by E. K. Blair
“Give me a corner piece,” he tells her, and she playfully pinches his side.
“You better be careful, old man,” she teases endearingly. “You’ll run the risk of getting love handles.”
“What are love handles, Mommy?”
Daddy flutters his fingers into my side, and I squeal as he tickles me, saying, “These are your love handles.”
“Oh, stop that,” she says. “She’s a tiny little thing.”
“Mommy, help,” I giggle while he continues to ravage me.
“She can’t save you,” he jokes, and when she sets down the cake knife, Daddy runs into the living room with me on his hip.
I laugh as she chases after us. We all fall onto the couch, winded and filled with joy. Mommy scoops me into her arms before Daddy pulls both of us into his.
“I love my girls,” he dotes, and with smiles all around, they both look at me.
“I can’t believe you’re already five years old. I wish I could freeze time and keep you little forever.”
“I wished for a hundred wishes for my birthday. You can have one of them if you want,” I offer her.
“No, sweetie,” he says. “You keep all of your wishes.”
“Keep them, and use them wisely, dear.”
“But I don’t want you to be sad about me growing.”
“It’s a happy sad,” she tells me. “But no matter what, you have to promise me that you’ll always be my baby girl.”
I smile. “I promise, Mommy.”
The doorbell rings, followed by a loud knocking, waking me from the bathroom floor. I sit up, drowsy and hazy, and then stumble to my feet. With blood crusted along my stomach, I tug my top down and close my coat around me before shutting the bathroom door behind me. When I make my way down to the front door, I shudder with a trill of anxiety when I open it to find David. He wastes no time stepping inside, pulling the door out of my hand, and closing it.
“Are you okay?”
“What are you doing?” I question, taking a step back. I’m not ready to deal with this just yet.
“I’m worried about you, and you aren’t answering my calls.”
“You can’t be here. My mom is home.”
His eyes narrow in irritation at my blatant lie.
“So what if she is? I’m just a coach checking up on one of my swimmers.”
“Just a coach?”
“Tell me why you’re avoiding my calls, Cam.”
The onslaught of sadness that begins to threaten has me unsteady, twisting my emotions into irrational anger to avoid agony. “Is that what you are, then? Just a coach? And what am I? Just a swimmer?”
He reaches out for me, but I turn away from his touch, my action only spurring his frustration with me. “You know that’s not all you are to me. You know how I feel about you. This isn’t some fucking fling for me. So, you can try all you want to push me away, but I’m not easily pushed. It won’t work. Not on me. Not when I care this much.”
He doesn’t stand around for any response, and when he starts walking upstairs, I call out, “What are you doing?”
“Which room is yours?”
Panic resurfaces, and I chase after him.
“David, stop.”
“I’m done with the lies,” he says as he heads to my parents’ room.
He peers in and then turns toward my room.
I rush to beat him, terrified he’ll see what’s on the floor of my bathroom, but he’s faster than me.
“What are you doing?”
“Where is it?” he demands as he opens and closes the drawers to my nightstand.
I grab his arm to pull him back, but he’s too strong. “Please. Just stop.”
“Show me. I want to see it.”
“See what?”
“What you need more than me,” he snaps, turning to face me with a multitude of emotions swimming in his eyes. I reach out for him again, and when my coat slips off my shoulder, and he sees the dried blood on my pants and shirt, his head falls.
“I’m sorry. I—” My words stammer as I quickly close the coat back around me.
He turns in a flash of anger and heads straight toward the bathroom door.
“David, please.” I run to pull him back, but I’m too late.
He opens it and sees the nightmare inside.
“Jesus Christ.” Horror laces his every syllable as he takes in the opened razor and small puddles of blood on the floor.
He bends down and picks up the razor, and I snap, “Don’t touch that.”
But he doesn’t listen to me as he grabs the leather case. I reach from behind him, but he blocks me.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“Give it to me!”
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
I swing my arm around him again, latching my hand on the corner of the bag, but he jerks it out of my grip.
“Give it back to me!”
“Dammit, Cam,” he barks. “Fucking answer me.”
“It’s my dad’s.”
He digs through it and takes out the razor case.
“You can’t do that, David!”
“Fuck if I can’t.” He sets the bag onto the counter, removes the bloody blade from the razor, and slips it in the case with the rest before tossing the now empty straight razor onto the floor.
“Those are mine,” I cry out, like a child crying out for the security of their favorite blanket.
“Not anymore.”
I throw my palms against him, yelling, “I hate you!”
“If that means no more cutting, then hate me all you want, Cam.”
I pound my hands into his shoulders and chest a few more times until he grabs my wrists and restrains me. “Calm down,” he orders, but I continue to struggle in his hold before finally giving up.
I back away, powerless against him, and watch as he shoves the razor blade case into his back pocket, and I want to cry because I feel like he’s stripping away another piece of my dad.
