Then I clean up the blood and wrap my arm tightly, pulling my sleeve back down over my tender arm. When I walk back in, the whole room looks different—bigger, brighter, not so full of pain. I settle in next to Meghan and turn my paper over.
My head is clear again. The shadows are gone. I pick up the crayons and draw another picture, one that I know won’t show too much—and the drawing spills out of me like I was meant to draw it. It shows two girls holding hands, smiling up at the clear blue sky. All around their bare feet are shards of glass, but the girls are safe where they stand.
Meghan reaches out beneath the table and rests her hand on my thigh. Her hand is warm and heavy, and I feel myself come back into my body, to the dull, throbbing pain in my arm, to the feeling of her hand on my jeans. Her hand feels good. Safe. Even comforting. I don’t want her to move it away.
“You all right?” she whispers.
I nod. I can’t tell her, but I’m better than I was before. I know how to stop the shadows now; how to keep them from coming into my art. I know how to keep myself safe. All I have to do is cut. Cut until it all bleeds away.
12
Julie stands, then says, “Sometimes art therapy can bring up a lot of emotion, so I’d like you all to be gentle with yourselves over the coming week. This was a good session, people; you should be proud of yourselves. I’ll see you all again next Thursday; I know you’ll be looking forward to it.”
“She’s a regular comedian, that one,” Meghan mutters.
I laugh. I can laugh again.
Meghan and I roll up our art, fastening elastic bands around the sheets. We walk out of the room together, carrying the rolls of paper like sabers.
“You really saved my ass back there,” Meghan says. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I made such a scene.”
“You kidding?” Meghan grins. “You took the heat right off me!” Her face grows serious. “You’ve been through some rough shit, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“You mind my asking what?”
I take a deep breath. With anyone else, I wouldn’t go there, but I trust Meghan. I like her. “Sexual abuse. When I was a kid. Started when I was two, maybe younger. I don’t know when it stopped. I don’t even remember who did it. Guess I don’t want to.”
Meghan whistles. “That’s rough. Must be really hard sometimes, huh?”
“Yeah.” My arm aches fiercely.
We walk quietly for a few minutes, our feet moving in rhythm.
Meghan glances at me. “Nobody gets what it’s like. Not unless they’ve been there.” “Sometimes I think it’s screwed my whole life up, you know? I mean, I don’t know what I would’ve been like if my mom never beat on me, but I think I’d probably be different. Not so messed up.”
“Me, too!” I can’t believe how much she understands. How alike we are.
We reach the exit. I wish we didn’t have to say good-bye, but I don’t want to push myself on her.
“Hey, you feel like getting something to eat?” Meghan asks.
I shove open the door, feel the sun on my face, smile so wide my mouth hurts. “Yeah! And I know just the place.”
The Java Cup. I think it’s a great idea until we get there—and then I start to curl up inside myself, retreating from my own skin. But I push open the door anyway and lead the way in. The delicious scents of chocolate and coffee wrap around me, and the haunting sound of pan flutes floats above the murmur of conversation, the sound so clear it’s almost as if the musicians are in here with us.
I see my paintings almost before I see anything else; they’ve been matted and framed and have little white cards on the walls beneath them. They look so professional. I raise my head. That’s my art on the walls! My art that people are looking at. Sandy is so my fairy godfather.
“Hey, will you look at that art!” Meghan says. “It’s something else.”
My stomach jumps. “Do you like it?”
“Hell, yeah. It’s real art—not that fake scenery or that squares and triangles stuff.” Meghan scratches her cheek. “It kinda reminds me of your art.”
I hold back my laughter. “That’s because it is.”
Meghan looks at me, eyes wide, her lips parted. She’s so beautiful. “Get out!”
She walks up close to a painting and looks at my signature, then at the card beneath it. A giggle bursts out of me.
She whirls around and bops me on the head with her rolled-up painting. “You twit!” she says. “You little twit!” She bops me on the head again. I shield my head and laugh.
Meghan grabs my shoulders and turns me to face the tables of talking, laughing people. “Hey, everybody,” Meghan says loudly. “This is my friend Kendra Marshall, the artist of these paintings!”
I clap my hand over her mouth, but most people are smiling at us—even the woman behind the counter.
“Stop that!” I hiss at Meghan, but I can feel a smile sneaking onto my face. I lead her by the hand to an empty table and push her into a chair as the woman from behind the counter comes over.
“Hi, Kendra, I’m Lisa. Emil told me all about you. I’ve got something for you.” Lisa takes a wad of bills out of her apron and pulls off five twenties. “One of your paintings sold. People really like them, but I told them they can’t take them till you bring me more. So bring in some new ones real soon, you hear?”
“You got it.” I take the money and stuff it into my pocket. Two sessions paid for, just like that!
Lisa takes our order. After she leaves, Meghan turns to me. “I don’t care what your mom says; she’s wrong. Your art is good, Kendra, real good. Not everything has to be pretty.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” I say.
Happiness warms me through like the summer sun.
13
Mom’s waiting at the screen door when I get home.
I sigh and walk toward her. “It went fine,” I say, before she can ask me anything. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
Mom hovers around me. “Why is it that you can’t paint with me, but you can with a bunch of strangers?”
Because they don’t criticize me. “I didn’t paint. I drew. And it was different; it was about healing, not technique.”
“Can I at least see what you did?”
I stare at the bright yellow walls of the kitchen until my eyes ache. “I don’t think it’s the kind of art you like.”
