Stain

by Francette Phal

  It’s not until I hear, “Time’s up, Aylee!” that I realize the banging is coming from the bathroom door. I’m not ready to leave yet. I’m not ready to give up these treasured minutes of privacy, but knowing what will happen if I don’t, my hand flies to the silver dial of the faucet to turn it off. Any trouble I make guarantees his involvement and that’s the last thing I need. Dripping wet, I step out of the tub and reach for the large, white towel hanging from the towel rack. It’s oversized, meant for someone twice my size, but it’s fluffy and newly washed. The fresh, clean scent of fabric softener puts me slightly at ease as I dry myself. There’s no need to linger, no need to let the towel touch me in places I’d rather forget exist. When I’m done, I wrap the towel around my body, stoop down to grab my dirty clothes from where I’d discarded them on the floor, and just as I exit, I drop them inside the tall, beige wicker basket that serves as my hamper. It’s an automatic thing when I head to the bedroom door to make sure the silver lock has been turned vertically. Ensuring that it’s properly locked, I’m a little freer to walk around the room that’s been mine for the last nine years. It hasn’t changed much from since the Bennetts first brought me here to live with them.

  The walls are still painted that light peach color Rachel, my foster mother, said she’d picked out just for me because she just knew peach would be my color. It’s not. It never has been. But that first day, that first week, those first few months, even years later, I still tell her it is because the very real fear of being returned to the group home lives and breathes inside me. Another demon to feed on my secrets.

  Walking over to the all-white vanity dresser, I pull open the third left bottom drawer containing all my panties. Rachel hasn’t bought me underwear since I was twelve, but she might as well have considering how prominent her taste of style is in the choice of undergarments I’ve bought in recent years. It’s a trove of neutral-colored cotton lace panties. I grab a nude pair and slip them on beneath the towel. It’s not until I retrieve a beige-colored bra from the drawer above the one containing my panties that I finally drop the towel. I turn my back to the mirror as I put on the bra, and without a second glance back, I move to the whitewashed teak armoire set next to my study desk. Opening it, I look at the clothes hanging and neatly folded inside. There isn’t much of a selection. Even the closet adjacent to my bed wouldn’t offer much in a way of variety aside from the long sleeved cardigans, all in neutral colors, the two pairs of jeans, and the long skirts and dresses Rachel insists on buying. It’s not what I would choose for myself, but it’s what I’ve become accustomed to, so I wear them because it’s so much easier than continuing to make a nuisance of myself.

  I grab a dove-gray pair of skinny jeans and a black camisole from the folded pile of clothing at the bottom of the armoire. It’s simple and modest; appropriate for church, and best of all, Rachel approved. When I reach inside the armoire for the white, long sleeved cardigan, I stop mid motion as my eyes involuntarily catch the reddish pink scar running jaggedly down my right arm. It stands out the most among a sea of previous little white cuts. And set against the stark background of my fair skin, it looks twice as bad. But it’s not. Forty-five stitches it took to close it back up but the cut isn’t really that deep. Everyone just overreacted to Rachel’s hysterics. She tends to take things to another level when she’s riled up. But then, she doesn’t know the truth. She just thinks it has something to do with my birthparents. An inherited history of mental illness from the people that abandoned me when I was six. It’s better to let her think that. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—handle it if I shattered her idyllic life. Besides, she wouldn’t believe me.

  No one will believe you.

  It’s your fault.

  No one will believe you.

  It’s your fault.

  No one will believe you.

  It’s a refrain that’s been drummed into me for the last nine years. It has bled into my subconscious, the demons taking hold of it, manipulating the tenor of its voice, twisting gin-soaked words that are not my own but my mind has been convinced belong to me.