“When did you do this?”
“Don’t,” I respond fearfully.
He takes another look at the blood on the floor, and his shoulders slump in defeat as he walks over to the toilet and sits on top of the lid. He won’t even look at me when he repeats, “When did you do this?”
“Please, don’t be mad.”
“When?”
With his eyes downcast, I take a hard swallow, and give him the truth after so many lies. “About an hour ago.”
He lets go of a painful breath, and all I can do is stand and watch, wondering how angry he is, how grossed out he is, how much he’s regretting getting mixed up with someone like me.
Time stretches between us, slowly like a death sentence, and I just want to get it over with. So, as much as it kills me, I finally break the silence and steal the words off his tongue. “We can make this easy. I won’t cause you any problems or anything. And I . . . you don’t have to worry about me ever telling anyone about us.”
He remains unmoving as my words linger in the air, and when he finally raises his head, his eyes are red and damp.
“You think I’m ready to walk? That I would give up on you so easily?”
“I wouldn’t fault you.”
“I love you, Cam,” he states without any sign of hesitance.
I lean against the doorjamb and lower myself to the floor before admitting, “I’ve been lying to you though.”
“Yeah, you have.”
I pull my knees to my chest, and when I wrap my arms around my legs, I notice all the dried blood on my fingers. I glance to him and find him looking at it too.
“The lying stops right now.”
“You can’t ask me to make you any promises I can’t keep.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t,” I tell him. “This isn’t something I can just stop, and even if I could, I don’t want to.” My chest aches from the pain I know I’m causing him, but I can’t lie to him anymore. “And I love you. I rea
lly do, but if you expect me to stop for you, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”
He lowers himself to the floor and sits on his knees in front of me. “This scares me.”
He reaches for me, and I brace my hands on the floor when he pushes my legs down and lifts my shirt. I close my eyes and flinch away, too scared to look at him as he examines each and every scar, including the two fresh cuts from today.
“David, stop,” I whimper under my breath.
“Help me understand.” But I can’t. I don’t fully understand it myself. “Don’t tell me not to do anything to help you, because I won’t. I don’t care what you say, I’m not going to stand by and let you do this to yourself. I love you too much.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then let me help.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but you need to let me try.”
The thought of giving this up doesn’t sit well with me, but I also know that, with as much as I do love him, he can’t force me to quit. I’ll go out tomorrow and buy new blades, because this is my vice. This is what keeps me safe from my anguish. Without it, I’d die from the pain inside me.
David stands and helps me to my feet. I watch as he grabs a washcloth and wets it under the faucet.
“Where are your Band-Aids?”
I point to the drawer next to the sink. “In there.”
He grabs the box and a tube of ointment before taking a seat on the edge of the tub.
“Come here,” he says, and I step between his legs.
With his eyes level to my stomach, he lifts my shirt, telling me to hold it in place. With my darkest secret exposed so boldly to him, it takes everything inside me not to cover myself. But I give him this moment he clearly needs when all I have been giving him are lies. If caring for my wounds is a way to fill his need to help me, no matter how small it seems, I won’t deny him.
He moves cautiously, cleaning the flakes of blood from my skin before rubbing the medicine over the cuts. When the Band-Aids are on, he wraps his hands around my hips and drops his head over my scars. I fight with what little strength I have left not to collapse on top of him in a storm of tears, because it’s breaking my heart to know that I’m breaking his.
I FOUND THE PAPERS THIS weekend. I woke up Saturday morning and went to check on my mother, but she wasn’t in her room—she wasn’t here at all.
No surprise.
But the opened envelope from the bank was lying on the floor next to her bed with the papers strewn about. I read them. Hell, I read through them maybe ten times, and yet I still didn’t fully understand much of what they said except that my mother was four payments behind on the mortgage.
I felt like such a child when I had to Google what a mortgage was.
I tried calling David. I called him all weekend so he could explain to me what exactly was going on with the house, but his cell was turned off, leaving me without a single ring—only his voice mail.
I left several messages before giving up and calling my mom.
She didn’t answer either.
The weekend passed slowly, a steady stream of anxiety looming in the pit of my stomach about why David hadn’t called or texted me. I busied myself with schoolwork to pass the time, completing my research paper for my government class that wasn’t due for another two weeks.
Ever since my alarm sounded this morning, I’ve been battling between rushing and stalling as I get ready for school. I want to see David—I need to see him—to know everything is fine and to find out why he hasn’t called me. But at the same time, I want to stay home to avoid the stares. Apparently, in the days following the incident last week—the days I stayed home and ditched school—Taylor took it upon herself to tell everyone she could about my cutting.
“They’re all talking about me, aren’t they?” I asked when I called David during his lunch break the day after everything came crashing down.
He suggested that I stay home until the weekend passed and then return.
