Old Wounds

by N. K. Smith

  “H-h-h-how old w-w-were y-you w-w-w-w…”

  It wasn’t hard to tell that he was nervous, or anxious or something, because he could barely get a word out without stuttering. He wasn’t usually that bad. Again, guilt ate at me like acid from the inside. All he did was ask a question and then I kind of flipped out on him. Now he wanted to know how old I was when I had to fend for myself.

  It was just a question. I’d asked him questions and he had trusted me enough to answer them. Even though I really, really, really didn’t want to think about this shit, could I really just not answer him? If he’d typed that question into an e-mail, would I have answered it?

  “She just stopped feeding me one day.” Damn, he looked like he was going to try to ask it again. He was just going to keep on pushing. I didn’t know why.

  Fine. “I was six. Now can we buy some fucking beets or what?”

  I wanted to catch another buzz, but I was with Elliott. I had gotten high around him in the past, but no matter how much I wanted to be stoned, I didn’t want to do it around him anymore. It obviously bothered him.

  Not that I didn’t want to be high in his presence, I just didn’t want to get high in his presence.

  I huffed. Not at him, but the whole thing. Grabbing the list back from him, I started shopping in earnest. I would need to remember everything for tomorrow’s dinner. I was going to make roasted vegetables with rosemary chicken.

  And of course, apple crisp for dessert.

  I found the apples and read the descriptions for which ones would cook the best. Reading them wasn’t necessary, since I already knew, but the distraction was welcomed as my mind decided that thinking about apples meant I should be thinking about Elliott. In its usual sober attempt at pushing me to think about other things, my brain moved from thinking about Elliott, to thinking about his question about my mother and cooking.

  Now I was thinking about Helen and the kitchen. I was thinking about the oven and the sharp implements. I thought about being burned and punctured. I thought about being hungry and having incredibly low blood sugar because Helen hadn’t bothered to go shopping for us. I remembered having to stack up pots and pans on the upturned trash can so that I could stand on the counter and get into my mother’s candy stash.

  While I’d been happy that the sugar had made me feel better, I remembered how much trouble I’d gotten into when she found me shaking on the floor, a chocolate bar in my hand. Some parents grab the video camera and record their six-year-old covered in chocolate and send it into America’s Funniest Videos.

  Not Helen.

  She grabbed me by my hair, pulled me back like a slingshot, and flung me against the wall. Afterward I…

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  I turned to find Elliott just looking at me, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I didn’t give a damn if someone walked in. I was getting stoned.

  “That’s nice,” I said quietly as I sat in a chaise lounge, listening to Elliott play the piano.

  It felt odd being alone with him in this great big house. It was usually bustling on Friday nights and it felt a little strange. We had planned to do something after grocery shopping, but my mood had gone south quickly and no amount of weed could help it.

  We’d barely spoken since the exchange in the supermarket. I wasn’t trying to be rude, and I hoped that he understood.

  My high had started to fade. As far as coming down went, this one wasn’t bad. The room was dimly-lit and the house was quiet except for the sound of Elliott’s piano.

  I had no idea what he was playing, but it was nice, calm, and soothing. He played a few things. I only knew that they were different by the change in tempo. He never stopped playing; just switched songs. I wondered how long he could sit there and play.

  It was hours before my eyes fixed on the clock and I sighed. I was completely sober and the new melody that Elliott was playing further depressed me. It would be easy to dwell on everything I didn’t want to think about. If I thought too much about it, I would come too close to telling him the truth about my life. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want him to look at me with pity. I didn’t want what Helen did, or anything else, to define me like that.

  Also, if I said it to him, it would be real. Not just the past, but my friendship with Elliott. It would be an acknowledgement that I’d let him in and that was scary. We would both know and then I would really allow myself to fall for him in a way that was completely unknown to me.

  As exciting as it sounded to let this beautiful boy know me, really know me, I was scared.

  It would hurt when he realized that I was too much; when he realized I was unlovable. I didn’t want to be stuck loving someone who couldn’t love someone like me who had become so messed up.

  I wanted to get high or get laid. While we had this entire house to ourselves, I had no desire to make him feel uncomfortable. I figured both would have that effect.

  “I think I should go, Elliott.” His fingers stilled on the keys and he looked up at me. Tom had never given me a specific curfew, but I used the time as an excuse. “It’s getting late.”

  Glancing at the clock, he looked surprised. “Ssssssorry, S-S-SSSophie. I-I-I didn’t know it w-was sssso late.”

  I had no words to describe how his apology made me feel. I didn’t want him to say that he was sorry because he lost track of time doing something he so obviously loved to do.

  “It’s okay, Elliott. I’m just tired.”

  He stood up when I did and crossed the room, his brow creased. “Ssssorry we didn’t do anything b-b-but shop a-and sssit here.”

  We had done something. He had played music for me and I had listened. I could’ve stayed all night and fallen asleep to those peaceful sounds, but I had to go before it was too late. “I had a good time, Elliott,” I replied in a whisper.

