Kat's Fall (14 page)

It takes the interpreter a couple of attempts to get the question across to Sam, but when she does, her reaction is painful to watch. She turns and presses her face into Mrs. K’s chest, and you can see the little shoulders heaving with her sobs. Mrs. K hugs her close.

“I think her reaction is the answer you’re looking for,” Mr. K says.

The cop nods in agreement.

Finally Sammy calms down enough to face the room again, but her thumb is firmly planted in her mouth. For a change, her mom doesn’t pull it out.

“Can you tell us who hurt you in those private places, Sammy?” the cop asks.

Sammy seems to think for a moment before she answers. Then, to my horror, she signs the letter D. The interpreter translates this to the cop. My heart bangs in my chest. Sammy has clearly named me as the abuser, she is traumatized by the memory of the abuse, yet she was delighted to see me when she came into the room.

What the hell is going on?

“Is this person, this D person, in the room today, Sammy?” the cop asks.

I don’t breathe as I watch the interpreter translate this to her.

You can see—by the expression on her face—the exact moment Sammy comprehends this question. Her wide eyes look around the room again, frightened, as if perhaps she missed someone, and then she shakes her head. “No,” she says, very, very clearly.

“Are you sure?” the cop asks.

She nods, her little face pale.

“But I thought you used the letter D to refer to Darcy,” she says, gesturing at me.

I watch as the interpreter tries to explain this to Sam. A look of horror crosses Sammy’s face when she realizes what she is being told. Her hands start to sign quickly, more quickly than I’ve ever seen her sign before. “D is at the start of his name,” she says, pointing at me, “but it also starts my uncle’s name.”

Mrs. K gasps.

“What is her uncle’s name?” the cop asks Mrs. K.

Mrs. K is visibly shocked. Her face is as pale as Sammy’s and I can see her hand is shaking as she pushes her hair behind her ear. “David,” she says quietly. “His name is David.”

David is Sammy’s uncle, the one who baby-sits her on Saturdays.

Sammy buries her face in her mom’s chest again, and Mrs. K lays her head on the top of her daughter’s.

The cop turns to me, obviously embarrassed. “We owe you an apology, Darcy,” she says. “I’m sorry, very sorry, that we put you through this.”

I’m too numb to speak. I just nod.

And then everyone is standing and Ms. LaRose is hugging me, hard. I guess it’s okay for her to hug me when we’re not alone. Wiping my eyes, I can’t help but wonder where these tears were hiding for the first fifteen years of my life. Now that they’ve come unleashed, they seem to be making an appearance every day. Just making up for lost time I guess.

A lot of hugging goes on for the next ten minutes. After Ms. LaRose, I find myself in my mom’s embrace. Then it’s Kat, who has been allowed out of the bedroom. I see Ms. LaRose hugging my mom. Then I find myself standing in front of Mr. Kippenstein. He places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Darcy,” he says, very seriously. “We made a terrible mistake.”

I can only nod. Now that the tears have appeared, my voice has gone into hiding. Mrs. K has disappeared from the room, followed by the cop.

“I hope you’ll be able to forgive us.”

Nod nod. Sniff sniff. It’s the best I can do.

I F
IND OUT
later that it’s often a family member who is responsible in sexual abuse cases. Of course in this case it was much easier to lay the blame on the screwed-up, antisocial, teenaged baby-sitter whose mom was just released from the slammer for attempted murder. Gee, even I might have suspected me.

I’m told that Sammy’s uncle will see true justice done once he’s in prison. Even prisoners don’t like child molesters.

I hope that’s true.

I’m alone now, alone with my knife and my old towel. This time there’s not an overwhelming need to cut. This time it’s because I want to cut. The knife is my old friend. And besides, it’s easier to cut than not cut.

I lower the knife to my skin and press, feeling its sharp edge slice my skin, drawing a thread-like line of blood. The knife crosses my arm. It’s been a horrible week. First it was that scene with my mom and rediscovering my guilt in Kat’s fall. I draw another line, and another. Then there was that horrible meeting today, at the Kippensteins’. Sure, Sammy proved that I was innocent, but not until I’d been thoroughly messed up. I keep on slicing. The cuts become deeper and more erratic as I get worked up, rehashing the events of the week. Before I know it, my arm is a slashed-up mess and I’m feeling ashamed, angry and confused. I’m also starting to feel a little woozy, almost delirious. I keep on cutting, hacking away desperately, no longer worried about cleaning up the blood.