  A frown pulls my eyebrows together as memories I don’t want to remember fight their way to the forefront of my mind. Shaking my head to disperse them doesn’t work as snapshots of memories flash across my mind’s eye. It’s not in order, just a jumble of images. More secrets consummated and birthed in the shadowed darkness of this bedroom. I remember the body fluid, the warm river of blood streaming down my forearm, soaking the area rug of my bedroom. I remember pervasive hands, masculine fingers caressing my sweat-stained skin beneath the comforter. The cloying cologne of too much gin cutting off my breath as he leaned down to—

  “Aylee, Mom said to tell you breakfast is getting cold!” The sound of the voice followed by the rapid knocks on the door is a blessed interruption in the flow of memories. Blinking several times to regain lucidity, I hear the retreating hooves of my demons as they drag my secrets back with them to the abyss. For now. It’s always a temporary reprieve, however. They always come back.

  I grab the cardigan, slide into it, and without too much hesitation, head to the door to open it. The person on the other side is someone I’m always happy to see. Sarah crosses over the threshold and enters my room. She’s all gangly legs and arms, only eleven and yet she nearly towers over my 5’5 frame. The height is all her father but the thick strawberry blond hair, dark blue eyes, and oval face is all Rachel. Sarah is the child Rachel and Tim wanted but never had until a year after they took me in. Their biological child. My adoptive sister. But she feels like a real sister, because despite the fact that we aren’t related, we have a lot in common. Like the books she’s now perusing on the tall bookshelf by my bed. It’s taken me nearly eighteen years to cultivate my small library of literature, but I’m all too willing to share it with this avid little reader. And it makes me happy knowing that rather than children’s books, Sarah is able to appreciate the likes of Salinger, Steinbeck, and Orwell. I love the moments when I sit with her after she’s done with a book so we can discuss it. She’s a brilliant little girl. She appears happy…well-adjusted. But then an ugly thought creeps into my mind as I watch her. My eyes analytically trail down a coltish frame covered by an ankle-length dress her mother undoubtedly picked out for her, and despite myself I wonder if the happiness she exudes is just a fabricated one. A façade that rivals my own. Are there secrets germinating beneath her freckle-covered skin? Is she just as infested as I am?

  It’s not the first time these thoughts have come to mind. I’ve often wondered if the darkness brought the devil to her doorway, too. I was, after all, only a year younger than her when he first visited me. But then I realize I’m not his flesh and blood. I’m just the little girl they adopted. His blooming little flower, even now at the age of eighteen.

  “Are you finished with The Great Gatsby?” I ask as a distraction from the visual of my last brief thought continues to conjure in my mind. With my hair still damp, I wonder if it’s worth returning to the vanity to dry it with the blow-dryer that’s plugged in the only convenient outlet in the room. I’ll be forced to look at myself, at my reflection, and though it’s something I want to avoid at all costs, I know Rachel will say something if I go down with damp hair. I want to circumvent any sort of altercation if I can help it.

  She turns to me with a dimpled smile, and says, “Almost. But I want to get started on that book you said I’d like.”

  “Pride and Prejudice, bottom shelf,” I reply, and cross over to the other side of the room and take hold of the black blow-dryer from the vanity table. “It’s one of my favorites,” I say, mildly.

  It seems almost inevitable my eyes should flick across the mirror, forcing me to catch a glimpse of myself. Mismatched eyes; one light blue, the other brownish-green, stare back at me from a dull, oval face, further proof of just how odd I am. I wonder briefly from which parent I inherited these eyes. It’s nothing new. I occasionally think about them, especially times like these when their like
ness is reflected back at me through the mirror. The lightness of my skin originates from their combined Creole blood and I’m sure that’s the main reason why Rachel and Tim adopted me. I look like them. My fair skin tone is the closest to theirs. And so it makes things easier for them. Comfortable. More palatable. Never mind that my birth mother was of Cape Verde and Creole descent while my father was a light-skin black man from Louisiana. We don’t talk about these things. Just like we don’t speak of my birth parents’ abandonment, or if they’re dead or alive. My blackness is something they want to pretend doesn’t exist.