  He was so… so damn decent it hurt.

  I knew Sophie had gotten high at the grocery store. It was evident when she returned, but I couldn’t really be upset with her. I had pushed her into talking. While I wanted to know more and felt it was important, I never thought asking her about cooking would end the way it did.

  I don’t know why I assumed that just because she cooked, she liked it.

  We didn’t talk much after we got back to the house. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and she seemed to withdraw into herself. I played the piano for her, knowing she had liked it when I played guitar for her that one day, and wanting to share something that soothed me. Sophie was in need of soothing and I doubted my hands in her hair would’ve had the same calming effect hers had on me.

  She seemed so tired when she said she had to go. I stopped playing and I wondered why she seemed so small just sitting there. She was usually such a strong and powerful presence, but tonight she was different.

  I drove her back to her house and we just sat in the car for a while. It was hard not to think about the last time I’d dropped her off and the mess I’d made of it all. Again tonight, I had my iPod plugged in, and the song playing was quiet. It was one I knew she’d like. The singer’s voice was soft, like my favorite t-shirt felt as it brushed against the hardened skin of my back. The melody was lulling, but the words were engaging.

  “Sorry about the store, Elliott.” Sophie’s voice surprised me. She’d been so quiet for so long.

  I was confused. “W-what?”

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you like I did.”

  Looking into her piercing blue eyes, I realized that it was the first time I could see such bottomless sadness there. “I-it’s okay.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment as she rested her head back. When she opened them again, our eyes connected and neither of us looked away.

  It was only when I felt something touch my hand that had been resting on the center console that I finally looked away. G
lancing down, I found it was Sophie with her hands on mine. My palm was up and she had one of her hands under it while the she stroked my palm with the other. The sensation of her touch was no less of a sharp chemical exchange than the last time.

  I took a deep breath and willed myself not to start breathing hard. I willed my heart to regulate its pace.

  She had turned her head just a little, and focused on something beyond my left ear. Again, I was struck by the magnitude of the sadness within her expressive blue eyes. I’d managed to steal many moments to look at Sophie, but in this moment we were very close. The skin of her cheek looked so soft, but the area around her eyes, which was probably just as soft, somehow looked harder with the pain she carried in them. She looked older than seventeen

  I wanted to touch her face, just to see if it was truly as delicate as I thought it would be. Before I could tell my hand to stop, it floated upward, my fingers just brushing her cheek. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but then it gave way to a flurry of activity.

  Instantaneously, the pleasant and slightly zinging sensation in my hand stopped and Sophie shifted her head away from my outstretched fingers. The peaceful calm that had settled over us seemed to shatter as she took her lip between her teeth.

  Panic rushed through me. I shouldn’t have touched her. She hadn’t wanted me to and I did. I hadn’t even been aware that I was actually going to do it until my hand was moving.

  I had no idea how I screwed this up again.

  I focused on her mouth as I tried not to freak out. My hands were tight fists in my lap. Her tongue came out to sweep across her lips. “Did you return my e-mail?”

  Her voice was soft and quiet, but it was enough to pull me out of my spiral toward a panic attack. I had read hers this morning, but with David banging on the door and Jane shouting that she wasn’t taking too long, I hadn’t had time to reply.

  “N-no, n-not yet.”

  Running her hands through her hair, she swallowed hard and licked her lips again. “Well,” she began but never finished.

  “S-Sophie,” I said after a few moments.

  She turned and gave me a smile; not a real one, but a smile nonetheless. Then she said, “See you tomorrow, Elliott.”

  I couldn’t get out a goodbye for anything, even though I tried. She waited for a moment, but when I couldn’t produce much more than random sounds, she opened the car door. “Bye,” she said as she slipped out into the darkness.

  I watched as she ran up the steps to her front door, sliding the key into the lock and then disappearing inside. As I sat there for a few minutes, I finally figured it all out. The central difference between Sophie Young and me.

  I felt like I’d spent my whole life feeling every emotion and thinking about all the horrible moments I could remember, but Sophie had spent hers avoiding all that, and running from it all, using anything and everything she could to just…forget.

  Even the few words she said, admitting something deep and painful, were huge. I knew this couldn’t be easy for her, but something within me said it was necessary. Deep down, I knew there was a well of pain inside of her. I knew it because it looked so familiar.

  It looked like my own.

  It was suddenly more important than ever to get her to reveal more.

  I wasted no time when I got home. I ignored all distractions and found myself moving as quickly as I could to my room to answer her e-mail.

  Sophie,

  I hope you’re okay. You seemed so sad tonight. I’m sorry if I caused that. Since it’s late and I’ll get to see you tomorrow, I’ll answer your questions right away.

  I want to know things about you, probably for the same reason you want to know things about me.

  I don’t have many friends. It’s interesting to know a new person. With David, it’s like he’s an open book. He hides nothing because he just doesn’t see the point. With Jane, she doesn’t remember anything much from before I met her, so I already know everything she knows, and everything she likes, since she discovered it in real-time while I was around. But you are like the book on the top shelf; the first edition not many people get to touch because it’s way too precious.

