Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2 (7 page)

I stop thinking about the song and about my naked back, visible through glass doors. My tears, Spencer’s tears, and my cut, dripping red on the grey store carpet.

Red drops of blood sinking into carpet. Like me – sink, sink, sinking with the Vicodin - six little pieces of heaven swirling inside my belly.

“You don’t have to be afraid of what will hurt you, anymore. You are safe now.”

“It’s not easy to get used to,” I say.

“I know, but neither is believing that you are still in danger.” Spencer kisses my uninjured wrist.

“You’re so forgiving,” I say.

“Forgiveness sets the soul free - a grudge restricts it.”

Spencer picks me up and sits me on the jewelry counter. I’m scared the glass will break but he appears so relaxed about it that his mood rubs off on me too. He takes his shirt off and gives it to me. Then, he shimmies around the counter and pulls out a pearl necklace. I lift my hair and he secures the string of pearls around my neck. I let my hair down and he steps back like he’s scrutinizing a masterpiece of his own design. He smiles and then frowns.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Aha!”

Going around the counter again, he returns with two vintage hair pieces, inlaid with pearls and emerald flowers. He pins my hair back with them and grins. “So beautiful,” he says, clasping his hands together. “Why would someone
this
beautiful want to cut herself? Here, have a look.” He hands me a mirror.

He’s right; my beauty still flourishes outside, even though I feel so rotten inside. “I guess I just wanted the external me to look like the internal me.” I hand the mirror back.

“Clad saved you because he loved you. Even if you never see him again, that initial love it took for him to save you will always be there.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“As much as I believe that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” he puts a finger to his chest, “
with all of my heart
.”

“Thank you, Owl,” I say, blushing.

“It’s time for lunch. Let’s go to my house, my mom can fix this for you,” he says tapping my wrist.

“What will she say?”

“Nothing. She doesn’t judge.”

He gives me his hand and I hop off the counter. I gather my Ace bandage and hoodie. Catching my reflection in the glass doors, my hair barrettes sparkling in the sunlight, I secretly smile to myself.

Sarah aggressively kicks a soccer ball around in the front yard, her hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight that her eyebrows are forced into a surprised raise.

We pull into the driveway. She glares at me, her eyes burning two cigarette holes in my back as Spencer and I go into the house.

“Mom, I’m home!” Spencer hollers.

B.B. pops out of the laundry room, a basket on her hip. “Oh, hi, Bailey, how are you?” she says, an opulent warmth to her voice.

“Not so well.” I display my wrist to her.

“Can you put a Band-Aid on it or something?” Spencer says.

B.B. puts the laundry basket down and gingerly holds my wrist in her hands, turning it to get a better look at the damage. “This is going to need more than a Band-Aid,” she says.

Spencer squeezes my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, “Mom will take good care of you.”

“That I will,” B.B. says, smiling.

“I’m going to take this and try to get the blood out,” Spencer says. Taking my hoodie from me, he leaves B.B. and I alone together.

“Come into my bathroom, honey,” B.B. says.

I follow her into the bedroom, painted in a coral and mint palette, the interior design having little sign of a man’s touch.

A white wood dresser the length of one wall is sprinkled with shells, petrified starfish, and sand dollars. A vase of sand is at one end of the dresser. At the opposite end, unlit candles of various heights are arranged on a hemp cloth, hanging over the ends of the dresser.

“I have gauze and some medical tape left over from when Sarah split her knee open,” B.B. says. She’s in the bathroom already.

“Coming,” I say, dragging myself away from the dresser that looks like it popped right out of a Better Homes and Garden’s magazine.

“Can I?” B.B. asks reaching for my arm.

“Please,” I say, giving my wrist to her.

She washes the cut with soap and water, dabs it dry with a towel, and then breaks out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Sorry, this will sting.”

I wait for that oh-so familiar burn as she douses my cut. “Ah!” I shriek, pulling my wrist out of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “come, let me blow on it.”

She blows and fans at my wrist and the fire of the alcohol turns to a smolder. Carefully, she wraps gauze around my wrist, thumb, and pointer finger.

“You’re better at this than my mom…” I say.

B.B. looks up at me and says, “What would your mom have done?”

