These Gentle Wounds (20 page)

I hear the click, click, click of the shutter and she directs me how to turn, and stand, and after a few minutes that feel like hours, we're done.

After I put my shirt back on, she puts her arms around me.

“Gordie?”

“Yeah?”

There's silence and all I can feel is her hair against my chest.

“I meant what I said to Kevin. I really like you a lot. I just want you to know.”

Suddenly the room is hot and my shirt feels sticky against my skin. I don't want her to like me just because of what my father's done, and I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say back.

“I like you a lot too,” I say, but I can't meet her eyes even though it's the most honest thing in the world.

“Promise me you'll try not to let him do that to you again.”

I'd promise her anything, but it would be a lie to say I have any control over my father.

“I'll try,” I say. But I know I'll fail. If I can do what I'm trying to do, he's going to want to kill me.

Twenty-Five

After school, I walk back to the old house. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just run away, but I have nowhere to go and the thought of leaving Sarah now makes me almost as scared as thinking of Kevin leaving.

My father's car is in the driveway, black, shiny, and long, like a hearse.

It's kind of weird that he's not picking me up from school. I guess he knows I have nowhere else to go without getting someone I care about in trouble.

The garbage is out near the side porch, which strikes me as funny because I don't think it's garbage day. It isn't even bagged up right. I walk over and reach down to pick up some bit of red fabric, to stuff back in, but the minute my hand hits it I fall to my knees. I remember this dress. Mom's dress.

I can't breathe and the fabric is just running through my hands like water, like blood, like … no … I'm surrounded by a hundred million memories. I swat at them ineffectively as they swarm around me.

I'm shaking. My stomach heaves as my head fills with picture after picture after picture after …

“Mommy.”

No, I don't call her that anymore. I'm ten. I'm big now. I don't want to sound like a baby. Even Kevin is going to make fun of me if I do that.

I bury my face in the red. It smells like the perfume she wears when she goes out to do something special. But I don't want her to go. I don't want her to leave me here all alone again.

“Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.” I hear myself say, over and over and over, and …

“Sweetie, what are you doing out here?”

I curl myself into a ball, pull my arms over my head, and try to block out the voice. The movement makes my muscles ache in the spots where my father slammed me into the boards.

I know the voice is coming from inside my head. I know it is. However much I want her to be here, she isn't.

“My sweet boy … ”

I should open my eyes to prove to myself that I'm alone, but they're glued shut.

There's a soft breeze against my face as I rock my head back and forth into the side of the concrete step. I'm pretty sure it should hurt, but I don't feel anything no matter how hard I push.

“Z. Y. X. W. V.” I recite the alphabet backward, hoping that will push the voice out of my brain.

“Gordie.”

My name is like a whisper on the wind. Like the wings of a bird beating against my ears.

I try to pick up where I left off with the alphabet, but the wings have blown all of the letters away.

The very worst thing is that I'm not really stupid enough to think my mom is here. I just wish she was. I want her to be. A part of me thinks it might even be worth it to be crazy if it means I can see her again.

“Mom.” The word escapes my lips even though I don't want it to. I bite my cheek until I taste blood. But now that I've let a sound out, I can't stop another from following. “Why?”

“Because I love you,”
says the voice, only I don't understand. How could she do what she did if she loved me?

“But … ” I start to ask the question, then force the back of my hand to my lips to stop myself. I bite down on the skin, the fabric in my hand grazing my cheek like a caress, and try to make myself stop rocking. I can't do this. Kevin says that if anyone finds out how much I'm spinning, they're going to force me to go back to the counselors or even worse. And lately it's been so, so bad.

What if I'm like Mom?

I know that talking to people who aren't there is a whole other kind of crazy from spinning. I've read about those hospitals. If I end up in one, I'll never get out again.

I struggle to pull myself up against the wall of the house. My head is heavy and falls backward against the cool brick. I can hear my breath coming in little gasps.

I focus on that. On my breath. On trying to take long pulls of air, trying to get my heart to stop beating a million times a minute.