  I’m not sure how my parents met, but they’d had me young and aside from that I knew nothing else about them. I only learned about their background and my own strictly by accident when I was fourteen. My case file had been hidden in a box in the back of Rachel and Tim’s closet. I’d been helping her clean it out when I found the box. I remember opening it without much thought only to find a small bit of my history and background on the yellowing sheets of papers inside.

  Shaking away my thoughts, I find my reflection again. I hate looking at myself because I fear facing the girl staring back. This fragile, spineless ghost of a girl taught to be afraid of her own reflection. I see her now in those heterochromatic eyes. Bronzed brows set just above those eyes, framed by full, black lashes. A small, slightly upturned nose gives the illusion that I think myself better than the world, when in actuality I don’t think very much of myself at all. My mouth forms a grimace at the thought, my self-esteem at an all-time low.

  “Got it. Can I take these two also?” Sarah rescues me again from the quagmire of my thoughts and I gratefully turn to her with what I hope is a warm smile. Along with Pride and Prejudice, she holds up another Jane Austen book, Sense and Sensibility.

  “Yes, of course. We’ll talk about it when you’re done.”

  She smiles brightly, and when she lingers, I realize she’s waiting for me to go downstairs. “You go down first. I’ll be right there, I just have to dry my hair and grab my scriptures.”

  She nods. “Just don’t take too long, you know how Daddy gets.” Yes, I do. He’s anal-retentive about most things, and it doesn’t help that his very short fuse goes hand in hand with his neurosis. Being punctual is something he demands of every member of the family, and failing to comply has had adverse effects in the past. The bruises from those mistakes have healed now but they have left ugly scars beneath the surface of my skin. Scars that no one will ever see.

  When she leaves she doesn’t close the door behind her, but I won’t be in my room for much longer. Putting the blow-dryer on low, I take hold of the black, wooden back, boar-bristled brush and make short work of drying my hair. It’s roughly twelve minutes later before I set the dryer and brush back down, confident that I’ve taken out every last bit of moisture from the blond strands. It’s not too often that I leave my hair unbound and today won’t be any different as I section it in two parts and go to work on plaiting one side and then the other into my customary French braids. Tying the end of each braid with a clear elastic band from the container closest to the mirror, they hang like two golden ropes down my back. Stepping away from the vanity with the knowledge I look as I’ve always looked, plain, modest, and inconspicuous, I head to my bookshelf to find my scriptures, notebook, and sketchpad. My beige canvas bag and book bag are flopped along the side of my study desk, exactly where I left them the night before. Grabbing my canvas bag, I set my bible, notebook, and sketchpad inside, along with my dark gray charcoal case holder. With any luck I can sneak away during church to get some sketching done.

  Chapter 3

  Aylee

  I make my way down the hallway of the single-family home that they’ve had since before I moved in with them. Artistically placed over the flowered wallpapers are framed photographs of me and them over the years, before Sarah was born. Christmas and birthday photos display a loving family, flanked by Rachel and her ever-present Stepford wife smile at one side and Timothy, the bulky, grim-faced police detective on the other, with my place always being between them. I’m not smiling and I don’t sport exactly the same grim expression as Tim, but I’m just there. Expressionless. I prefer looking at the opposite wall because the photographs on that wall ring closer to the truth. Sarah and her parents—even though it’s not entirely true—give the semblance of a loving, authentic family.

  The stairs creak as I descend, making my way to the kitchen. The house’s décor brings to mind a dated bed-and-breakfast. The same pale yellow, flowery wallpaper from the hallway is a persistent theme throughout the house. Speaking all too clearly of Rachel’s bad taste in décor. In the living room, two couches and a love seat in blush rose upholstery dominate the space. The focal point of the living room is the red stone fireplace around which each piece of furniture has been placed. The room further saturated by the massive china cabinet on the left-hand corner. There are more photographs on the mantel, but thankfully fewer of me.

