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Beneath the Skin

Page 6

by Kyla Stone


  He always calls me “kid,” never my name. He’s at the stainless steel cutting counter, chopping up the lettuce, tomato, and onions for a Fiesta Chicken Salad.

  “Fine,” I say, like every time. No one really wants to know.

  “Haven’t seen her for awhile.”

  I shrug.

  “How’s Frank? Haven’t seen him either.”

  When Frank is around, he always gets together with Bill and his drinking buddies every weekend to play poker, get drunk, and relive the glory days. He usually leaves every month or two for a couple of weeks at a time, for odd jobs, short-term factory gigs, or just to get out of dodge. “He’ll be around soon, I’m sure.”

  He pauses and turns toward me. His dark eyes have a crinkled, concerned look he gets sometimes. “And how are you doing, kid? Things okay at home?”

  My body tenses. “Super.”

  He keeps looking at me, his knife half-raised over the cutting board. “You sure?”

  I lick my lips. I never know what to say when he gets like this, but it’s not like he really wants to know. He’s friends with Frank. Even if I told him everything, he’d just take Frank’s side. “Everything’s fantastic. Stupendous.”

  “Alright then. Have yourself a good one, kid.”

  I nod, finish hanging up my apron, and grab my keys.

  The banged up 15-year-old Camry I drive is Ma’s, but when she has her bad spells, she never leaves the house. Basically, the car is mine. The engine makes a raspy, grunting sound before it sputters to a start, but it still runs.

  We only live a mile or so from town, but the trim neighborhoods give way quickly to farms, apple orchards, and old, dilapidated houses tucked into fields and forests along unkempt dirt and gravel roads. The houses on my road are concrete boxes or trailers with sagging porches and scabby lawns.

  Our trailer is a quarter mile down the road. It’s on two acres, backed by the neighbor’s cornfields. It’s a doublewide, and it used to be decent, back before everything went to hell. Ma used to put fresh pink-veined geraniums and dainty white and purple petunias in window boxes. She planted ivy, and the vines curl up both sides of the porch posts and straggle along the ceiling. She got Frank to tack on some cornflower blue shutters, and for awhile she painted them fresh every year.

  But that summer four years ago, everything changed. Her drinking got worse. She started fading into her stupors for longer and longer. She wouldn’t leave the house and barely her bedroom. She started forgetting how to be Ma. Before, even with Frank’s drinking and the fights, it wasn’t bad for long. Now, it’s always bad. Now, the white siding is dingy and scummy with mold. The wooden shutters are peeling. The flowers are dead. There’s a broken board on the second step of the porch. But the ivy is still there, jungle green and full and growing constantly, reaching its tendrils out along the siding. I hope it engulfs the whole trailer someday.

  I pull into the weed-infested driveway.

  I feel it like a change in the weather, like the stirring in the current alerting the fish a shark is near. It’s his mud-crusted black truck, with the naked woman silhouette bumper sticker and the steel balls dangling from the hitch. He’s here.

  Frank’s home.

  9

  My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I think about peeling out of the driveway and going somewhere else, anywhere else, but there’s nowhere to go. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The air smells electric, singed.

  I open the front door, my legs like lead, my heart punched into my throat.

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table with the boys. He bought them model car kits, and the kitchen table is covered with newspaper, glue, and pieces of miniature cars. Aaron kneels on a chair, his elbows on the table, his plump face bright and happy. Frankie is on the other side of Aaron, his eyes squinty and his face scrunched up in concentration as he carefully applies glue to a side mirror.

  Frank looks up, his tan skin creasing around his mouth as he smiles. “Sidney! My long lost daughter. I’d hug you but I’m a little messy right now.” He raises his hands and wiggles fingers dripping with glue. He wipes one hand on Aaron’s arm, and Aaron giggles.

  “Eww, gross, Daddy!”

  “Don’t bother,” I say. The thought of his hands on me makes me cringe. I spin my rings on my fingers, willing my hands not to tremble.

  Frank’s eyes cloud, but only for a moment. “Later then.” He turns back to helping Aaron glue on a fender.

  “Where’s Ma?”

  “She’s in the bathroom. She’s cooking dinner. Can’t you smell it?”