Watched me bleed
. “Watched me bleed.”

Did that just come out of my mouth?

“Well, you ever need anything, you know where to come. I’m here for you. Even if you just need someone to talk to, or a hug.”

“Can I have one?”

I should really just stop talking.

“A hug?” B.B. says with an unsure smile.

“If you don’t mind…”

My heart speeds up as B.B. stands and puts her arms around me. My chest tightens, and I think I might cry; think I might scream all my secrets into the dark warmth of her embrace. Everything I’ve been hiding from my mother and myself.

The Vicodin I don’t need for physical pain, but will die without for mental anguish. Alcohol, I hate the taste of but it feels so good inside me as it works its way into my brain and kills bad thoughts. The bloody knife under my stove. But, before I can release all these secrets, Sarah walks in and B.B. lets go of me as fast as if she were having an affair and her husband had walked in on it.

“What are you doing, Mom?” Sarah says. She’s sucking on a water bottle and dripping sweat from her one-man game of soccer outside.

“Oh, Bailey had a scratch. I was just bandaging it for her.”

“That’s a lot of gauze for just ‘a scratch.’”

“Mind your own,” B.B. warns her.

“She’s in my house,” Sarah interjects. “Why shouldn’t I know what happened?”

“Thank you, B.B.,” I say, exiting the bathroom before her and Sarah can notice that my face has changed from a ghostly white to a scarlet red.

I run into Spencer as I come out of B.B.’s room. “I put your hoodie in the washer,” he says. “Mom made us Macaroni and Cheese, do you feel up to eating?”

There are two bowls of Macaroni with two Cokes, already opened, beside them on the kitchen table. “Mhm,” I say. “I think my appetite has returned.”

Spencer and I are eating quietly-
happily
- when Sarah comes up behind us and says in a singsong voice, “Why is Bailey always wearing your cl-o-othes?”

“Mine were bloody,” I snap at her. “What do you care?”

“What happened to your wrist?” She pokes at it and I wince.

“Sarah, leave her alone.” Spencer growls at her.

“No, it’s okay, Spencer,” I say. “I’ll tell her. She won’t stop bugging me if I don’t.”

“True.” She shrugs unapologetically.

“I took a knife,” I say, holding an imaginary knife to my wrist and making a slicing motion, “and cut myself with it. Happy? There, now you know.” I follow up with a maniacal cackle, adding to the look of horror that is manifesting on Sarah’s face.

“Why the fuck are you laughing?” She blinks at me in shock.

Good question, Sarah.
Why the fuck
am I
laughing?

Sarah has an expression on her face that makes everything seem very serious, all of a sudden. My Coke is serious, my bowl of Macaroni and Cheese is serious; I gulp like I’m in trouble and she is about to deliver my punishment.

“Is it because of me? Because I was mean to you when you spent the night?” she asks, her serious expression softening and giving way to a sadness that looks childish but wrong on her pulled back face.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Spencer says.

“It has nothing to do with you,” I assure her.

“Good, pretty girls shouldn’t self-harm,” she says, taking a bite of my Macaroni and Cheese.

I push the bowl toward her; I want to see her smile come back and food has always made her happy.
Especially if it’s food she’s taking from me
.

“Are you going to eat this?” she asks. “You
never
eat.”

“You can have it,” I say.

She grabs my bowl and Coke, taking it with her; she kicks her soccer ball to the front door and follows it out.

Spencer pushes his bowl to me. I push it back and start a pushing war with him, back and forth, back and forth, until one of us speaks up.

“Can I spend the night, tonight?”

“Why?” he asks. “Is your mom beating you again?”

“No…not lately,” I say. “I feel like someone is watching me. I know it sounds stupid but it bothers me. And I don’t get much sleep at home. Your arms are the only place I feel safe.”

“You’re sweet,” he says, mussing up my hair. “Real sweet. Okay, I can share my bed again.” He kisses my forehead. “Sarah, will be happy.”

“Thrilled.”
I roll my eyes.

Spencer nods in agreement. “We should get back to work, now.”

We thank B.B. for lunch, and then we’re back in his truck, driving to Goodwill.

