Scars. Part 20

34.

We're all silent in the car, like the shock has stolen our voices. Rain spatters the windshield, drumming on the hood. The rhythmic thunk of the windshield wipers makes the silence seem even more oppressive. Dad drives without looking at either of us.

I pinch at the soft web of skin between my thumb and index finger, trying to stay calm. I don't know how I'm going to act normal when we get home. I'm not sure I can be in the same house with him. Not sure I can sit in this car much longer.

Mom turns around in her seat to face me. "I got a strange phone call today, Kendra. From some woman at the Java Cup."

"Can this wait, Mom? Because I really don't think-"

"She wouldn't tell me anything when I said you weren't in. She wouldn't even leave a message. So I went down there to talk to her, to find out what she wanted with my daughter. And you'll never guess what I saw."

I cover my face with my hands. "Mom-"

"Your art was on display! Twenty pieces-none of which I'd seen before. None of them! I looked like a fool, with everyone congratulating me when I hadn't known a thing about it!" Mom takes a shuddering breath. "Why did you keep it a secret from me? Didn't you think I'd want to know? Didn't you think I'd care?"

I take my hands away from my face. Mom's glaring at me with angry eyes, but her mouth's quivering. It reminds me of how sometimes when I'm trying not to cry, I lash out instead, hoping no one will see my pain.

Mom insecure...because of me?

"You always criticize my art," I say. "It's never good enough for you."

"You told me you'd stopped painting."

"No. I just stopped showing you what I paint."

"All I've ever done is try to help you paint pictures that people would want to buy."

"But they do want to buy my paintings, Mom." At least one person does.

"What's in these paintings?" Dad asks, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles look like they're going to split through his skin.

I answer fast, before Mom can. "They're just fantasy- a girl flying, a woman turning into a tree ... . "

Dad's grip relaxes.

Mom opens her mouth to speak.

I lean forward. "I was going to tell you, but I wanted to make sure people liked them first."

"Your father didn't know, either?"

"No, I did not." Dad clenches the steering wheel again, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

Good one, Mom.

"I wonder what other secrets she's keeping from us." He turns around to glare at me in the backseat. "What are you hiding, huh? What else has slipped your mind?"

"Henry! The road-watch the road!" Mom screams, grabbing his arm.

Dad swings back around. "s.h.i.t!" The car swerves across the slick road. Dad jerks it back into our lane as horns blare at us from two lanes of traffic.

"Well, Kendra?" Dad looks at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for me to answer.

"There's nothing to tell you. I'm not hiding anything."

"But you have," Dad says. "First you kept the cutting from us, then you kept this art show a secret. I'm not sure we can trust you any more."

"Henry, I wouldn't go that far," Mom says.

"Well, I would! Look at her sitting there with that smug look on her face!"

My heart flutters. "It's not like that."

"It's not, is it?" Dad hits the steering wheel. "I think you've been playing me for a chump. I'll bet you know exactly who raped you, don't you?"

This can't be happening. "I told you, Dad. I don't know who did it!" I shout. "I can't remember his face."

Dad snorts. "You've been drawing this whole thing out-just so you could keep seeing that woman, the one who's been putting crazy ideas into your head! It's her you're in love with!"

What? In love with Carolyn? I stare at the back of his head. He can't really think that, can he? "You've got it all wrong."

Mom keeps turning back and forth between us, like she doesn't quite understand what's happening.

Get a clue, Mom. "Carolyn's been helping me," I say. "She's my therapist! I am so not in love with her."

"You think Kendra's in love with her therapist?" Mom says. "Honey, that's not it at all. Don't you remember? It's this girl she likes, this girl her own age. If anything, Carolyn's like a mother to her."

They're both jealous of Carolyn. I chew my lip. I'm in such deep s.h.i.t. I have to figure out how to convince Dad I don't know what he did. Either that, or run.

I reach for my door handle; it's locked. They're all locked; Dad's got the master controls. He meets my gaze in the mirror.

I pinch my hand harder. "I don't know who abused me. Believe me, if I did, you'd be the first to know." I have to talk my way out of this. Have to make him believe me. "I wish I could remember, because someone's been stalking me. And it's got to be him."

"What?" Mom swivels around, her eyes bulging. "You never told me that!"

"I was afraid." I shrug. "But I'm telling you now. If only I could remember his face, I'd feel safer. I mean, we could stop him then, right?"

"Of course we could," Mom says. "I can't believe you didn't tell us! Someone's been stalking you, and you didn't think we'd want to know?"

Her shrill voice demands my attention, but I'm looking at Dad. I see that his fingers haven't relaxed their death grip on the steering wheel, that his back is stiff, and that a muscle's twitching in his jaw. I'm scared-so scared that my thoughts slow down as if that'll slow down what's happening.

"Did you hear that, Henry?" Mom says. "That b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been stalking her."

Dad grunts.

We turn the corner and start up our street. I clutch the backs of their seats. The seat belt bites into me. "Can't we just-uh-can't we stop off at the Java Cup so I can show you my paintings?" I hardly know what I'm saying. I just know I have to distract him. "I feel bad that you never saw them."

