“Easy?”
“Just sit down,” she says, tugging on my hand. “Relax. A few burns aren’t the end of the world.”
“Burns killed my whole family,” I remind her gravely.
She sighs and uses all her strength to pull me back down beside her. “Just sit with me for a minute. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I should call the police,” I say suddenly. “He should go to jail for this.”
“No!” Scarlett says sharply, fear flashing across her eyes. “We’ll be separated. They’ll take us out of this home and move us god knows where.”
I pause. “You—don’t want to be separated?”
She looks down and shakes her head. “No. I really just need some stability. It’s driving me crazy, moving around all the time. A new school, a new town, a new family. I’m so sick of it.”
“I understand,” I tell her softly. She’s right. If I call the cops, we will probably never see each other again. I’m not going to risk that. “Just let me get my baseball bat. What if he comes back?”
“He won’t. Professor Brown gets tired quickly when he’s this drunk. He will barely remember any of this in the morning.” Scarlett pauses and studies me carefully. “Cole… did I ever tell you why I ran away from my last home?”
“No. But you said you were adopted by a really rich guy who was paying for you to go to private school. I thought that sounded like a sweet deal.”
“It was,” she says, with lowered eyes. “It was great. Until I got my first period.”
I look at her in confusion. Fear grows in me as I study her expressionless lips. Is she saying what I think…?
“He was molesting me,” Scarlett explains.
My jaw muscles grow slack. A wave of heat washes over me, and I feel sick to my stomach. She speaks so calmly that it gives me chills.
“No one believed me,” she says as she stares at her broken computer. “My adoptive father was a well-respected member of the community, and anyone would take his word over some troubled orphan kid. He was a politician, you see. Everyone I tried to tell called me ungrateful for not valuing his kindness more. The local police were all his buddies—and the social workers considered him a hero. These were the people who were supposed to protect me.”
“Scarlett... that’s terrible.”
“Yeah, but I started to realize they were right. In my situation, I couldn’t afford to be choosy and I needed to try to see the bright side of things. It didn’t matter if Benjamin—that was his name—came into my room at night; I had a good life, a good school, many comforts I’d never experienced before. He wasn’t really hurting me that much; he was gentle. Most of the time, I just had to lie there and focus on something else, and it would be over quickly.”
“How old were you?” I ask her hoarsely, almost afraid to hear the answer.
She hesitates. “Nine. I was nine when it started,” she responds.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. I am caught between a violent surge of rage that makes me want to grab my baseball bat and break everything, and just wanting to cry into Scarlett’s shoulder and tell her how sorry I am. Her body is so delicate and small, even though she is now fourteen. Her wrists and ankles are paper-thin. The thought of someone abusing her like that—for so many years—when she was even smaller and more delicate than she is now…
It’s unimaginable. It breaks my heart.
It’s wrong. It’s completely wrong that she had to suffer this.
I briefly close my eyes. Nine. She was only nine.
That number again. That stupid number. Nine is how old I was when the fire happened. My thoughts drift back to the person I was then, who is so clearly immortalized in my mind. I hardly remember who I was when I was eight, or seven, but I remember every second of every thought and feeling I had when I was nine. All I know is that it was an awful age for awful things to happen—or is every age that awful? I can imagine a younger Scarlett, just as young as I was, going through pain similar to what I experienced.
But maybe hers was worse.
I had lived in pure blissful ignorance until I was nine, in a real home that was filled with love and laughter. Scarlett never had that. Her life was just one awful experience after another. Her life was just a series of getting her hopes up that she would find a placement with a good family and then being disappointed. I wonder if she remembers all her years as clearly as I remember the one when I was nine? And as clearly as I remember all of the miserable years since?
“It wasn’t so bad,” Scarlett says with a shrug, in a voice that I am starting to realize she uses when she lies. “I would have stayed there until now, but I started freaking out when I knew I could get pregnant. If I stayed in that house, I probably would have. I was twelve at the time, when I ran away.” She turns to fix me with a serious look. “I can take anything, Cole—I can tolerate any kind of abuse. But the idea of bringing a child into this world, and not being able to take care of it, and letting it grow up scared and alone like I was…” Her eyes fill with tears, and they flash like daggers when she shakes her head violently. “No. That is one line I will not cross. Never.”
“That… was brave of you,” I tell her haltingly. “I’m glad… you got away.” It’s hard to find the words. Scarlett’s mouth is set in a hard line, but I notice something I never saw before: her lips quiver slightly at the corners, revealing how fragile she is under this falsely tough exterior. I swallow, wishing I could have somehow been there to help her. “I’m glad you’re here, now,” I say in an awkward whisper. “No matter what the circumstances were that led you here… I’m so thankful I met you.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you all this,” she says suddenly, looking up at me with surprise. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”
“It means a lot,” I tell her quietly. “I want to know everything. I want to know you.”
She reaches out to place her fingers on my hand and squeezes it gently. Is she comforting me? I swallow. I hope it’s not causing her pain to share this. I hope it’s healthy for her to talk about it and get it off her chest.