I slam my hand onto the concrete of the porch. I'm so tired of being a freak.

At least I can feel the pain this time.

When I'm able to pry my eyes open, I look around and make sure I'm alone. I knew I would be, but there's a small little sparrow of a thing inside me, crashing against my heart because my mom isn't here.

I pry the fabric out of my hand and shove it deep into the bag, trying not to touch anything, terrified of what else I might find.

I'm just tired. I know that's it. Tired and stressed. Tired and stressed. Tired and stressed. That's all this is. I'm not expecting dragons to come save me, like Jordan is. I'm okay. I'm fine.

I'm not ten, I'm fifteen. That means I can take care of myself. I can make this better for me, and for Kevin, and for Jordan.

I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.

My legs are shaking, but I pull myself up on the side of the wall and dust off my jeans.

A car speeds down the street. I want to flag it down and beg whoever's driving to take me far, far away from here, but Ms. DeSilva says I have no choice. I have to spend the week here, which means that even if I tell someone, all they're going to do is ship me back. Or to a hospital. I can't imagine Sarah would ever want to kiss someone who's locked up in a loony bin.

I want to kiss her again so badly.

And that means getting through tonight, finding Jordan's address, and holding it together until I see her tomorrow.

I'm okay.

I put my shaky hand in my pocket and walk around to the front door. I try to make it up the steps without looking at anything.

A voice stops me as I enter the house. I have no doubt this one is real.

“Come here, son.”

I don't have the energy to tell him, again, not to call me his son. I make the mistake of staring at him, though, and feel a pull of memory so strong it makes me stumble. It's so hard to stop spinning once I start.

“Sit down,” he says.

I fall onto the sofa and rub my temples. My head feels like it's going to break into two.

“Are you sick? Do you need me to find a doctor?”

“No,” I say, too loudly. “I don't need a doctor.”

He looks through me.
“You see that mantel there?” he asks, pointing toward it.

My eyes follow his finger to the wall and I nod.

“Starting next week, you and I are going to be doing some intensive practices. You're going to fill that mantel with trophies.”

His words are so wistful and unexpected that I parrot them back. “With trophies?”

I get up and walk over to the mantel and run my hand across it, picking up a coat of dust on my fingers. In spite of myself, I picture all my hockey trophies lined up next to each other. An endless assembly line of successes. Of normal.

His breath on my neck makes my skin crawl. He reaches out and puts a beefy hand on my shoulder, squeezing until I wince.

“You were in line to be great when you were a kid. Do you remember? ‘The best young goalie in the Metro area' t
hey all said. So, fine. You've slacked off for a while. But from now on that changes. From now on, you will breathe, eat, and shit hockey. Do you understand?”

Only my father could turn something I love into a punishment. But that's how it always was, from the time I could walk. Practice. Practice. Practice. He didn't care about school, or friends, or anything else I wanted to do. He didn't care about me.

“You still have a year,” he continues, “to get up to speed. The scouts will start coming and then we'll talk about scholarships and advances. You're going to get all the money that people donated when you turn eighteen, and we'll be able to move away from here and all of this.”

I dig my nails into my palms and clench my teeth until my jaw aches. Whatever happens, I'm not leaving with him even if it means I never see a cent of the money.

He shoves something into my hand as his face breaks into a wide smile filled with razor-sharp teeth. “Open it.”

I turn it over in my hand. It's just a white envelope. I don't want anything he'd give me, but I don't know how to get out of this, so I do my best to plaster a bored expression on my face and pull the flap.

Two tickets fall out of the envelope and flutter like dying moths onto the floor. Tiny print covers them and I see a red and white symbol in the corner. I can't stop myself. I bend down, pick them up, and flip them over.

Before the thought even embeds itself in my head, he explains. “Season tickets for the Red Wings. For you and me.”

Fuck
. I never get to go to real games anymore. Tickets are so expensive that I pretty much only ask to go as my Christmas present from Jim and Kevin. I've never dreamed of having season tickets.