“You never read the letter,” I say, holding Clad’s letter out to him. “I think you should.”

“Okay,” he gives in, snatching it from me.

The words dig in a second time round, as Spencer reads them aloud. Clad may say his words are nothing to me, but they’re whole lot of something right now - not even the sharpest knife could cut as deep.

I imagine it’s all a part of the show, an invisible audience looking in on my life and the letter creating a hushed silence that travels like a wave through them. I’m just an actor following a script. Somehow this disillusion makes hearing Clad’s letter sufferable.

“He doesn’t sound happy,” Spencer says.

“I think I’m going to see him. The first visiting day is tomorrow.”

“I guess you owe him at least that.”

“And more. Much, much more,” I say.

“Your mom is going to let you see him?”

“I don’t need her permission. I have this.” I hold up the fake ID Clad sent me in the letter. Spencer takes it from my hand.

“How did he get this past the guards?”

“Fuck if I know. Anyway, It looks as real as day, doesn’t it?”

The picture Clad used is one I gave to him without much thought after we had all received a packet of wallet sized pictures at school. Neglecting to pay for my pictures, I took them home and gave the rest to Mom…they’re probably in a dumpster somewhere. My face-cracking smile and snarly black hair buried beneath loads of dirty diapers and pizza boxes, molding slices of pizza still in them.

Today, a woman looking to buy school clothes for her chubby little girl comes into the store. The girl is supposedly five years old, but she’s the size of an eight year old. I have a hard time finding clothes that fit her.

“Maybe this,” I say, wearily holding out a pink and green camouflaged dress.

“Mommy, I’m tired. Nothing fits!” the little girl says stomping her foot.

“No, that one’s
ugly
,” the mom says, scrunching up her nose at the dress.

I know, but nothing here fits your child.

“That all you have?”

“That will fit her, yeah,” I say.

“Guess
you
wouldn’t know what it’s like to be a fat kid.”

“Excuse me, did I hear you right? Did you just call your child fat?” I say, my temper getting the best of me. I hear Mom now, her words all around me,
You’re too thin. I’m trying to fatten you up
. “That won’t do her any good!”

“Come on, Wilma,” the mom says, motioning for her daughter to follow.

“Wait,” I say, blocking the door. I take my pearl necklace off and put it around Wilma’s neck. “I think you’re
gorgeous
.”

“Thank you!” Wilma’s face lights up as she rolls the pearls in her hand. The mom elbows me out of the way and shoves her daughter out the door.

“Have a nice day!” I holler sarcastically after them.

“She was pleasant,” Spencer says.

“We work at Goodwill, what do you expect?”

“Well, it’s not called Badwill; you’d think people would be a little more grateful we’re trying to help them.”

I remember how Mom was outraged about the cookies B.B. made for her, and then it dawns on me why our customers are usually less than cheery. “No one likes taking handouts,” I say.

“I can’t relate to you on that one,” Spencer says.

“That’s because you’ve never had to take handouts,” I say. “It’s degrading to have to shop here; it’s a last resort. When you can no longer afford K-mart clothes or Wal-Mart clothes, this is where you come.”

“I never thought of it like that, baby,” he says. “You could be right.”

“I am,” I say with confidence.

We take turns going over the floor with a vacuum and organizing all the books, toys, and odds and ends. What has felt like the longest day of the summer is almost over.

“Tonight, I’ll get some sleep!” I twirl around the broom that I’ve been sweeping the floor with.

“And a shower, ‘cause you’re sweaty!”

“So are you.” I flip the broom upside down and aim it at Spencer, like a light saber. “Get back!”

“Gimme that, you goof!” He chuckles.

Spencer pulls the broom out of my hands and throws it on the ground. Lifting me off my feet he flips me upside down and swings me over his shoulder.

“Okay, we can lock up now it looks clean…
enough
.” He turns off the lights and locks the door with me hanging upside down on his shoulder. I punch his back and scream to be let down.

“Oh, I’ll put you down,” he says brusquely, flipping me and pinning me against his truck. He grabs my chin, tilts my head up, and kisses me hard on the lips. “Hold on.”

He climbs inside of his truck, turning on the radio he smiles at me as he turns through stations.

“What are you doing?”