Scars

by Cheryl Rainfield

  “Hey, yourself.” I grin back at her, then peek over my shoulder at the crowd.

  There are lots of men now—husbands with their wives, men carrying children on their shoulders, businessmen talking on phones, men reading their newspapers and sipping their cappuccinos. I don’t know where he is, if he’s here at all. He could be sitting right outside the Java Cup, and I’d never know it.

  “Everything okay?” Meghan asks.

  No. But I want it to be. “You feel like taking a walk?”

  “Sure.” Meghan shrugs. “I’m easy.”

  We start off down the street. I love how Meghan can just go with things, how she doesn’t get rattled by a change in plans—the way I would.

  “What’s in the tube?” she asks, reaching over and tapping it.

  I breathe in the sweet smell of amber mixed with her sweat. “It’s for you.” I thrust the tube into her hands.

  “For me?”

  “Yeah.” A nervous giggle, like a hiccup, pops out of my mouth.

  Meghan pulls the lid off the tube, slips the paper partway out. “Hey—is this one of your paintings?”

  “Yeah.”

  Meghan taps the painting back in, snaps the lid on. “Then I want to wait till we stop someplace. I wanna look at it proper.”

  She’s treating my art like it’s something special. I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans. Part of me wants her to just get it over with, and part of me really likes that she cares about my art enough to look at it slowly. That she cares about me.

  Meghan bops me on the head with the tube. “Thank you,” she says. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “You don’t even know what I painted.”

  “I know it’s something good,” she says firmly.

  “It is.”

  I feel someone staring at me like they want to hurt me. I whirl around in a quick circle, but I can’t see anyone watching us.

  Meghan squints at me. “What’s with you today? You act like someone’s after you.”

  “Someone might be.”

  “Seriously?” Meghan stops walking.

  A bicyclist rings his bell angrily at her.

  “You don’t like it, get off the sidewalk!” Meghan shouts, giving him the finger.

  “Let’s keep going, okay?” I say, touching her arm. “At least to the park.”

  I start walking, and Meghan joins me.

  “But who’s after you? What’s going on?”

  “He’s after me. My abuser. At least, I think he is.”

  “You mean, the guy you don’t remember?”

  “Yeah.” I try to laugh. “That MP3 player I gave you? That was from him. There was a note from him earlier, too. I’m sure he’s been following me, trying to scare me.” I look at her. “I know how this sounds, but I’m not making it up.”

  “I know you’re not.” Meghan frowns. “He shouldn’t get away with this.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly call the police. ‘Hey, officer, I think someone’s following me—but I don’t know what he looks like, except for his hands. And, oh yeah, I think he’s the guy who raped me when I was little.’ That’d go over really well, wouldn’t it?”

  “Aw, cops. What do they do, anyway, except swagger around?” Meghan juts her chin out. “We can do better. He doesn’t want you to know who he is, right? I say we turn around and yell out what he did to you. Make everyone turn and look. With two of us, he wouldn’t dare try anything.”

  I go cold. “No! He said he’d kill me if I ever told.”

  “You’ve got to fight back somehow.”

  “But not like that.”

  25

  I turn off the sidewalk and into the park. Leafy trees whisper in the wind, and birds call to each other from the branches. Even the air smells fresher, less like car exhaust, even though the cars are just a street away. I flop down on the grass, lean my head back against my hands, and look up at the green leaves and patches of blue sky.

  Meghan flops down next to me. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. You’re not in this alone.”

  She’s looking at me so intensely, I want to lean over and kiss her. Instead, I snatch the tube back and bop her on the head. “Aren’t you going to open this?”

  “Hey!” Meghan grabs the tube and bops me back.

  I laugh, shielding my head.

  She pulls the cap off and draws the painting out, unrolling it carefully. Then she sits there, staring at it.

  I’m scared I’ve freaked her out, but when she looks at me, her eyes are shining.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, lets her lips rest against my skin for a moment. “Thank you.” Then she starts to cry.