His hand returns to my shoulder and he squeezes again, with enough force to crumble brick. “I think ‘thank you' is the phrase you're looking for.”

I put the tickets back into the envelope and place it on the mantel. Then I shove my hand deep into my pocket.

“Why did you want to take us to California?” I ask, without planning to. I can't even believe my dumb mouth is letting these words out.

He's silent as he lets go of my shoulder and brings out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. I can't tear my eyes away. It's like when people watch a car crash on the freeway. I don't want to look, but I can't help it.

He lights up and I watch the smoke rise, bracing myself for his answer.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“California,” I whisper. “You were going to take me and Kayla to California.” My hand jerks hard. I know he knows what I'm talking about. He has to. It was what caused everything.

He sits down and picks up a newspaper like I'm not talking about anything that matters. “You must have been dreaming. I've never even been to California.”

I want to scream. I want to hit something. He's lying. I know he's lying.

But what if he's not? If The Night Before didn't happen, then why did Mom …

The smell of smoke is suffocating.

Either he's just being a dick and screwing with my head, or I'm nuts and Mom hated us. Hated me. Wanted me dead.

The newspaper covers his face and he isn't looking at me. I clench my hands to stop myself from grabbing at it and ripping it up into shreds of confetti.

I want to force him to admit everything.

My mouth won't work. I can't feel anything. I chew on my sleeve until I can feel my tongue again and force out, “knife.”

The
paper rustles as he brings it down.

“Get a hold of yourself, son. You know what happens to boys like you who make up lies, right?”

Kevin was right. He's going to have me locked up.

His stare forces me backward and I just keep backing away until I hit the banister.

I turn and run upstairs, leaving the envelope perched on the mantle like a white heron.

It's dark.

I don't think I've slept. But I haven't really been awake either.

I can't help it. I've been lying here in a pool of sweat, replaying The Night Before over and over and over.

He has to be lying. He has to be.

Otherwise I'm never going to be normal, and next year will be the same as this year, and last year, and every year to come.

I need one normal day. One normal night. No spins or memories. That isn't going to happen so long as I'm anywhere near him.

I hope it's close to morning. Close to school, and Kevin, and Sarah. Close to getting the hell out of here.

I look at my watch.

11:23.

I rip my watch from my wrist and throw it across the room.

I hate 11:23.

Even though that was a.m. and this is p.m., it's the same.

I see the numbers typed on the form. Each digit in its own box.

1

1

2

3

They couldn't tell what time the kids died. But they knew Mom died around then. And that's the time they chose for them all.

11:23 would have been typed on my death certificate, too.

It's strange to know what time you were supposed to die.

I never look at the clock during fourth period.

Once the numbers get in my head, that's it.

They're in attack mode now.

I get up and tug on my T-shirt, damp with sweat and stress. I pull it off. It takes a while because my hands are shaking and I can't get a grip on the thin fabric. My boxers follow.

I touch my face. I feel like I'm on fire.

I crawl over to my backpack and pull out the other leather band. I put it on before pushing myself against the cool wall. It feels good against my naked back, but even though I'm snapping the band against my wrist as hard and as fast as I can, the numbers don't go away.

I unzip the bottom compartment of my bag.

Ms. DeSilva's business card has other numbers on it. I run my fingers over them and imagine them holding up knives, fighting the clock's numbers.

11:23 falls over. Bloodied and bruised. Gasping.

I wonder if numbers can die.

I wonder why I didn't.

The chattering of my teeth wakes me up.

The floor is hard and cold, and it's dark, and I'm lying here naked and cramped.

I groan when I try to get up, then clamp my lips together. The very last thing I want is for him to come in here.

I pull myself over to the closet and layer shirt over shirt until I can almost remember what warm feels like. Jeans follow, before I lean my ear against the door to listen to the silence.

I turn the knob as quietly as I can, holding my breath so even that won't make a sound.

The door to Mom's room is closed. I hope he's on the other side of it as I make my way down the steps.

I avoid the fourth one.

Mom had an old sewing table in the living room. She used to throw bills and letters and receipts and other bits of random paper in there.