When Jeff Comes Home (23 page)

"I want you to look, too," he said quietly. "I want you to see what I saw." He sounded tense, waiting for my protest.

"Okay," I said. I trailed after him to the guest bedroom, to the full-length mirror on the outside of the closet door. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my feet, while Dad went into the bathroom.

He returned with a hand mirror, which he gave to me. "I'm going to wait in the living room. You look as much as you need to, and then come back and join me."

"Okay, Dad," I said, feeling fragile.

He left, closing the door behind him.

He trusts me.

I took my shirt off, tossing it on the bed, then turned around slowly, my back to the mirror. I held the hand mirror to the right of my face, peering into it.

I saw nothing more than my back gleaming whitely, and I looked away quickly, feeling hope and anger mixed. I knew what I had seen could not be the truth.

Moving to the lamp by the guest bed, I flicked it on to add more light to the room. I returned to the closet mirror, closer this time. Taking a deep breath, I held the hand mirror up again, angling downward to get a better look.

It was then I saw what I had felt for so long: my back scored by a fine tracing of white lines that extended from below my neck to just above my buttocks. The scars were faint, but visible. Two of them, on my lower back, stood up slightly from the skin.

My fear, which in some corner of myself I had known to be untrue, was that my back was a patch-work of hideous, disfiguring ridges. I could see that was not the case. But my fantasy, which I had been able to hold until this moment, was that nothing was visible, that my back was as smooth and innocent as the day I had been kidnapped. That wasn't true either.

Dad leaned back against the couch, his eyes shut, arms stretched out across the top. I stood in the doorway, watching him.

"Dad," I said softly when it became apparent he didn't know I was there.

He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes. "What do you think?"

I shrugged. "Not so bad, I guess."

"That's what I was thinking," he said carefully. "Not so bad at all."

"Not so good, either," I added.

Dad waited a moment, then nodded. "Come sit beside me," he urged, patting a spot on the couch next to him. I picked my way over, sitting farther down the couch than where he'd indicated.

"I'll never be normal again," I said after a while, needing to hear his reassurance, knowing I could not believe it.

"I don't know what that word means. You're here and I love you. That's all I care about."

"He's lying," I said abruptly. Dad looked over at me. "Ray. Those things he said about me. I wasn't hitchhiking. I didn't ask to stay with him."

"Oh, Jeff," Dad started, sounding angry. I tensed. "Of course he's lying," he said more calmly. "Of course he is. Everyone will know that. That's not something you have to worry about."

"The kids at school believe him," I said.

"Do they?" Dad asked gently. "All of them?"

"Maybe not," I said. "Dad, why did this have to happen to me?"

He sighed deeply, closing his eyes. "I don't know."

"He raped me," I said, testing the words to see how it felt to say them out loud. "He
raped
me," I said again, feeling the shell of my detachment falling away. "How could he do that to me? How could he treat me that way?"

"I don't know," Dad murmured.

"I hate him so much.
I hate him,"
 
I screamed.

Dad was crying. "I hate him too," he said, holding his arms out to me. I hesitated only a moment. Dad pulled me to him, half onto his lap.

Ray Ray Ray

"No," I shouted, holding Dad tighter. As if he understood, he wrapped his arms around me, holding me close to his chest, kissing my cheek.

If Ray saw us now, he’d laugh and he’d say
. . .

"I hate him, Dad," I said again, my voice muffled.

"I know, baby, I know."

"Don't call me that," I moaned. He stopped stroking my hair for a moment, and I felt his sudden intake of breath.

"Slaight doesn't own words," Dad said finally. "Most of all, he doesn't own you. He's nothing to do with you now."

I nodded, listening to his heartbeat, knowing I looked ridiculous, more six than sixteen, feeling safer than I had since I'd come home. Dad kissed the top of my head, murmuring endearments as if I were a little child. Gradually I let myself relax into his embrace.

We stayed that way for a long time, so long I felt myself falling asleep against his chest. I didn't want that—the idea panicked me—and I tried to sit up.

"Dad," I said awkwardly, a little scared, "I'm pretty tired. Maybe I should go up to my room now." He released me at once and I pushed myself off his lap. I sat next to him, embarrassed, facing the other way.

"Hey," Dad said questioningly. I felt his light touch on the back of my head.

Without answering him or looking back, I nodded. I didn't pull away from the pressure of his hand.

"Why don't you sleep here?" Dad said. He cleared his throat. I turned around to look at him. "I'll stay here and you can rest your head on my lap—if you want."

I knew he needed the physical contact with me, needed it as much as I did.

My head on his lap? I couldn't, that was sick, that's like something Ray . . .

"Okay," I said.

Dad nodded. "Good," he said. I stretched out full-length, and laid my head on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his flannelled leg. After a moment Dad began to stroke my hair.

Something had been nagging at me, something outside myself.

"Why were you so late tonight?" I asked sleepily. He stopped what he was doing, his hand motionless upon my head.

"Slaight's about to make bail. I'm doing everything I can to stop him."

"But you think he will."

Dad hesitated. "I... yes, I think he might." I didn't respond, and he went back to touching my hair.

"You need another haircut," he said, almost to himself.

I smiled faintly. "Could Mel cut it?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Maybe I could go to San Francisco with you tomorrow. Meet with Stephens or something, if you want to arrange it."

Dad waited, resting his fingers lightly on my skull. "Is that what you want to do, Jeff?"

I turned onto my back and looked up at him. My father.

He watched me, ready, I knew, to accept anything I told him.

"Yeah," I said, "I think I'm ready to talk."