  I don’t know what to do. I rub her back. “What is it?”

  Meghan gulps. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” She wipes her cheeks with her wrists. “It’s so … romantic.”

  Romantic. The word echoes between us.

  I keep my gaze on the ground, watch an ant crawl up a blade of grass. She can’t mean it the way I think she does. There must be some other meaning for the word.

  “Kendra?” Meghan reaches for my hand.

  Our fingers touch, warmth exploding through me.

  I jerk away. “But you—you like boys.” My cheeks burn.

  Meghan hunches over the painting. Her hair falls over her face, blocking my view. “I sleep with boys. There’s a difference.”

  “You have sex with them … but you don’t like them?”

  Meghan looks up at me through the curtain of her hair. “Hey, I told you I was screwed up.”

  “You’re not screwed up.”

  “Whatever.” She looks away again and jabs the ground.

  I want to touch her face, her hand; I want to reassure her.

  She rips up a handful of grass, then throws it jerkily away. “I’ve always been turned on by girls. But I thought that if I slept with enough boys, I’d get it out of my system—start thinking like everyone else.”

  “And you haven’t?” My voice is hoarse and deep. I almost don’t recognize it.

  “Nah.” Meghan cups my face in her warm hands and kisses me.

  Her lips are soft and wet against mine. I never knew it could feel so good. So beautiful.

  Meghan pulls away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ears.

  She shakes her head, still crying. I wrap my arms around her, and she leans into me, pressing her face against my neck. I can feel her tears against my skin.

  I wish I could take her sadness away. I hold her tighter. Meghan cries and cries. I don’t know what to do, so I just keep holding her.

  Meghan sniffs and laughs. “Sorry; I don’t normally do this.”

  “It’s okay. It helps get it out.”

  Meghan sits up, her shoulder still touching mine. She twists her leather bracelet around her wrist, the wood beads appearing, then disappearing. “Maybe I sleep with boys because I don’t feel close to them. There’s no way to get hurt.”

  “But there’s no way to feel much love, either,” I say. “Not when you’re cut off like that.”

  “I know.” Meghan shudders. “I could feel it—love, connection, something—with you. Kissing you was different. Don’t be mad, Kendra. But I don’t know if I’m ready to let someone in that much.”

  “I’m not mad,” I say softly. “I can wait as long as it takes.”

  And I can. I will.

  Because I love her.

  26

  Meghan smiles, lips puffy and vulnerable. “Let’s just hold hands for a while.”

  I reach for her hand. It feels soft and strong at the same time. It feels right. Not like his hands.

  I wrench my gaze from hers. I’d forgotten about being followed. I take a quick look at the people scattered around the park: the shoppers strolling along the sidewalk, the people sitting at the café across the street. But I don’t see anyone watching us—watching me.
>
  Meghan traces my hand with her fingers.

  I shiver. Her fingers trail up to my wrist. I feel the ache in my arm and the heat from the wounds. Can’t let her see.

  I jerk away.

  Meghan pulls me back, turning my arm over. “What’s this?”

  A small corner of white bandage pokes out from beneath my sleeve. I jerk away again, yank my sleeve farther down. “Nothing; it’s nothing.”

  “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

  My heart is beating too fast. I never thought this would actually happen—someone finding out. I’ve been so careful. But Meghan sees me, and I don’t know whether to be scared or happy.

  “Kendra.” Meghan takes hold of my hand again, clasps it in both of hers. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Yes, but—” I bite my lip. “If I show you, you can’t tell anyone. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Trusting her scares me, but that’s what love is all about. At least I think it is.

  I undo the button on my sleeve, rolling it up to show the gauze beneath, greyish white and bloodstained.

  “Jesus,” Meghan says, her voice choked with tears.

  “Don’t look yet. Just give me a minute.”

  Meghan closes her eyes.