“I’ve never said I didn’t like your art, Kendra.”
“Yes, you did!”
“I’ve said that some of your art won’t sell, that it’s not what people want to look at.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Mom winces. “I’ve always encouraged you! Didn’t I buy you your first set of paints? Didn’t I give you all the art supplies you ever wanted?” Her lips tighten. “You have talent, Kendra. A lot of talent. I just hate to see you waste it.”
I lean back against the fridge, cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not wasting it if it helps me. Isn’t that what art is supposed to be about? Expression?”
“Art is about many things. But it won’t mean much if you don’t hone your talent. Now, are you going to let me see what you did, or not?”
If I say no, she’ll hound me until I say yes. I sigh and pull the drawing out of my backpack.
Mom plucks it from me and unrolls it. She frowns at the girl with her mouth sewn shut.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.
“It’s … good,” Mom says, almost like it hurts her to say it.
I grit my teeth. “All right, what’s wrong with it?”
“No one’s ever going to want to look at this, let alone buy it. It’s depressing.”
I snatch the drawing back, stuff it into my bag. “I knew you couldn’t look at my art without criticizing it!”
“You asked me! I’m only trying to help prepare you for the real world. It’s harsh out there—”
“Do you think I don’t
know that? The first time that man raped me, I knew that—”
“So why do you want to make things harder for yourself? How are you ever going to survive if you can’t sell your art?”
“Who says I can’t?” The words bounce off the walls. I wish I could swallow them back.
“You sold your art? Why didn’t you tell me? Who bought it? For how much?”
I can’t tell if she’s excited or angry. “Sandy helped me. It was just a one-time thing.” I don’t know why I’m lying to her. Yes, I do. I’m trying to protect myself. Trying to keep her from taking over.
“Sandy? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Because I didn’t think you’d help me. “I got a hundred dollars, Mom! And I don’t know who bought it. I didn’t ask.”
She turns away from me, picks up a dishrag and scrubs at the counter. Her shoulders hunch, and her head bows.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t turn around.
My stomach tightens. “Mom? What is it?”
“I’m happy for you,” she says thickly.
I push off the fridge, go over and touch her back. She stiffens. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose red, her chin trembling; it’s just the way my face gets when I’m trying not to cry. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
She sniffs. “I thought I was going to be the one to introduce you to the art world. I thought we’d be so close. When you picked up your first crayon and imitated me, I knew we would be. But we’ve never been that way. Ever since you were a toddler, you’ve pulled away from me. And nothing I ever did could change that.”
A memory rises up inside me, sharp and bitter. I’m three, maybe four. We’ve just come back from a long day of visiting my parents’ friends. I’m whimpering, holding my crotch, telling Mom’s back that it hurts.
Mom turns around from her painting, looking irritated. “What’s wrong now?”
I keep whimpering.
“Kendra, I don’t have time for this. Ask Daddy to fix it.” And she turns away from me.
I snatch my hand from her back. Her shoulders are still hunched, the dishrag clenched in her hand. I can’t believe she ignored me when I tried to tell her. Can’t believe she didn’t see my pain. Anger sits like a smouldering piece of coal in my stomach.
“Mom, do you remember when I tried to tell you—”
“You just shut me and your dad right out. I was worried about you! I told the family doctor, but he said it was normal, that you were learning to be independent. I never should have listened to him.”
“Do you remember—”
“Your dad was always the better parent, making time for you, hugging your hurts away when I never could. I envied your relationship, the ease between you two—but believe me, Kendra, I’m a better parent than my parents ever were. They never touched me, except to hit me. I told you that, didn’t I?”
She never talks to me like this. Never. It’s almost like she knows what I’ve remembered and doesn’t want to hear it.
“Mom—will you just listen to me?”
“I am listening.” She scrubs the counter roughly, as if it’s covered in stains.
“I tried to tell you about the abuse once, when I was three or four. Do you remember?”
Mom goes still. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve thought about that every day since you told us—every single day! If only I’d listened to you then, things would be different. I blame myself, Kendra. I really do.”
This isn’t how I expected her to respond. I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her that it’s all right—but it’s not. And it won’t ever be.
“We didn’t know as much back then,” Mom says quickly. “We didn’t know about child abuse, the way mothers seem to now. If I’d thought—if I’d understood—”
Another excuse. You can see when someone’s been hurt like I was. It’s obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it. Like Meghan’s eyes; I know my eyes have it, too. There’s no way to miss it; it almost hurts to see.
I told them in so many ways: jumping at everyone’s touch, keeping quiet to avoid too much attention, and hiding my body in loose clothes. Even my art screamed for help. I don’t believe she didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it—now that, I believe.
The clock over the stove ticks loudly, counting every second of our silence. The night sky is so black outside the kitchen window, it seems to absorb everything, even the stars.
Mom sets the dishrag down and looks at me, her eyes full of tears. I know she’s asking for forgiveness, for understanding. But I have none to give her.
“I have to get my homework done.” I turn away.
14
“Kendra—wait!”
I sigh and turn around. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I nod. That’s all I can do.
“Kendra—I know this isn’t a good time, but I need to talk to you before your dad gets home.”
Now what?
“I don’t think there’s an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. It looks like we’re going to have to move.”
“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 glass 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 sexual 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 God, she’s melting down, and I don’t know how to fix it. “Mom—”
“Don’t you Mom me! I’ve worked damn hard at trying to be there for you, at trying to make things up to you. But you n
ever 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 sexual 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.
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