It’s now Monday, and when I shove the envelope with the bank papers into my backpack, I will my emotions to sheath themselves under guarded iron.
After I pull into the school parking lot, I step out of my car and shrug my backpack over my shoulders. With my head down, I walk through the double doors and weave through the crowded halls as I make my way straight to David’s classroom.
His room is already filled with his first period students, and my tension eases a bit when I see him sitting at his desk. My presence goes unnoticed as I stand in the doorway.
The thought of having to wait until after fourth hour to talk to him stresses me out, so I call his attention with an understated, “Coach Andrews.”
He looks up from his laptop, and I immediately take in his unshaven face and tired eyes.
Without standing from his chair, he responds through the chatter all around us, saying, “You’re going to be late to class, Miss Hale,” dismissing me in a way he’s never done before.
A thousand thoughts of why he would reject me so coolly stack in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t deny a single one of them.
He turns back to his computer and runs a stiff hand through his mussed up hair. I start to panic, wondering if he’s changed his mind about me because of the cutting. My blood pumps faster and the fear of him separating himself from me catapults flares of anxiety through my system.
“Cam.”
I turn to see Kroy making his way down the hall with purposeful steps.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, grabbing my clammy hand and taking me in the opposite direction of my class.
“Kroy, I’m going to be late.”
“You should answer my texts then.”
He moves in quick strides, pulling me around a few corners toward the auditorium.
“Where are we going?”
He opens the door that leads to the backstage area. With only a few lights on, it’s dark, so I hold his hand and follow closely as we step over some stage props. Tucked behind the safety of the dark blue curtains, he turns to face me.
“What’s going on, Kroy?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,” he says. We both look at each other for a moment, and I already know where this is going. “Are you cutting yourself?”
I drop my hand from his and take a small step back. “Taylor’s full of shit, you know that.”
“When it comes to you, I don’t know what to believe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know who you are anymore, Cam. You never come around, never talk to me . . . you’re nowhere to be found. You’re like a ghost.”
“I didn’t know I had to check in with you.”
“You know what I mean,” he clips, taking a pause before coming back with a gentler tone. “You can trust me. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
He hesitates for a moment. “She told me your stomach is covered in scars.”
“Yeah, well, so is my face.” I sling my words at him while fearing yet another person knowing my secret.
“I can help you if you just—”
“I told you,” I snap. “She’s just spreading rumors like she always does. That girl has had it out for me for years, Kroy.”
His head slants in doubt, and I shouldn’t be as irked as I am, because he has every right to think I’m lying to him.
I’ve been lying to him about so much for so long. I’m only mad because he’s questioning me, putting my hidden truths in jeopardy of being exposed.
“I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just some rumor, Cam.”
“Then why are we here? I mean, if you believe Taylor, then why even question me?”
“Because it’s you,” he blurts, covering my cheeks with his hands. “Just because we’re broken up, doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you. If you need help—”
“I don’t want your help,” I lash out, pushing him back. It i
sn’t his hands I want on me anyway. “I don’t need your help, because there’s nothing going on.”
“Show me then.”
“You want me to show you my body? Really?”
“If you have nothing to hide, if it’s just a rumor, then show me. Show me, and I’ll drop it.”
“I’m not showing you anything. It’s my body, and I’m not pulling my shirt up for you or anyone else in this place,” I snap. “I thought you were my friend.”
“And I thought you were mine,” he says roughly before storming off, leaving me alone with my deceitfulness.
I stand here and wonder how something that feels so good can cause me to destroy so much. I have no right to be treating Kroy the way I have been. To vilify him when he’s done nothing wrong.
It isn’t fair. None of this is fair.
But I walk through the deep valley I’ve created and face the stares and gossip as I go from one class to another. Kroy doesn’t even show up in second period, and when I walk into fourth at the same time as Linze, she gives me a sympathetic look.
“It’s not true,” I mutter quietly, but my words don’t change the pitiful eyes she holds for me.
Why does she care anyway?
I take my seat among curious eyes that question what hides beneath my shirt while my eyes land on David. The murmurs in the room fade as I begin to doubt myself and wonder what the hell is going on with him. The hour passes with half-hearted glances, and I worry if someone has said anything to him. Does someone know about us? Or has he come to his senses and finally sees me as the heavy burden I am?
Why the hell is he acting so strange?
When the bell finally rings, I pack up my belongings slowly, waiting for the room to dilute, but he’s packing up too.
“Is everything okay?” I question softly when I approach his desk.
He opens the drawer and pulls out his car keys. “I can’t stay and talk right now.”
“You can’t look at me either?”
He stops and allows his distant eyes to meet mine for only a moment before he grabs his phone. “I have an appointment I need to get to. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, so there won’t be any practice this afternoon.”
“What’s going on?”
“Come on,” he says, ignoring my question. “I need to lock up.”