  I turn away from her. I don’t want her to see me do this. I unroll the gauze and stuff it in my pocket. Then I tug at the edge of one of the white pads. It sticks painfully to my arm, pulling at the skin. I grit my teeth.

  There’s no pain when I cut, just the easing of fear inside me. The pain comes after, when I’m finished. But it’s a fast, clean pain that shuts down everything I need it to. I expect it; I even want it. But this pain feels messy and slow, and it’s not strong enough to do anything but make me hurt. And I don’t like hurting.

  I hold my breath and yank hard. The pad comes off, taking pieces of brownish yellow scabs with it, leaving open, bloody wounds. I yank the second pad off and turn around.

  Meghan’s eyes are already open. I slowly stretch my arm out toward her.

  I can hear her breath catch in her throat.

  The wounds I made the other night are scabbing over, ugly soft yellow crusts working to join the puffy, reddened flesh back together. My arm is a grotesque patchwork of unbroken flesh, hardening scabs, and shiny new red strips of skin—and now, small, bloody mouths where some scabs got ripped off.

  Meghan covers her mouth. “Why did you do this?”

  “Why do you sleep around?” I snap—and then wish I could take it back. I reach out my hand. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not….” I look at the ground. “Damn. I was scared you were judging me.”

  “I’m not. And you’re not the one who deserves to be hurt, Kendra. He is.”

  “That’s not why. I’m not punishing myself. Not most of the time, anyway. I cut because it helps me.”

  Meghan frowns, looking puzzled, and I know she wants to understand.

  “Cutting stops the memories when I need them to stop. It bleeds the pain away when I can’t take it any more. It gives me relief. Lets me breathe.”

  “It numbs you?”

  “Yeah. Emotionally, anyway. At least for a while.”

  Meghan moistens her lips. “I understand that. Fucking boys numbs me, too. I just wish you didn’t have to hurt yourself this way.”

  “Yeah.” I twist my shoelace into knots. “Still think you want to get involved with me someday? I’m more messed up than you know.”

  “I like you for you. This doesn’t change how I feel. Besides, all I see here is pain. And that’s something we both know a lot about.”

  I can’t speak, or I’ll burst into tears. I take the gauze out of my pocket.

  Meghan stops me. “Can I touch them? The healed ones, I mean,” she asks softly.

  Her eyes are a deep, clear green, and there’s nothing hard in them. I lean closer, and she runs her fingers over my arm, staying away from the open wounds. The scars are like a crazy quilt, running in all directions—some are raised like welts, some are sunken beneath. Some spread across my skin like narrow leaves, while others are slender nips in my flesh. They shine brightly where nothing should, taking my breath away.

  I stare at the bright red welts of skin. I knew they were there. I’d watched the open wounds change to scabs, then the scabs eventually disappear or be torn off to leave these red marks of pain. But I hadn’t thought about them beyond that. I hadn’t thought about them being permanent.

  “I almost envy you your scars,” Meghan says. “They’re something visible, something you can point to, to show how much you hurt. Something that lasts longer than a bruise. I don’t have that.”

  “I never thought about it that way,” I say slowly. “I guess they’re like the marks he never left on my skin.”

  Meghan runs her fingers over my scars again. No one’s ever touched them before. No one’s ever seen them, except me. It doesn’t feel as shameful as I thought it would. It almost feels like a relief, to have someone know—and to have that person not judge me.

  Meghan lets go of my arm.

  I slap the pads back on and start rolling the gauze over my arm; it’s awkward, working with only one hand.

  “Let me do that,” Meghan says. She takes the gauze from me and wraps my arm, her movements soft and gentle.

  I feel almost taken care of. Like she cares about me, doesn’t want to hurt it. Doesn’t want to hurt me.

  I roll my sleeve back down and button it tightly. “I hate him,” Meghan says, gripping her knees.

  “I hate him more than ever.”

  “Meghan—the cutting helps me. It really does.”