  I do now. Chicken and gravy. A pot of rice is on the stove. “So she’s having a good day?”

  “Every day when Pop’s home is a good day, right boys?”

  The boys nod eagerly. They hope it will be. I pray it will be, not that anything can save us if it isn’t.

  “Here, like this.” Frank guides Aaron’s hands as they paste the fender to the back of the little metal car.

  I just stand there. A storm of emotions churn inside my chest. Frank is a handsome man with his shiny hair swept back off his forehead, so dark it’s almost a blue-black like mine. His eyes are like mine: the color of blue flame. “Have a seat, baby girl. It’s family time.” Frank gestures at the chair next to him, his body lean and strong, his every move graceful, echoing his days as the star receiver for the Brokewater High Wildcats.

  I feel the involuntary pull, the desire to please this handsome, charismatic man who is my father. If I just sit down and plaster a smile on my face, then it will be real. Maybe I can just step into this charade and believe it like Frankie and Aaron. Maybe this time will be different.

  Except the echo of every other time thrums through my body, my bones. The bitterness wells up, and I can’t help myself. “Where were you?”

  “When?”

  “These past three and a half weeks when your family barely had money for food.”

  “I had to work, to get money. Don’t I always bring back money? We have plenty now.” He wipes his hands on the newspapers and pulls a thick wad of cash out of his jeans pocket. He thumbs through the bills as the boys’ eyes go wide.

  “How much is that?” Aaron asks.

  “Twenty grand, kiddo.” Frank’s eyes shine. “Your pop is a real winner.”

  I think about new shoes and backpacks for the boys. Fixing the Camry. A new dishwasher. Paying bills and buying groceries for years. Only it won’t last that long. “But where did you go, what did you do?” He’s never specific about where he gets the money. Maybe he goes to the Four Winds casino in New Buffalo or the Firekeepers in Battle Creek or as far as the casinos in Detroit. He bets on his card games, Blackjack, Stud Poker, Roulette, and Baccarat. He gets odd jobs with friends, remodeling a house or digging ditches or who knows, maybe he’s robbing pharmacies or stealing cars. Nothing would surprise me.

  He frowns. “What died and crawled up your ass? Whatever happened to children who respected their parents, who knew when to keep their mouths shut?”

  Frankie glares up at me. I’m ruining it. I’ll make him mad, and then he’ll drink more, and that will be the end of model cars at the kitchen table and Ma making dinner. I run my tongue over my front teeth. I want to scream at him, demand answers from him. I look at Aaron. He gazes back at me expectantly, a rare light in his brown eyes. And something deflates inside me. They need this happy fiction. I won’t be the one that takes it away from them.

  “Okay, fine.” I edge around the table.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have homework. Three papers to write by Friday.”

  Homework always appeases him. “Good girl. Your grades? Still all A’s?”

  “Of course.” Not really. But give it time, and he’ll get drunk enough to forget he ever asked.

  He shakes a finger at Frankie. “You see? If your dumbass sister can do it, so can you. What’re your grades?”

  “All A’s,” Frankie lies. I don’t correct him. Somet
hing swells in my heart when I look at Frankie. Somewhere inside that eleven-year-old tough guy is the little boy with the googly-eyed rock people, the love of Bunny, the brave face trying so hard to be strong whenever the shouting got too loud. We comforted each other, back then. Now, there is no one.

  “Good. Atta boy!”

  I scoot around the table and am almost free, only I’m blocked in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room. It’s Ma.

  “There you are. Come help me stir the gravy.” Ma wipes her hands on her apron. She’s washed her hair, pulled the lank strands back in some kind of French twist. She’s wearing makeup, the pink discs of blush on her cheeks doing little to mask skin the pallor of mayonnaise. “Look what your father got for me!” She holds up the ugliest ceramic rooster I’ve ever seen.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a cookie jar! See? Gobble, gobble!” She lifts off the turkey’s head and neck.

  Like anybody’s going to bake cookies in this house. She hands me the rooster and I find a spot for it on the counter next to the back door.

  Ma stoops over Frank and plants a kiss on his forehead. He wraps an arm around her, rubs her belly.

