Scars. Part 19

"Absolutely not. The only thing I'll share with them is your self-harm. I'm legally and morally bound to tell them about it. But I promise, I will not share anything else."

I pinch the inside of my hand, trying not to cry.

"It'll be all right, Kendra. It'll work itself out."

But I don't know how it can.

32.

I pa.s.s people on the way to school, but I don't really see them. I don't see anything except Carolyn's worried face. Right now, she's probably dialing my parents' number, telling them my secret.

I want to run back to her office and s.n.a.t.c.h the phone from her, beg her not to call. But I know I can't do that, so I just keep walking.

Everything is getting so messed up. I wish I could start the morning over, but it's too late to change it now. At least I'll see Meghan soon. And Mrs. Archer, too. I need to see their friendly faces, need to know they care.

I run my fingers along the rough brick of a building, letting it sc.r.a.pe my skin, drawing blood. The stinging pain only irritates me; it doesn't soothe me the way cutting does. I don't know why everyone thinks cutting is such a big deal. It's not like I'm running around hurting anyone else.

An empty ginger ale can lies in the gutter. I know that if I have to, I can tear it apart and use it to cut ... .

"Kendra!" A car pulls up beside me.

I freeze, my heart clenching. Why didn't I stay alert to my surroundings? I shake myself and start to run.

"Kendra!" I swear I hear Mom's voice.

I stop and turn around. Mom's leaning out the car window, her cheeks wet with tears. Dad's sitting stiffly beside her at the wheel. I walk slowly to the car.

Dad leans across Mom to look at me. "Get in the car, Kendra," he says in a jagged voice.

"Why? What's happening?"

"We're going to Carolyn's, all three of us."

It's quiet in the car-too quiet. I can hear every sniffle Mom makes, every grunt of Dad's breath. I can't believe this is happening so fast, can't believe we're heading right back to Carolyn's.

I know from the way Mom's trying not to cry and the way Dad's avoiding my gaze that they know about the cutting. I feel hot with shame and dirty somehow, like I've done something wrong. And I have. I've hurt them.

My head gets light. I float up and out of myself and look down at our car, on all three of us, sitting in silence. It's so familiar, this drifting outside of myself. I know I've done it before; I've done it often.

I follow my parents into the building, all of us locked in our own tomb-like hush. The silence pushes up beneath my skin and I scream inside-but nothing comes out. Fear grows like ice inside me, splintering into my heart.

Carolyn opens her door; her gaze finds mine, and I feel myself come back to my body just a little. A tiny spot of warmth spreads through my ice-cold stomach.

Dad sits at one end of the couch; Mom sits at the other, taking my regular spot. I want to tip the couch over, to shove them right out of the office. They don't belong here, with their heavy sighs and stilted voices. They're invading this s.p.a.ce that used to be mine-mine and Carolyn's.

Dad pats the cushion beside him, and I sit where they expect me to-imprisoned by Mom on one side and Dad on the other. I draw myself in tight, but Dad's knee still b.u.mps into mine and Mom squeezes my hand.

"I don't understand why this has happened," Mom says, looking at Carolyn.

I roll my eyes. Isn't it obvious?

Dad draws himself upright. "What I want to know is how long you've known that Kendra was cutting herself. Did you know from the beginning?"

"No," Carolyn says, "I just found out today. That's why I called you."

"And we appreciate that. But I guess you'll understand when we tell you that we're taking her elsewhere."

I jerk back like he's slapped me. "That's not fair! It's not Carolyn's fault. I kept it a secret from everyone. She's the one who got me to talk."

"It's too little, too late, Kendra. I know it'll be hard to adjust to someone new, but I want what's best for you. And right now, Carolyn isn't it."

There's something wrong with his voice, something wrong with his words. But I can't figure out what, can't hold the thoughts still in my head.

"I understand this is hard for you, Mr. Marshall," Carolyn says. "It must've been quite a shock. But I don't think changing therapists right now will help Kendra."

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your clients," Dad snaps. "Just tell me why I should continue to pay you to see my daughter, when she was cutting herself to pieces right under your nose."

Mom lets out a m.u.f.fled sob.

I want to cry out with her. I never meant to hurt her. I never meant to hurt anyone at all. And now I've hurt so many people. I bite down hard on my lip. If only I hadn't told Carolyn ... . If only I hadn't let her see.

"Kendra wasn't harming herself in our sessions," Carolyn says slowly. "And there is control in the act." She hands a box of tissues to my mom. "I don't think it's helpful for us to keep going over what has or hasn't been done; I think what we need to look at right now is how we can support Kendra."

"That's my priority, too," Dad says. "I just don't think this therapy is working for her. Look at what she's been doing!"

"I can understand your concern," Carolyn leans forward. "But her behavior is not an indication that she's getting worse. It's merely a symptom of her distress."

"I'm sorry," Mom says, crumpling the tissues in her fist. "I don't understand."

"Self-injury shows the depth of pain and turmoil someone is feeling. Now, I know you'll want her to stop hurting herself right away. But a more realistic hope is that Kendra will learn some new coping skills, and, in time, find the tools and strategies she needs to safely express her emotions instead of cutting. I feel certain that Kendra can do this. She's very strong."

But I don't feel like I am.

