Bruised

by Sarah Skilton

“She’s plastered,” Hunter groans, throwing his hands up.

  Mom’s by my side in a flash, her eyes wobbly with fear. “What happened? Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere, just down the street, Glenview Martial Arts.” I burp.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “If the German grandmas can go back in time, I thought I could, too,” I say, which they chalk up to incoherent drunk-speak.

  “Hunter came home and checked up on you, and you were gone,” Dad narrates.

  “You were in my room? What were you doing in my room?” I ask.

  Hunter does this weird flailing dance of rage. “Are you serious? What was I doing in your room? Look what I found,” he says, pulling a wrinkled pink piece of paper out of his pocket. He thrusts it at Mom. “I thought she was at this!”

  It’s the flyer for Kitty Kat fights. He dug through my garbage.

  Mom takes it from him, unfolding the paper and looking at it. “What’s this?”

  “It’s basically soft-core porn; they advertise it like it’s a fight night for women, but I’ve seen the site, it’s like Girls Gone Wild. It’s disgusting,” Hunter says in a rush.

  “Oh, it’s disgusting,” I spit. “Like you don’t look at worse things every day.”

  “You’re sixteen!” he howls.

  Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Did someone touch you? Did they hurt you?”

  “Oh my God, that’s not where I was! I’ve never been anywhere near it. I looked at it online, once.”

  Hunter turns his ire on Mom. “How can you guys be so oblivious? Dad barely leaves the house anymore, and you spend all your time trying to pretend none of this is happening!”

  “None of what is happening?” Mom asks, sounding genuinely confused.

  “Imogen having nightmares every night, sneaking out of the house, trying to get herself assaulted—I’m the one who has to deal with it. I’m the only one.” He makes this frustrated half scream, and for a second it sounds as if he’s laughing, but I know he’s not. I’ve never seen him this upset before, not even at my birthday when Hannah called him out.

  Hunter wipes a hand across his face and takes a deep breath, making a concerted effort to sound calmer, but his voice still vibrates with tinny anger. “It’s been four months since it happened. I need to live my life now.” He fixes Mom with a stare that makes him look way older than seventeen. “It’s your turn. You guys deal with her.”

  We’re all quiet after that, stunned mostly, and we just watch as Hunter walks up the stairs.

  “I’m gonna crash at Adam’s for a while,” he says.

  “Thank you for helping your sister,” Mom calls weakly after him, but he doesn’t respond.

  Mom helps me through a change of clothes. I’m a ragdoll, incapable of keeping my head up or stopping my arms and legs from flopping about. She guides me back downstairs and settles me on the couch. Dad gives me a sleeve of plain crackers. I nibble on them and sip a mug of water and stare at Mom through tear-clogged eyes, at the hazy stained-glass image of her, as she sits down on the other side of the couch, as far away from me as possible. She’s repulsed by me, doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.

  “Where were you tonight, and why did you get drunk?” she asks.

  “I told you. I was at Glenview Martial Arts. I didn’t go anywhere else. I swear.”

  “But you thought about going to this, this Web site?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to be in a fight, where someone can really beat me up, and I can really beat them up.”

  “You want someone to beat you up?” Mom asks quietly.

  “I want to prove myself. Show the world I do know what I’m doing, I’m not a fraud, that my black belt means something. I can fight, if someone will just give me a chance.” I swallow tightly. “When I punched the mirror and cut up my hand, I felt relieved because now nothing bad could happen to me for at least a few days. I got a time-out.”

  “You think only bad things are going to happen to you?” Dad says.

  “I think God will punish me if I don’t do it myself,” I whisper, staring at the carpet.

  “I know it feels like your life will always be this way,” Mom says, edging nearer, within striking distance, daring to put her arm on the couch behind my head. “But things will get better. You won’t always feel this way.”

  “It’s okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay,” Dad murmurs over and over, like he can’t stop, like they’re the only words he knows.