  “So what’s everybody been up to while I’ve been working myself to the bone?”

  I turn my back on this suddenly picture-perfect family and stir the gravy. Frankie talks about science projects at school, the local skateboarding contest next week he’s been practicing for. Aaron drones on about his teachers, art class, making collages with newspapers and macaroni noodles.

  “You better watch out with that art stuff, you’ll turn into a faggot.” Frank’s laugh has a hard edge to it.

  “Frank.” Ma’s voice is light, teasing. She flits around the kitchen, pulling garlic bread out of the oven, testing the chicken, drawing glasses down from the shelf, pausing at the table to ruffle Aaron’s hair, squeeze Frank’s shoulder. This mother, with the smile plastered on her rouged face, is different from the sickly, sweaty, whimpering woman in the bed when Frank is gone, different from the sniveling, clumsy cow she becomes beneath Frank’s rages. My mother is a chameleon; her personality transforms at the drop of Frank’s hat.

  “Clean up the table, boys,” she says. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  “And what have you done with yourself, Susie Q?” Frank asks as he helps the boys put the model cars back in their boxes.

  “Oh. You know. Cookin’, cleanin’, taking care of the kids and this baby in my belly.”

  I clench my jaw. The ache in my bones reminds me. “Like hell you did. I’m the one that cleaned. I made sure the boys had regular meals. I got them up and dressed, got them to school, made sure they took their showers and brushed their teeth. You couldn’t get your lazy ass out of bed for three weeks.”

  Ma looks at me. Her eyes go hard and shiny. “Watch your mouth, girl. We’re having a nice, family dinner. Of course I had a nap or two. I’m growing a child.”

  “Respect your mother,” Frank growls. “Or I’ll smack that sassy tongue right out of you.”

  I should shut up. I need to shut up. But something inside me is sharp as glass. I can’t help myself. “I’m not lying! She didn’t leave her room this whole time! She barely even showered. I did everything.”

  “What’d I tell you, Frank? She’s always trying to make me look bad. She’s trying to turn you against me.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Enough!” Frank slams his fist on the kitchen table.

  I cringe against the counter. The boys’ faces are white with dread.

  “Leave your mother alone. You lazy, ungrateful—”

  “Frank,” Ma breaks in with her sweetest voice. She comes behind him and kneads his shoulders. “Don’t let her ruin this. We’re celebrating! We’re celebrating you.”

  Frank’s gaze pierces me. There’s a long, tension filled moment where we all just wait and see what he’ll do next. He blinks, turns and smiles at the boys. “Who wants a hundred bucks?”

  My brothers cheer. Frank peels off crisp twenty dollar bills so new, they look fake. I don’t get anything. I don’t expect it. They’re punishing me for telling the truth.

  When the food is ready, I clean up the newspaper, wash the table, and set out the silverware. Frank sits on my right, his presence like radiated heat. I eat in silence and let the conversation roll around me. Frankie and Aaron can barely keep quiet for a moment; they’re so eager to tell Frank all the minute details of their small little lives.

  I shovel in the rice, the chicken, the corn, the gravy. I taste nothing. Fork to mouth. Fork to mouth. My stomach fills and I eat more, more, more until I’m about to explode. Ma brings out apple pie and vanilla ice cream, and I eat that too.

  I excuse myself as soon as the table is cleared and spend the rest of the evening in my room. Tonight the cuts are long and deep. I make five of them, pressing the blade hard into the white flesh of my left thigh. It bleeds for over an hour.

  10

  Tuesday comes too soon. I slouch in the hard metal chair in the group therapy classroom, staring out the window and waiting for the next torture session to start. Outside, the leaves on the trees by the river are tipped marigold and rust.

  I’m edgy and restless. Last night’s cutting session wasn’t enough. The dark thing that makes its home inside me oozes through my veins.

  “Well, well,” I drawl as Arianna sinks into her chair and tucks her backpack between her legs. She’s dressed in a silky slip dress, knee-high leather boots, and a jean jacket. “If it isn’t our resident Beauty Queen. Deigning to join us today?”