I
WAKE UP
in the dark, disorientated and cold. I must have passed out onto the floor. Kat is leaning over me, shaking me awake. I feel a cold nose sniffing the back of my neck. I hear Kat pad back to the door, and she flicks on the overhead light. We both flinch at the harsh light, and then she looks down at me, gasps, horrified, and puts both hands over her mouth.

I look down on myself to see what she’s seeing.

It is an ugly sight. Blood is everywhere. My towel, on the floor beside me, is soaked, and there’s a dark stain in the old carpet. My shirt and pants are ruined. I glance at my arm and have to look away. It looks like it’s been through a meat grinder and it’s throbbing hard. Star starts to lick at it but I give her a shove.

“We have to get you to the hospital,” Kat signs.

“No!” I drag myself to my feet, feeling dizzy and nauseous. “I’ll clean everything up. It’s okay. It looks worse than it is.”

She eyes me, unconvinced.

“Really, Kat. If anyone finds out they’ll…” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t know what they’d do.

She looks me in the eye for a long time. Finally she signs, “I’ll help you clean up.”

I sigh with relief. “I can do it, Kat, no problem. I’ll go clean up my arm first and then I’ll take care of everything else. You go back to bed.”

“Can I sleep in your bed?” she asks, sheepishly.

I think about that. “No,” I say. “You can’t.”

She nods, understanding. “C’mon, Star,” she says, and with a last sad look at me, they leave the room.

Twelve

M
s. LaRose asks me to stay after school. I wait while the others leave the classroom and then join her at the back table. I must be coming down with the flu or something. All afternoon I’ve been fluctuating between chills and sweats. My arm throbs. I give a little tug on my sleeve, making sure the gauze bandage is covered.

“You okay, Darcy?” The Rose asks. “You look a little pale.”

“I think I’m just getting a cold or something.”

She studies me. “Your eyes are glassy too. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” But I’m beginning to wonder myself.

“Okay,” she nods. “Now, what I wanted to know is if things are getting back to normal for you,” she says.

“Normal?” I ask. “Like living with a dad who doesn’t want kids, and having an ex-convict for a mom who can only cope with being a parent in short spurts? Yep, things are pretty much back to normal.” Okay, I admit I feel a little guilty saying that about my mom, but the words just spilled out of my mouth. It must be the fever.

She nods. “Well then,” she says finally, “I’m thinking of recommending to Mr. Bryson that you return to the regular system. I don’t think there’s any reason you need to continue at Hope Springs Alternate School.”

Wham. That came out of nowhere. I’m feeling dizzier by the moment, and I have no idea how to respond, but I know one thing for sure: There’s no way I’m returning to the regular system. For the first time I realize how much I like it here; Ms. LaRose is my savior and, more importantly, this is where Gem is. “So what do I have to do to keep my spot here?” I ask.

“Oh, that would be easy,” she says. “You just have to convince your teacher that you’re not nearly ready to go back.”

“I’m not nearly ready to go back.”

“That’s not very convincing,” she says, smiling.

“Okay,” I say. I’m beginning to see stars in the air between us, but I have to think. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my left arm and then notice The Rose staring at it. I glance down and see that my sleeve has worked its way up again and the bandage is showing.

“What happened to your arm?” she asks.

In that moment I realize that the cutting may be my ticket to staying here, but I’m too ashamed to admit what I do, especially to The Rose. And besides, I’m having to really concentrate to stay focused.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” I ask her, finding myself trembling again. “I’m really not feeling well.”

I see The Rose jumping to her feet and coming around the table toward me. The next thing I know I’m flat out on the floor, and when I look up, for a split second I think I see an angel hovering there. Then I realize it’s just Ms. LaRose looking down on me. Great, now I’m hallucinating too.

“Whoa, sorry,” I say, struggling to sit up.

She pushes me back down. “Stay still,” she says. “I’ve just called an ambulance.”

“You have?” Where was I when she was doing that? “It’s just the flu,” I tell her, but I don’t bother to try sitting up again. It’s way too much effort.