  “No, it won’t,” I sob. “It wasn’t okay for you, Dad. Something bad happened to you and that was the end. That was the end. I want to love you the way you are now, but if I do, that’s like saying I’m okay with it. That I’m okay with you killing yourself. And I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay. I try to help. I try to get you to exercise, and I try to get rid of your junk food, but it’s not enough …”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but if he answers I don’t hear it because I have to crawl to the bathroom to throw up again. I am a Japanese salaryman, puking on the train.

  This would never happen to DJ. Her parents know everything going on in her life. I wonder what that would be like, instead of having a mom who never hugs you and a dad who doesn’t care if he misses out on eleven years of his life with you.

  I’M PRETTY SURE SOMEONE TOOK A NAIL FILE AND JAMMED it through my left eye in a botched attempt at a lobotomy. Smelling hurts. Seeing hurts. Hearing hurts worst of all, I think. This is my first—and hopefully only—hangover, so I’m no expert, but I think being forced to listen to carolers at 10 a.m. qualifies for the top ten torturous sounds the morning after.

  Benign components of my room, like my sheets and comforter and window and lamp, have taken on sinister, otherworldly attributes. Turning over on my side requires monumental effort, and my stomach is so fragile, the tiniest shift could upset it again. Light, even the barest sliver under my door, is too much to look at.

  I shuffle downstairs and open the front door to thank the carolers / shoo them off.

  There’s a white minivan in the driveway. Stenciled on the side of the vehicle is MIDWAY MEDICAL SUPPLY AND PHYSICAL THERAPY.

  I pull open the garage gym door and see Dad sitting in front of the mirror. It’s been fixed, and he’s lifting ten-pound weights with his arms. A woman in her thirties with a stopwatch around her neck is spotting him.

  “What are you doing?” I say, my voice hoarse.

  “Imogen, this is Rachel. She’s my physical therapist.”

  “Hi, Imogen, how are you? Do you remember me?” she says.

  I wrack my brain for the answer. “I think so … from the hospital last year?”

  “Yes. Good memory. I’m going to start working with your dad while you’re at school. He told me a lot about you today.”

  “Oh.” Does she know I’m still partially drunk?

  “Would you like to see what we’re working on?” She holds out her clipboard, and I can see a calendar with different schedules highlighted. “I made a copy for you, and I’ll be back twice a month to monitor your dad’s progress.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you around,” Rachel says. “Have a good day.”

  After she leaves, Dad motions for me to come closer, and I do. I squat so we’re at eye level.

  “Your life is not over,” he says forcefully. “It’s not the end for you. Not even close. But it’s not the end for me either. I like my life, Imogen. I know it’s hard for you to imagine, and it’s been hard for you to get used to, but I’m grateful to be in this wheelchair, considering what could’ve happened. I know I’ve slipped up the last few months; I was stressed over my book deadline, and I fell into old habits. Bad ones. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much it was affecting you. But you don’t have to try to save me anymore. Okay?”

  Behind his glasses, his eyes look small but full of determination.

  “Okay,” I tell him, my eyes welling up.

  “You don’
t need to worry about me. You just let your mother and me worry about ourselves.”

  I nod.

  “You can have the garage in the evenings, but I get it in the mornings. Deal?”

  He holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is strong and assured, the way I remember it being when I was little and I trusted him more than anyone.

  “I wish I’d been at your black belt test,” he says. “I should’ve been there.”

  “That’s okay. I could reenact it for you sometime. Once I’m feeling better.”

  “I’d like that.” He clears his throat. “Can you hand me that towel?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell Mom I’ll be in for lunch.”

  “Okay … Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I missed you,” I whisper.

  “I’m right here,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  After lunch (plain crackers for me, soup and salad for Dad), the phone rings, another contender in the top ten torturous sounds the morning after. Mom hands me the cordless. “For you,” she says.

  “Hi, Imogen, it’s Mrs. Alvarez. Ricky’s mom?”

  “Is he okay?” I ask immediately.