  “Sorry. I had to get my—”

  “Actually, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Sidney, name calling and putdowns are inappropriate in this group. We respect each other, remember?” Dr. Yang looks more tired than usual. His shirt is rumpled, and sweat stains are already beginning to show beneath his armpits.

  “Whatever, Doc.”

  Arianna’s skin glows even under the classroom’s florescent lights. She presses her hands against her flat stomach. She’s too perfect for words.

  “We’re both glad you could make it, Arianna. Today, I thought we’d share some fun, non-threatening information about ourselves, such as where we were born, how long we’ve lived here, what our parents do, etc. Who would like to start?”

  Arianna shifts in her seat, crosses her legs. “I guess I’ll go. My mom is a general practitioner and has her own office on Walton Rd. My dad is head pastor at Westside Christian Church. He used to be the associate pastor at a megachurch outside of Chicago, but he got tired of being a little fish in a big pond. Here he gets to be a big fish, I guess. We moved here half-way through my freshman year.”

  “So you buy into all that religion crap?” I ask.

  “It’s not crap and yeah, I kinda do. I believe in God.”

  I shake my head. “How’s all that peace and joy working out for you? All your prayers and Friday night Bible studies and ‘Jesus Loves You’ flyers you and your little club plaster all over the school like graffiti. From where I’m sitting, being a Jesus freak isn’t doing you any favors.”

  Arianna’s mouth tightens. “I’d be happy to explain it to you, if you were actually interested. Having faith doesn’t mean your life is perfect.”

  “But it does mean you aren’t supposed to be slashing up your body, the temple of God, right? Isn’t that a cardinal sin or something?”

  She looks away. “You’re thinking of Catholics. And suicide.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.”

  “Anyway.” She shrugs. “I’m just trying to be normal, I guess.”

  She reminds me so much of Jasmine it hurts. I grit my teeth. “Do you think cutting is normal? Is that the new ‘in’ thing you and your besties do to pass the time?”

  “No! Of course not. None of them know anything about—anything.” Arianna gnaws at her pinkie nail. “Anyway, I thought we were talking about non-threatening subjects?”

  �
��We are,” Dr. Yang says. “Let’s get back to that, shall we? Arianna, do you have any siblings or pets?”

  “I’m an only child. I have a white Persian cat named Cleo.”

  I make a gagging noise. “Is this torture or therapy?”

  Dr. Yang glares at me. “Would you prefer to be somewhere else?”

  “Actually, yes. I would prefer to be popping chilled grapes on a deserted beach in Hawaii. And yet, I find myself here. Odd how that happens.”

  “You are free to leave at any time. However, there are consequences for your actions. And your words.”

  How I’d love to ditch this place right now. But he’s right. I can’t. I slouch further in my chair and spin my rings around my fingers. Arianna keeps talking and I ignore her. I answer whatever dumb questions he asks me, about my brothers (two) and how long I’ve lived here (forever) and what hobbies I have (none, unless you count cutting. Dr. Yang does not.)

  “What about college choices?” Dr. Yang asks. “Have either of you decided yet?”

  Arianna’s eyes darken. Her voice goes monotone, like she’s sick to death of talking about how privileged she is. “I’ve signed up for the October SATs. I’m applying for early admission to Notre Dame and Northwestern, definitely. And University of Chicago. U of M is my safety school, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I echo.

  Dr. Yang shoots me a look. “And you, Sidney?”

  “No idea.”

  “It’s almost October,” Arianna says in a scandalized tone. “Have you at least narrowed down your favorites? Toured a few campuses?”

  I snort. Like that’s an option for me. I know I have to go to college. It’s my only escape, but the idea of my parents taking me on campus tours is laughable. “Maybe next weekend. My mom’s gonna fly me out to Yale. We’ll have tea with the provost and pick out decorations for my dorm room.”

  Arianna frowns. “This is serious. This is your future.”

  That black cloud billows up behind my eyes. My future. What does that even mean? She says it like senior year is some stairway to heaven, and our nebulous future is the paradise we’re aiming for. I can’t see it. I want out more than anybody in this God-forsaken town. But there’s that shadowy thought always there, always nibbling at the corners of my mind: I have no future. College is just a fantasy, a dream I’ll wake up from, another disappointment. There’s only this, forever.

 

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