“What ended up happening with Benjamin?” I ask, encouraging her to speak more.
“It wasn’t easy to leave,” she says, looking over to the window. “He threatened to kill me. He said that if I ran, he would find me. But more importantly… I was attached to my home, and I didn’t want to leave. For the first time in my life, I had my own desktop computer in my bedroom. I was comfortable, never hungry. I always had nice, new clothes that fit me. I was winning trophies in school for both sports and academics. I could really imagine staying in that home until adulthood.”
“Even with… everything he did?” I ask her, really trying to wrap my head around this.
She gives me a self-deprecating smile. “You know, it’s almost better to be touched at all, in any way, than to be left entirely cold and alone for years. I managed to convince myself that he really cared. I started to convince myself that I cared about him. It was the only way I could get through each day—by pretending it was normal. He was an attractive enough man. I know that in some countries, and cultures…” Her voice trails off.
I shake my head, unsure of what to say.
She reaches out to touch the keyboard of her destroyed laptop. “It was just my stupid period that messed everything up. I went to Planned Parenthood to get birth control, but he found it in my room and tossed it out. He was very religious, and he said that he had plenty of money to take care of any kids I might have. He said that he could just blame a boy my own age, and spin it into a heroic deed about taking care of a pregnant teenager’s baby. He said it would make a great story for his pro-life supporters.”
“What the hell?” I whisper. “That’s so messed up.”
“Yeah,” Scarlett mutters. “He did a lot of good things for the community while there were cameras on him, but behind closed doors… he thought that those good deeds gave him license to do whatever bad things he wanted.”
“I left a suicide note so that he wouldn’t look for me,” she says as she fingers her computer’s smashed circuitry. “I stole money to take bus rides all the way out here. I lived on the streets for a while because I was still scared that he would find me if I went back into the system. But that’s okay—it’s easier to live on the streets in California than New York.”
“Scarlett… God. I had no idea.”
“Yeah.” She places her hand on her injured abdomen and gives me a crooked smile, as if to relieve the tension caused by her brutal honesty. “The stuff Professor Brown is doing? The cigarette burns and mild violence—it’s not that bad. It only hurts me, and only temporarily. It doesn’t put my future at risk, and it doesn’t put any possible children in danger. I can live with the kind of abuse that doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
“It hurts me,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t have to choose between being raped and being hit.”
“What are the alternatives? Choosing to starve. Choosing to sleep in abandoned warehouses with drug addicts.”
“Some group homes aren’t that bad,” I tell her—but that hasn’t really been my experience.
She rolls her eyes. “Really? Choosing to be completely ignored. Choosing to have a shitty education. Choosing to be treated like crap by the other teenagers who are really messed up, and worse than the professor. Choosing to be locked in a box.”
“I guess… for now, maybe this isn’t the worst place for us,” I admit, but I hate the possibility that it could be true. I don’t want to be so defeated that I believe that this is an acceptable situation. I want to hold on to my memories of better times, and work hard to somehow make them real again.
Scarlett nods, glancing at me. “Trust me, Cole. It really isn’t that bad. Besides, you’re here, aren’t you? I thought that it was bullshit when my social worker decided to place me in a home with a Mensa kid, and I expected you to be an annoying, arrogant nerd. But… I like talking to you. You’re kind of… a sweet boy.” Her cheeks darken a little and she tilts her head to the side teasingly. “Besides, I’ve never had a role model before.”
I scoff at this. “There’s nothing I can teach you, Scar. You’re doing so well in school, and you’re tough as nails. Compared to you, I’m a spoiled brat, and I should take a page out of your book. How the hell did you get so smart?”
“Libraries are free to the public,” she explains with a shrug. “I just read a lot, as much as I can.”
Shaking my head in amazement, I stare at her. “How do you manage to impress me a little more every single day?”
“I do?” she asks, in surprise.
I nod. “My parents spent a lot of money homeschooling me with the best tutors, and I grew up pampered with tons of attention. I took it all for granted, and I never knew what I had until I lost it. If you had grown up with the opportunities I had—you would probably be working at NASA or something by now.”
“You’re just saying nice stuff to make me feel better,” she says shyly. “Maybe I have a little skill with computers, but… that doesn’t really matter if my computer is smashed, does it?”
“I will replace it,” I tell her. “I promise.”
“Please don’t make promises to me, Cole.” She lets her face sag forward into her hands with a heavy sigh. “Everyone always breaks their promises. I can’t bear to hear any more empty words.”
“I always mean what I say,” I tell her earnestly. “Cross my heart and hope to die. You’ll see, someday soon. But in the meantime, I believe it is my duty to teach you a very important lesson—something I learned from my parents while they were still around. When it comes to abuse, the only policy you should have is a zero tolerance policy. When you overlook these things, and let them continue for too long… it takes a toll on you. It changes who you are.”
“I know that,” she says softly. “But what can I do? A zero tolerance policy for abuse sounds like a fairy tale. Come on, Cole. If I walked away from everyone who hurt me, I would be living on a deserted island somewhere, foraging for fruits and nuts.”