  “He’s fine. How are you?”

  I want to laugh, but it would probably split my head open. “I’m okay.”

  “I know you’re not really friends with Ricky anymore, and I know it’s your holiday, but I’m in a bit of a fix or I wouldn’t be calling.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got an outreach program scheduled for this afternoon at the women’s center—a lesson on self-defense—and my expert canceled at the last second. Are you available?”

  “I’m grounded, actually.” (One of the few things I remember clearly from last night.)

  “Do you think your parents would make an exception?”

  They might, but it wouldn’t matter; I can barely walk, and my hand’s still in a splint. “I know someone who can help.”

  Taylor and her mother arrive an hour later.

  “Thank you so much for doing this,” I say.

  “What does she need to do?” Taylor’s mom asks. She seems young, and she wears a lot of eye shadow.

  “Mrs. Alvarez will do all the talking, and her son, Ricky, will be there to help. Taylor, you remember Ricky—he was here on Halloween.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s familiar with all the blocks and the basic kicks, so you can run through your three-step routines, from shoulder, collar, and wrist grabs. He’ll move slowly, and he’ll take his cues from you. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  “But how do I start?” says Taylor. “I’ve never done a demo before.”

  “Would it help if I show you the one I did at school earlier this year?”

  “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

  We sit at Dad’s office computer and I fire up the digital video of my demo. It hurts to look at, for more reasons than I can list, so I go to grab some water in the kitchen while they watch. When it gets to the part where Grant Binetti yells from the audience, I scramble to turn it off.

  It’s bad enough Taylor’s seen me with a hangover.

  They’re running late to the women’s center now, so I wish them luck, thank them again, and ask Taylor to let me know how it goes.

  Once they’re off, I shuffle back to Dad’s office and hit Play on the video.

  What I see onscreen is very different from what I remember. There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and I’ve crossed it. Maybe I crossed it well before that day in the gym.

  What I see is a bully. Grant was rude and obnoxious and jealous, but wasn’t jealousy kind of the point of the demo? Hey, everyone: look what I can do, and you can’t! I was the bully, and I’m supposed to know better. Of course he couldn’t break the boards; of course I would defeat him. Knowing that should’ve been enough for me. Instead, I wanted everyone else to know.

  “Shut up, Grant. Why are you even here?” someone had shouted at him.

  It’s so obvious now. Why was anyone there who wasn’t my friend? Because they liked martial arts and wanted to sign up for lessons. Grant was always roughhousing in the hall, pretending to be a fighter, and he went to see a martial arts movie the night I was at Cinema 8 with Hannah, DJ, and Philip.

  He was going to sign up for classes. He was interested in joining the school, but I crushed it out of him. He could never sign up after that, not when he knew he’d have to see me there.

  I grab the phone and frantically stab the numbers to dial Taylor’s mom’s cell.

  “Hi, it’s Imogen … Can you tell Taylor something for me? Tell her the most important thing—the most important thing at her demo—is to follow the rules of white belt. No ego, pride, or conceit. Tell her the most important thing is: Don’t make anyone else feel foolish. Okay? Thanks. Thanks.”

  Ever since Hunter’s epic freak-out Mom’s been sleeping in my room on a futon, like a seriously messed-up sleepover.

  While she’s at work during the day, I hang out with Dad.

  “I’d like to paint my room,” I tell him after breakfast. “Can you take me to Ace Hardware?”

  He’s taken aback. “Right now? Today?”

  “Yeah.”

  He thinks for a second, glancing down at my hand in the splint. Maybe he’s picturing me holding the paintbrush with my teeth. “Let me call and see if they’re open.”

  Dad helps me pick out colors. I don’t mind that it takes the minivan wheelchair lift forever to lower in the parking lot. I don’t mind wandering around the big, empty store and waiting for clerks to load up the paint for us.

