Now, I can almost hear the wind whooshing past your fingers as you waggle them and scold me. You’re saying that a kid who went through what I did needs to process, should seek counseling, ought to confide in friends. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Should. Could. Ought. Yeah, there are lots of ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’ in the world. My dad could have come around to visit more. Ronny ought never to have curled his hands into flying fists. Kyle shouldn’t have had to wear a cast for six weeks. And I should have told someone.

  But none of those supposed ‘shoulds’ happened, so why lecture me? The last thing I wanted to do was think about it. I just wanted to go back to being Joy Chapel, dork, stoner and sub-normal teen.

  Still, in the coming days I st
arted observing myself, you know, like from a distance? And I noticed one thing. No, this is not some Go Ask Alice or Reefer Madness preachy lesson on the dangers of drug use, but for some reason I didn’t want to get high so much. The week after, Frankie asked me to cut third period to go smoke a bowl and I said “Nahh”. Then at lunch, I went with Lisa to the field, but barely toked half a hit.

  You’d think it would be the opposite, that I’d want to be absolutely blotto. But when I reached for Lisa’s bong, my hands started to quiver. The idea of hours without control freaked me out.

  How was it at home, you wonder? Better, I guess. Ronny went to more appointments, so that was good. We didn’t really talk about it, but I could tell when it was counseling day because he came home all drained, like. Also, I peeked at the calendar hanging on the back of the pantry door and saw the abbreviation R. C., which I gleaned meant counseling for him.

  Then Kyle got his cast off and bitched and moaned about muscle atrophy and other jock shit. When he came in from the garage after working the weights, he flexed his freshman arm and said, “Look at this bicep. Thirty percent of what it used to be!”

  “Wasn’t exactly Superman to begin with.”

  “Hey!”

  “Is for horses.” I raised my eyebrows as if I’d just come back with the best quip ever.

  “Very original. Some writer you are.”

  I flipped him off. Kyle could be so annoying.

  Then I realized how wonderfully ordinary Kyle being a pain in the ass was. Little brothers were supposed to bug you. That’s normal, a part of life.

  Life. For everyone, that’s all there was. And for better or worse, this was mine.

  I headed straight for my room and closed the door. I pulled my journal from under a stack of books and began slow, the writing dribbling like a leaky faucet. It dripped down a driveway before trickling into a steady stream, until soon it poured winter storm gutter pages.