“We can still change this,” I tell her, rising to my feet and offering her my hand. “We need to do something about Mr. Brown, and make him stop hurting you. Let’s go confront him.”
“Cole,” she says hesitantly, “that will just make it worse. I’m fine with the way things are.”
“I’m not,” I tell her firmly. “And I’m not going to let him get away with this. He’s just an insecure jackass and a bully, picking on someone much smaller than he is so that he can feel like more of a man. If we stand up to him, I guarantee he’ll back down.”
She shakes her head in refusal. “You can’t talk to him now, when he’s drunk out of his mind like this. You’ll only make things worse. Go back to bed, Cole.”
“No way in hell. I can’t just go back to bed like nothing happened.”
“You’re very heroic,” she tells me slowly, “but heroes often fail.”
“I already failed to save my parents. You’re the closest thing to family I have had in years—I couldn’t live with myself if I just sit around and do nothing while you get hurt. What if Mr. Brown goes too far one night? What if he breaks something more important than your laptop?”
Scarlett looks at me as if I am insane. “There is nothing more important than my laptop.”
“You are more important than your laptop.”
“Whatever,” she says stubbornly.
I study her face and see that she is genuinely upset by everything that has happened to her, and not just on this night. If I rock the boat, we could end up getting removed from this home and separated, and that wouldn’t do either of us any good. I take a deep breath. “All right,” I tell her, grabbing a pillow from her bed. “I will take some time to think about how to approach him, and I’ll deal with him in the morning. But for now, I’m going to sleep here.”
“What?” she says in surprise.
I place the pillow on the floor, halfway between her bed and the door. I quickly pop outside to grab my baseball bat before returning and lowering myself to the pillow. I place my bat beside me and link my hands together over my chest resolutely. “It’s the least I can do. After all, I broke your bedroom door,” I tell her with a grin. “So now I’ve got to be your personal bodyguard.”
“Fine,” she says quietly as she rises to her feet. With one last, forlorn glance at her smashed laptop, the dark-haired girl moves to turn off the light that illuminates her room. She turns on a smaller reading lamp before crawling into bed and adjusting her remaining pillow. Positioning herself close to the edge of the bed, she looks down on me from above.
For a long time, she gazes at me, and there is a strange look in her glassy eyes. Their blue is so pale and almost transparent, like I could see right through and read her secret, innermost thoughts as they dance across her brain. I try. Carefully and methodically, I search her eyes to better understand the mind of this mysterious girl whose life is becoming closely entangled with mine.
All I see is pain. Pain and scars that are so overwhelming they almost consume her existence. Pain and despair that so many people have abandoned and harmed her in her short lifetime, which doesn’t feel quite so short. Pain and tiredness for it to all be over, and for things to finally be calm and better.
I keep searching until I find something else. Rebellion. A tiny glint of rebellion against everything that has ever given her pain. Rebellion against misfortune and all the failings of humanity that have led her here and everywhere else she should have never been. Strength. Impossible strength and dogged determination to survive anything life throws at her—and everything life takes away.
She can’t even help it. She doesn’t even try. She just needs to survive.
Am I really seeing all this in her, or is it just my imagination running wild? Do her strangely clear eyes have the effect of a mirror, and am I just seeing bits of my
own soul reflected back at me? Can a person ever look at someone else and see anything other than the qualities and feelings they recognize as their own? I am mesmerized and puzzled by her, and held completely spellbound.
Until she blinks. The spell is lifted, and I am free.
“Thanks,” she whispers as she turns to look at the ceiling. “I feel better that you’re here.”
Warmth washes over me at her words. A tiny bit of pride swells in my chest to know that I’m helping at all. I wish I could help more and take away all of her pain. Maybe over time, if I stay beside her and try to lift some of her burden, she will start to feel like she isn’t so alone.
I won’t give her any empty words and promises. I will only show her that I am here, by consistently being here. I will make sure that I am close whenever she needs me, until she knows that no matter what, I always will be. She needs someone like that in her life—someone consistent and reliable, who cares unconditionally. I know because I need someone like that. Everyone needs someone like that.
For starters, your mother or father is supposed to be the person who cares about you. Ideally, both. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, an aunt or an uncle, too. Grandparents. Siblings. Eventually, friends.
But we haven’t been so lucky.
Lying here on the floor, I can see the silhouette of Scarlett’s face in the dark. She has a sharp, beaklike nose that is both regal and predatory. The curve of her chin is soft and feminine, yet it juts out proudly with stubbornness, even as she rests. It suddenly occurs to me that she knows how special she is. She knows her own worth, and she values her own intelligence. She has healthy self-esteem, and a strong sense of her own identity, but she is unsure of her place in the world.
Looking up at her like this makes me feel like she is a princess, and I am her loyal knight, standing guard over her. This thought gives me a bittersweet smile. I wish I had a younger sister to play games like that with. But it’s too late now. Scarlett and I are no longer children. The time for make believe and building castles in the sand is gone.
The Sick Wife Page 22