  I cover my carpeting with plastic and use my uninjured hand to paint the part of the wall farthest from my bed. I choose images from the summer, a stripe of aqua for the public pool, a block of forest green for Shelly’s car, and lush blood-orange and yellow shimmers for the sky at sundown. I don’t expect anyone else to recognize the shapes. It’s more about a feeling to hold on to until the feeling comes around again.

  When I’m done with the first wall, I take a picture on my phone to show Dad downstairs, and he says he likes it a lot.

  “You really don’t have to do this,” I tell Mom on the third night as she settles into her makeshift bed on the floor. “I was okay when you and Hunter went to DC.”

  She gives me a look that says, “Don’t even try.”

  “I wish you’d told us you were having so many nightmares. It hasn’t been fair to him. It’s not your fault; it’s mine. But it hasn’t been fair.”

  “I know.”

  As usual, she pulls out a paperback to read, but I want to keep talking. I roll sideways on the bed, prop my face up with my elbow on my pillow. “Did you have sleepovers when you were a kid? What’d you do at them?” I ask.

  She puts her book down, considers my question. “Well, we played ‘light as a feather, stiff as a board’ and truth or dare.”

  “Let’s play truth or dare,” I say, sitting up and kicking my legs back and forth so they hit the mattress. “Want to?”

  “Okay, but no prank phone calls,” she says with a wink. “People can trace that stuff now.” She and Hunter are so alike sometimes it’s eerie. I’ll never be able to make winking a part of my repertoire of expressions.

  “I’ll go first. Dare.”

  “I dare you to go back to Tae Kwon Do,” she says.

  “Mommmm. You have to dare me something I can do right now.”

  “That’s my dare.”

  “We’ll see,” I tell her. “I haven’t decided. Your turn.”

  “Dare.”

  “I dare you to paint something on my wall.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever you want. Something nice I can see from my bed.”

  “Hmm. Probably not tonight …”

  “Okay, then I dare you to run around the block in your pajamas, in the cold, for all to see,” I say.

  “No way. Truth.”

  “You already
said dare, and you already deferred one!”

  “What’re you, a lawyer?”

  “Come on.”

  And she does! I can’t believe it! I cheer her on from the window as she makes her mad dash around the block, arms propelling her forward. I let her wear boots and a hat, but the rest is her flannel pajamas. She runs fast, too, and I dart downstairs to open the door for her when she gets back. Her nose is pink and she’s totally winded.

  “Go, Mom!” I say, holding my hand up for a high five.

  She indulges me and then places her palm on her chest, taking some deep breaths. “Brrr,” she shudders. “If I get sick, you have to make me tortilla soup. Get the recipe from Ricky’s grandma.”

  Once her breathing resets, we go upstairs, and I know it’s just going to be truths from now on. Which is okay with me.

  “My turn,” I announce. “Truth.”

  “Have you ever smoked cigarettes?”

  Ha! This is what keeps her up at night? Cigarettes? Then again, there’s not much left to choose from. It’s all kind of happened.

  “No, blech,” I reassure her.

  She nods, pleased. “I tried them when I was sixteen, and I felt the same way. Yech.”

  “Your turn. Truth?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “How come you never hug me?” I ask, and it’s like all the air’s gone out of the room.

  She frowns, sending wrinkles throughout her soft face, especially her brow, like one of those cute pug dogs.

  I take a long breath, but not so anyone would notice, a trick I learned in martial arts. It’s important to breathe out in a short, forceful burst at the moment of impact when you’re punched. Mom tries to clear her expression, smooth it over with an invisible rolling pin, but I’ve already seen how the question makes her feel.

  “I’ve been trying to,” she says eventually. “You always move back when I try, or make a face. When you were a baby, you were the same way; you couldn’t stand being held, you struggled in my arms until I set you down so you could crawl away.”

  She’s talking for herself, now, not me.

  “I remember being surprised because Hunter was the opposite: he always wanted to cuddle as a baby, and he would grab on to my legs when I had to go out. Neither one is better,” she’s quick to add. “Just different.”