  “I know,” she says with a sad smile. “I know.”

  She stands up, and we walk out of the park together, holding hands. Some people stare at us, but I don’t care. I feel too happy.

  “I had a good time with you today,” Meghan says.

  “I did, too.”

  We stop under a tree at the edge of the sidewalk. People pass in front of us, heading in and out of the Java Cup, carrying cups of coffee and bags of pastries.

  I trace my shoe along the thick, ridged root of the tree. Its old, sturdy branches give us shade. Meghan leans toward me and kisses me softly on the lips. I tremble inside.

  She pulls back. “Was that okay?”

  “Of course!”

  I grin at her. “I love it.”

  “Even though I want to go slow?”

  “You can take all the time you need,” I say. “I want this to feel right for both of us.”

  Meghan touches my cheek. “I don’t think you know how special you are—”

  A boy on a skateboard skids to a stop in front of us. “Hey!”

  We jump apart.

  The boy—he can’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen—stands there with one hip jutting out, a sneer on his face. His spiky blond hair looks hard, like it has too much gel in it. “One of you Kendra Marshall?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

  “Got something for you,” he says, pulling a narrow box out from under his arm.

  “Who’s it from?” I step back and away from him.

  The boy shrugs. “Some guy in a suit. Paid me twenty bucks to give it to you.”

  It’s him. It has to be. Dizziness whooshes through my head, and the sidewalk tilts crazily beneath me.

  Meghan clenches her fists “What guy? Show me!”

  “Uh-uh. Not until you take the package. That was the deal.” He thrusts the package at me. I catch it reflexively. I want to throw it away from me, but instead I stand there clutching it, my hands shaking.

  The boy starts to roll off on his skateboard.

  Meghan grabs him by the arm. “Not so fast. Show me this guy.”

  “Hey—what you getting so upset about? And what’s in it for me?”

  “Knowing you did the right thing. That guy’s harassing her.”

&nbs
p; “How was I supposed to know? He looked like a decent guy. Said it was a birthday present. He wanted to surprise her.”

  Meghan rolls her eyes. “And you believed him?”

  “Hey—he gave me a twenty,” the boy says, flicking the bill out of his pocket and smirking.

  “Great.” Meghan snatches the bill from him. “I’ll give it back to you as soon as you show me the guy.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Show me. Then you’ll get it back.”

  “All right, all right—” He picks up his skateboard and turns to look. “He’s not there any more.”

  “Just show me where he was. And you can tell me what he looked like.” She touches my arm. “I’ll be right back. You okay for a minute?”

  “Sure.” My head feels so light and empty that it doesn’t feel connected to the rest of my body. I watch them go off, then I look at the box. He found me again. He found me just like he said he would.

  Even though I don’t want to, even though I’m afraid to look, I’m tearing open the box as if my hands belong to someone else.

  A single white handkerchief and a crudely sharpened palette knife lie nestled in red tissue paper. I feel a strange movement in my head, a kind of shifting. Then suddenly, desperately, I need to cut.

  I burst through the doors of the Java Cup, run past the startled customers, my paintings jeering at me from the walls. I dash into the rest room, tear the blade from beneath my sock. Almost before I shut and lock the door, I slash myself over and over again, the blade slicing through me until the sink is splattered with blood.

  I set the blade down with a clatter.

  This is crazy.

  I begin to shiver—great, bone-crushing shivers that come from deep inside. Images, like photos, keep appearing in my mind—of me cutting into my arm, of me slicing right through the veins in my wrist. I wonder how quickly I’ll die, and whether it’ll hurt much.

  Die?

  I pack toilet paper against my arm and sink to the cold floor. I can almost hear Carolyn asking what set this off.

  “I’m so scared,” I say, as if she’s here to listen. “He’s coming after me like he said he would!” My teeth chatter.

  I reach up for my blade, the bloody toilet paper falling on the tiles. Shadows flash like lightning through my mind.