"She is strong," Dad says, his voice choking up. "We know that. But she's been through so much; I want to make sure that we're doing the right thing. That we're not harming her more."

"Therapy helps me, Dad."

He turns to me. "I'm not convinced. Don't you think it's odd that you didn't cut until you entered therapy? Doesn't that worry you?"

"Therapy doesn't have anything to do with my cutting! Therapy's what's kept me alive. And Carolyn."

"What are you saying, Kendra?" Dad asks, his face tightening into a frightened mask. "You've been thinking about suicide?"

Mom gasps beside me.

I don't know how we got here. I never meant to tell them any of this. I can hear Mom's labored breathing, and feel the tension in Dad. I shift on the sofa and pull myself further inward. "Yes, I was thinking about it- before therapy. But that's what I'm saying. Carolyn's helped me want to live, and I'm past that now. And isn't it better that I cut myself than kill myself?"

"Oh, my G.o.d," Mom says.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. "You were thinking about killing yourself," he says softly.

I look at Carolyn, silently begging her to help me.

"Kendra has gone through a very rough period," Carolyn says in her soothing voice. "Many survivors do, when they first remember their abuse. But Kendra is a strong, resilient girl, and she's making remarkable progress. I would say that suicide is the farthest thing from her mind right now. She's told me quite clearly that she wants to live."

I nod my head hard.

"Self-harm is not an act of failed suicide," Carolyn says, leaning forward. "It's the act of trying to cope with unbearable pain. It can also be a cry for help-a cry I'm taking very seriously. Kendra needs our support. And I intend to be here for her."

"And make a buck off her," Dad says.

I can't believe he said that. "Carolyn cares about me!" I glare at him. "You're just worried about the money because you can't afford it."

"Hush, Kendra; that's private family business," Mom says.

"It doesn't matter. I'll pay for my own sessions."

"Money is not the issue," Dad says. "How do we know that this woman has your best interests at heart?"

"Mr. Marshall," Carolyn says, "I know you're upset, but-"

"All I'm saying is that she wasn't cutting before she came to see you." Dad jiggles his foot, his pant leg rising above his sock to reveal dark, curly hair that glitters against the paleness of his skin.

He reaches down to scratch his leg. The sound of his nails on his dry flesh is loud, and shivers shoot up my spine.

And then all I can see is his hand-the way the dark hair sprouts from each finger, the blunt way his nails are cut. I see it-and I recognize it.

I recognize his hand, his face, his voice. The fragments of memory all slam together in a burst of blinding pain.

33.

I press my hands to my aching head. Their voices move in and out around me, their words devoid of meaning.

It can't be Dad. It can't be!

But I know it is. I know it with my whole being. I know, now, why I was afraid to remember, why I thought I couldn't survive it. My abuser lives with me. He lives right in the same house.

Shadows rip through my brain, pounding behind my eyes: Dad's face looming over me. His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. I feel his fingers bruise my skin and the familiar pressure of his body against mine; I hear his voice, the voice I know so well, that deep voice I've been trying so hard to ignore.

His sweat smell fills my nostrils-sweat and s.e.x and blood- and I think I'm going to vomit. Bright spots shimmer before me.

Their voices are still rising and falling in waves, but I can't hold onto them, can't separate them into words. I want to smash my head against the wall, to empty it of the memories. But I know they're not going away, not ever again.

Carolyn leans forward and touches my knee. It's a quick, fast movement. But it's enough to remind me that she's with me-and that she cares. I breathe in and feel the floor beneath my feet again, see Carolyn's kind face, and smell her peppermint tea.

Sound comes back. Voices, too.

"I don't think you understand how important this is," Dad is saying, his body stiff and hard.

I inch away from him, pushing myself into Mom.

"Kendra doesn't tell us anything, just like she didn't tell you about the cutting. If you can just tell us who abused her, maybe we can see that justice is done. At the very least, we can keep her safe from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Carolyn crosses her legs. "I understand your concern. But even if Kendra had told me this man's ident.i.ty, I couldn't reveal it without her permission. You know, Mr. Marshall, opening up repressed memories is a long, slow process. It takes a lot of time and patience."

Dad relaxes beside me. Silently, I thank Carolyn. She said the right thing without even knowing it.

"Then I don't think we have any further business here," Dad says. He gets up, reaching out to shake Carolyn's hand. "Nice putting a face to your name."

Carolyn slowly stands to meet him. "Likewise."

Mom gets to her feet. "Thank you for seeing us today."

"Of course." Carolyn turns to me and opens her arms for a hug. I cling to her, wanting her to save me, wishing I could tell her without saying it aloud.

"Kendra, are you coming?" Dad asks from the doorway.

I pull away. "I just want to say good-bye. Give me a minute, okay?"

His face is like a mask, his eyes hard and searching. I push the fear and knowledge down as hard and as far as I can, and try to look at him the way I'd look at Sandy, without fear or revulsion.

"All right." Dad takes his keys out of his pocket. "We'll start down the hall without you-but I expect you to catch up. We have a lot of talking to do."

He turns and leaves. Mom follows close behind him.

I wait for their footsteps to fade, then I turn to Carolyn. "It's him," I whisper. "He's the one! It's my dad."

Her face pinches tight and I know she understands.

Then I turn and run.