But Dad doesn't answer; he just drives faster.

"Henry, slow down," Mom says. "What's gotten into you?"

The wheels screech as Dad turns into our driveway. He shuts off the engine, but he doesn't move.

Mom reaches for the door handle, clicking it back and forth. "Henry. Henry? Open the doors!"

Dad just sits there, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched; but there is a coiled, spring-like quality to his body, a held-in tightness that scares me.

Mom touches his arm tentatively. "Henry, what's wrong? You're not still upset about Kendra blurting out our financial problems, are you? It doesn't matter if that woman knows; she's not part of our circle."

Dad lifts his head. "You're right. It doesn't matter." His eyes are cold as slabs of marble. "The only ones that matter are you, me, and Kendra. We're just one big happy family. Isn't that right, Kendra?"

"That's right," I say, swallowing.

Dad unlocks the doors.

35.

I swing open my door, but Dad's already out of the car, blocking my way. He grabs my arm.

"I want to talk to you," he says. He leans toward me, lowering his voice. "Don't try to run, or I won't be held responsible for what I do."

My thoughts skitter away. I'm on autopilot-just a sh.e.l.l of a body, following his commands.

Dad steers me toward the side of the house, and I walk with him, cold rain bouncing off my forehead and my cheeks and sliding down my collar. He waits until Mom unlocks the door, then shoves me inside, ahead of him.

The dim entrance smells like old sweat. I edge over to the stairs, moving out of Dad's reach. The maps on the walls seem to mock me from a time when I thought our house was safe-when I thought I was safe with Dad.

Mom's looking at us like she doesn't understand what's happening. But we've been here before, Mom, Dad, and me. Mom turning away when I tried to tell her, pretending she didn't understand. Dad threatening me, trying to keep me silent. And me, afraid to even speak.

We're each in the same roles again, only the stakes are higher now. I'm not a child any more; I can't be bullied the same way. And this time, it's my sanity, my life that I'm fighting for. I can't let him win. But he can't afford to let me win, either.

Dad's standing in the doorway, blocking the exit like a human barricade. He watches me silently, waiting for me to make a move. There's no way I could get past him. If I try to outrun him to the front door, he's taller than me-and still faster.

I chew my lip, ripping off a piece of skin. Will he try to stop me if Mom goes with me? I grip her arm. "Mom! Let's go. Let's get out of here, right now!"

Mom's face is blank. "Why, honey?"

No one can be this out of it. "Dad's the one who raped me."

"Don't you tell lies," Dad says, his voice low and controlled. "You know all I ever did was love you." He reaches for me.

I back away. "Mom! Come on!"

"You're not leaving this house, either of you," Dad says. "Not until we work this out."

"What do you mean?" Mom says. "I know you're upset, Henry, but-"

"Upset?" Dad growls. "You have no idea."

I stare at Mom, my body growing heavy and still. "Mom, didn't you hear me?"

Mom narrows her eyes. "I heard you, Kendra. I heard you, but I don't believe you. How can you stand there and say things like that? How can you think up something that sick?"

"I'm not making it up! He raped me, Mom! Every night, while you were sipping tea and eating biscuits, he raped me."

"No. I would have known!" Mom covers her mouth with her shaking hand. "You're just making it up because you're jealous that he loves me best. You always wanted to be his favorite. But I'm the one he wants!"

I hear the desperation in her voice, hear how she's trying to convince herself, even now. And I know she won't help me-again.

"Kendra, think carefully," Dad says. "Do you really want to tear apart our family like this?"

I'm not the one who tore it apart.

I take a step back. Despair fills me like wet earth, heavy and suffocating. I can barely keep my head up. I look at Mom. "Do you know that every night, I prayed that this would be it, Mom? That this would be the night you'd finally save me?"

"I'm sorry, Kendra, but I can't let you do this," Dad says. His hands close around my neck, squeezing hard.

He's choking off my air, just like he did before, all those years ago. My throat aches. I don't know if Mom saved me then or if she'll save me now. I only know that I have to fight.

I strike out with my knees, my feet, and both my fists. It's instinctive; I must breathe. I don't want to die. But Dad's strong, so much stronger than me. Darkness begins edging into my sight; my lungs burn.

I can hear my own wheezing below Mom's screams. The pain is tight and sharp in my chest. And then my knee connects with his crotch. His hands fall from my throat.

Air floods back in, burning my throat and lungs. I'm gasping, almost gagging on air.

Dad's doubled over, clutching himself. And Mom's just standing there-still screaming. Thanks, Mom.

I run for the front door, skidding along the polished wood of the halls, then the worn, bare carpet of the living room. Paintings knock against the walls as I run.

Mom sounds like a shrieking kettle, going on and on. I jerk at our heavy front door. Locked!

I fumble with the bolt, my sweaty fingers slipping, and finally it turns. I yank the door open. But as the light from outside pierces my eyes, I hear a click from behind me.

Then I hear his voice: "Walk out that door, and you're dead."