Free Scars by Cheryl Rainfield

There’s no way to miss it; it almost hurts to see.
    I told them in so many ways: jumping at everyone’s touch, keeping quiet to avoid too much attention, and hiding my body in loose clothes. Even my art screamed for help. I don’t believe she didn’t see it. Didn’t
want
to see it—now that, I believe.
    The clock over the stove ticks loudly, counting every second of our silence. The night sky is so black outside the kitchen window, it seems to absorb everything, even the stars.
    Mom sets the dishrag down and looks at me, her eyes full of tears. I know she’s asking for forgiveness, for understanding. But I have none to give her.
    “I have to get my homework done.” I turn away.

14
    “Kendra—wait!”
    I sigh and turn around. “What?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    I nod. That’s all I can do.
    “Kendra—I know this isn’t a good time, but I need to talk to you before your dad gets home.”
    Now what?
    “I don’t think there’s an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. It looks like we’re going to have to move.”
    “What? Where?” I stare at her.
    “Out of the city. Now that your dad’s income’s been cut in half, we’re looking to lower our expenses. It would mean you couldn’t see Carolyn any more or go to your art therapy—”
    My breath is gone, punched out by her words. I sag against the wall, staring at the row of vitamin bottles that Mom’s alphabetized. “I thought we already talked about this! I thought I could keep going.”
    “I know, honey. I’m sorry. I don’t want to move,either. We’ve been here twenty-six years and I love this place. But we may not have a choice.”
    I can’t grasp what she’s saying. “I told you, I’ll pay for therapy. I’ll get a part-time job, help out around here more—”
    “Honey, that’s not it. It’s the loans, the bills—it’s things that we can’t control.”
    “Can’t you get another loan? Talk to the bank?”
    Mom purses her lips. “Your father tried just this morning. They turned him down.”
    My hands are fists. I want to smash something. “Why can’t we just move to a smaller house? An apartment, even? Why do we have to move so far away?”
    Mom picks up a bottle of hand cream, then sets it back down. “Houses are significantly cheaper in the suburbs, Kendra. And your dad and I—we’ve been worried about you for a while, now. You’re retreating further from us, becoming even more withdrawn and moody. I guess we thought the change might do you some good.”
    I can feel the blood rising in my face, the tears starting in my eyes. “How do you think yanking me out of therapy will help? Or out of school or away from my friends? I need them! I need—”
    I want to smash my hand through the window, let the glass rip into my skin. I want to make the pain go away.
    “Yes? What do you need?”
    “I need Carolyn, Mom. I can’t face it all alone!”
His hand, gripping my wrist. His breath against my cheek.
    “You’re not alone, honey,” Mom says. “You’ve got us.”
    A scream rises inside me. “Don’t you get it? You’renot enough!” The words are out before I can stop them. Hard, hurtful words. But the truth.
    Mom turns her face away and I can see she’s trying not to cry.
    I dig my hand into my pocket, close my fingers around the blade, and let the edge bite into me, press against my flesh. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re not a therapist, Mom. I need someone who knows what she’s doing. I need someone who understands.”
    Mom’s face twists in anger. “I’ve read every book on sexual abuse I could find! I’ve joined a support group. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to! Why aren’t I ever enough for you?”
    Oh God, she’s melting down, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“Mom—”
    “Don’t you
Mom
me! I’ve worked damn hard at trying to be there for you, at trying to make things up to you. But you never let me in!”
    I think of showing her my arm, of sharing
that
with