  I know there are things about you that I’ll never know, and parts of you that everyone knows, but there’s that area between those two extremes: the part you don’t show everyone, but are willing to share. I want to know that part of you. Since I ask you to share, I will too. I don’t usually do that.

  I get upset, but it’s usually on the inside and doesn’t make its way to the outside, except in the form of panic attacks. I typically don’t let it out, because there’s no point. I get upset about a lot of things. One specific thing is being treated like an idiot because I have a stutter. I understand that it’s a particularly bad stutter, but it’s not like I do it in my mind. My intellect is intact, and just because it takes me a minute to say two words, doesn’t mean that my brain function is any less than someone who can speak fluently.

  There isn’t much point in showing how upset I am to everyone. The jerks of the world like Chris would get far too much pleasure out of it, and the overly-helpful of the world, like Robin and Stephen, wouldn’t be able to sleep until they cracked the code of why I was upset. I don’t want to deal with any of that.

  I don’t really miss living in Chicago. It’s a perfectly fine city and has most of the things that anyone could want in a hometown, but for me, too much happened there. To say I missed it would be like saying I missed everything that hurt me in the past.

  Stephen likes to plan vacations and last year he suggested Chicago. He made it seem like he just wanted to take us to a big city, but it was fairly transparent that he thought it would be good for Jane and me to go back to see that it wasn’t the city we didn’t like, but our pasts. It didn’t go over well. Even though she can’t remember it, Jane knows something happened there that she doesn’t want to relive, and I have no desire to go there ever again.

  I don’t think I could do the job of a fireman. David could, but not me. There’s a lot of rushing into burning buildings, and while I could probably get over my human instinct of avoiding flames, I would not only have to work very closely with people, but save them too. I would have to touch them and talk to them. Generally, it’s a “people” job. I need a job where I can just sit in a room by myself and find the cure for cancer or something. As a researcher, maybe I’d have to talk to five people, but it would be the same five people, and I could grow comfortable with that. A fireman talks to the same people he works with everyday, but also has the potential to talk to lots of new people daily. That’s not for me.

  The scar on my lip is from my teeth. For whatever reason, that skin is easy to tear.

  As for the bonus, if I could do anything without negative consequences, I would ask you why you’re so sad.

  And now it’s time for my questions and once again, I hope they don’t upset you.

  Why did you volunteer to cook if you don’t like it?

  How did you fall onto a fork?

  Have you ever had short hair?

  How did you get the scar on your forehead?

  You knew Otis Redding’s music because your grandmother used to listen to him. Did you spend much time with your grandparents?

  Bonus: If we call Australia “Down Under,” do people in Australia call us “Up Over”?

  Goodnight, Sophie. I’ll see you tomorrow. I don’t really know how to cook, but I promise I’ll help as much as I can.

  Elliott.

  Just like each and every time I sent an e-mail off to her, my chest tightened a little in anticipation of her reply. It was evident that we had moved past all the obvious questions about favorite this and favorite that. We were now firmly within the sphere of intensely personal questions. I knew they would make her uncomfortable, as hers did the same for me. But I also
knew that both of us would answer them, some more in-depth than others.

  Just as there was a story behind my teeth creating the scar on my lip, I knew there was more to her aversion to spicy food than it “can hurt,” and I knew without a doubt that one doesn’t just simply fall onto a fork.

  I needed her to say it.

  Sophie wasn’t about to share those things easily. In the e-mail, I had compared her to a book. If she was a book, she’d be filled with poetry and only after constant study would I be able to understand her. She was abstract art; the picture in the clouds.

  So I would continue to ask her the questions and be satisfied with every small crumb of information she dropped. Eventually the bread crumbs would lead me down the path to truly knowing who she was.

  Saturday the house was a flood of activity. The Damascus Hornets won the Homecoming game the night before, and David had to recount it in the morning, play-by-play. I didn’t mind; it was obviously important to him and I wanted to be a good brother, but I couldn’t help but tune some of it out. Touchdowns were one thing, but quarterback sneaks and fifty-seven yard punt returns were things I cared little about.

  Jane, despite her belly wound, was taking care of all the details of the day. She always took it upon herself to organize everyone she knew for big events like Homecoming and Prom. She not only had to supervise David’s choice of suits, but also made sure his tie matched Rebecca’s dress. After a half-hour of arguing, she finally convinced David that green, white, and gold striped socks, while being the school’s colors, were not appropriate for the dance, especially if his date’s dress was some shade of purple that even I couldn’t identify.

  Most of the day, I stayed on the outside of the action. I had no interest in the hair, the make-up, the ties, and the overall anxiety a dance like this caused in the Dalton house. Every once in a while, Jane would knock on my door and ask me if one hairstyle looked better than the last one. I always said yes, but really, they all looked the same. I didn’t understand why she would ask me things like that, since I clearly had no clue, but it was important to her, so I played along.