  When I finally make an appearance, it’s to find them all in the kitchen. Rachel is at the stove where I’m sure she’s been since seven AM this morning. My eyes shift to the digital clock on the microwave situated on the countertop that now reads half past nine. Two and half hours in the kitchen prepping breakfast for an army when there was only three people to feed. Looking at her, you wouldn’t know she’s been slaving over a hot stove. She’s always been meticulous with her appearance, today she is doubly so because it’s Sunday and church is like her personal runway show. She pays special attention to what she wears. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up into a clean, tight topknot. The smattering of freckles typically visible on her pale face are expertly covered by a touch of makeup. Her lavender dress fits her petite body nicely, but not tight enough to make it indecent; the gold belt that cinches her waist is a perfect accompaniment to the gold heels at her feet. She wears a large statement necklace that offsets the dress and the watch Tim had gotten her for her birthday a few years ago. Everything looks in place. Perfect. No one would momentarily suspect that beneath the white cardigan she wears over the dress lay healing bruises Tim had given her the week before in one of his alcohol-induced rages. Those imperfections she hides well from the world. She and I are alike in that way.

  “There you are,” she greets with reproach when she finally notices my presence. “Any longer and I was going to send your father up there to check on you.” I do a good job at tamping down the automatic cringe the notion conjures and instead grab the glass of orange juice she offers. With her nose stuck in a book, Sarah barely notices when I glide on the chair next to her.

  “I had a late night,” I say, quietly, taking a sip of my juice.

  Alarmed, Rachel turns to me, “Is it the nightmares again? Do we need to call Dr. Peters?”

  “No,” I answer, and it comes out a little too quickly, but I need to allay her concern so that it doesn’t snowball into something else. “I just have a heavy course load.”

  It’s taken me close to two years to gain back some of the freedom I lost when I ended up in the hospital for cutting myself. Being forced to undergo one-on-one therapy with Dr. Peters had been one of the more upsetting repercussions of my actions. It’d been good at first. I spoke and he did what he was paid to do, listen intently while providing topical doses of psychobabble when he’d felt it was necessary of the moment. It took me two months to realize Dr. Peters wasn’t out for my best interest, but rather implemented in my life to keep Tim in the know about everything that was said in our private sessions. I was stupid enough to be lulled into a false sense of security, foolish enough to believe I could trust anyone. I trusted Dr. Peters with one of my secrets, told him of Tim and his propensity for violence toward Rachel when he drank too much. The scalding burn of Tim’s open-palm smack across my face along with the threat to keep my “goddamn mouth shut” was how I learned of Dr. Peters’ betrayal. I barely spoke in my sessions with Dr. Peters after that, and when I did, it’d been of nothing consequential. It took me having to
lie and feign normalcy in therapy to eventually convince Rachel I was doing good and that my desire to join an outpatient group would be more beneficial to my treatment. But the problem came in convincing Tim. Rachel had brought up the subject to him like she tended to do concerning every decision in her life, and I’d been completely sure he was going to say “no.” So it came as a surprise when he actually capitulated and allowed me to get out from Dr. Peters’ watchful eye. Nearly a year later, and I have yet to understand why he did it. I don’t believe for one second it’d been done out of the kindness of his heart. Tim is heartless. It was always better to remain suspicious of good intentions, especially from him.

  “Well, all right,” she says, setting a plate piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries in front of me. “But you know how you get, Aylee. You can get so wrapped up in your school work you let it run your life. Your father and I want you to do well in school, but not at the expense of your health, sweetie. Isn’t that right, Tim?” Another plate accompanies the first, this one stacked with four fluffy pancakes, but the food is the last thing on my mind as my body stiffens reflexively, a cringe scraping down my back at having his attention called to me. The open, upraise newspaper that intermittently crinkles as the reader shuffles from one page to the other drops in one corner to reveal Tim’s expressionless face.

  “Let her be,” he begins, the heated spotlight of his black eyes fully aimed on me. “She’s doing exactly what’s expected of her.” The meaning of those words sits like a layer of sediments beneath the ocean’s thickness of tension.

  I keep my own eyes fixed on the heart attack plate Rachel set in front me. Better this view than the nightmare of his gaze.