I V
ACUELV RECALL
being put on a stretcher and then into an ambulance. The Rose stays with me all the way to hospital. I float in and out of consciousness.

I wake with a start when I feel someone unraveling the gauze I’ve wrapped around my arm. I try to pull it away, but it’s too late.

“Oh my God!” I hear Ms. LaRose exclaim.

I can’t look at her, but I do glance at the nurse who is examining my arm. “Self-inflicted?” she asks coolly.

I try to pull my arm away, but she hangs on and it’s too painful to pull hard. I refuse to answer though.

“Darcy?” Ms. LaRose asks.

I won’t answer her either.

“Well it’s badly infected,” the nurse says, “and that’s why you’re sick. As soon as I can get the consent from your parents I’ll get an IV started, because I expect the doctor will put you on a course of antibiotics. You’ve really done a number on yourself,” she adds.

She puts my arm down and leaves the cubicle, pulling the curtain shut behind her. I close my eyes, trying to avoid Ms. LaRose’s questions.

She picks up the hand of my good arm. “Why, Darcy?” she asks.

“Just because,” I say, without opening my eyes.

I'
M HOOKED UP
to an
IV
, I’m in a room with two little kids and I’m totally bored. I’ve been in the hospital for four days now, and the medicine must be working because I’m feeling fine, my arm no longer feels like it’s on fire and I want to get the hell out of here.

“When do I get to leave?” I ask a nurse who’s taking the temperature of the boy in the bed across the room from me. He’s just had his tonsils removed.

“Hey, if it was up to me, I’d have sent you home days ago,” she says.

“So why don’t you tell the doctor that?”

“Because he’s obligated to try to get you well.”

“And you’re not?”

She writes something on the boy’s chart. “There are lots of really sick people for me to care for, and people who have been in accidents that were no fault of their own. You, on the other hand…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to. MS. LAROSE POKES her head into the lounge where I’m watching
TV
, my trusty
IV
pole standing at attention beside me.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“It’s a free world.”

“So,” she says, sitting down beside me, “I’ve done some reading on SI. ”

“On what?”

“
SI
, short for Self Injury.”

“Oh. And what did you find out? That I’m crazy?” “No, I’m afraid you won’t be able to use craziness as an excuse.”

“Bummer. Then what excuse can I use?”

“How about…” she reads from the pad of paper she’s carrying, “ ‘Feelings of overwhelming tension and isolation derived from fear of abandonment, self-hatred and apprehension’.”

“That’s why people cut themselves?”

“Some people.”

I keep my eyes glued to the TV, trying not to act too interested, but intrigued nonetheless.

“What about the rest?”

“There’s lots of reasons.” She refers to her notes again. “It’s a complex coping behavior. It can be an expression of emotional pain, an escape from emptiness or depression, or a release of anger.”

“Yeah, but why do those things make a person want to carve their skin?”

“I’m sure you could answer that better than me.”

“Maybe, but what do the experts say?” I ask.

She picks her notes up again and reads, “‘There is evidence that when dealing with strong emotions or overwhelming situations, self-injurers harm themselves because it brings them a quick release from tension and anxiety. It is a means of coping with an overpowering psycho-physiological arousal’.”

The word “release” jumps out at me. That’s about all I understand. “So what’s the cure?”

“There is no cure, Darcy.”

“I can look forward to mutilating myself for the rest of my life? Great.”

“There is no cure, Darcy, but you can stop anytime you want.”

“Oh, yeah, easy for you to say.”

“Can we turn that thing off?” The Rose asks, referring, irritably, to the TV. I guess she doesn’t care for talk shows where the host and audience badger the deviant guest until they get a good reaction. Before she arrived I was beginning to think I’d make a good candidate, showing the world my mutilated arm and talking about the thrill I get when I cut myself. Of course, I’d use the word thrill, not release. It sounds more, well, deviant.

“You have to replace the cutting with other ways of releasing the bad feelings,” The Rose continues after the
TV
goes off.

“Ahh,” I say. “I get it now. I could use drugs, like my mom did. Or numb myself with booze every night, like Dad. Perfect. Thanks, Ms. LaRose, you’ve been a big help. Do you mind if I turn the TV back on?”