Finally, after much digging, I find the scarf. It isn't really my style, but it will have to do. I practice tying it the mirror so it covers as much as possible while my hands still tremor.
Nine
“Ava, wake up.” Someone rudely pokes my shoulder. Judging by the voice, it's Dad, which leaves me wondering what the hell he's doing in my room. I crack my eyes open, which requires quite a bit of effort.
“What?” My voice scratches out of my mouth.
“Your mother's not feeling well.” Part of me wants to say, so?, but I don't. Sense starts to permeate my brain. My hands inch up to see if my neck is covered. Luckily for me, I sleep with my hands clutched under my chin, and the blanket pulled over my head. I'm good.
“What's wrong?”
“Just an upset stomach. I just wanted to let you know that she's needs to rest so don't disturb her.”
“Okay.” I really want to pull the blanket back over my head and get some more sleep. The red numbers on my clock tell me I've only been asleep for a few hours. Damn, it feels like I've been hit by a truck.
“Ava, did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I can't hear you, you're mumbling,” he says, reaching to pull back the covers. I snatch and hold onto them as hard as I can.
“Ava, what are you doing?”
“I'm tired, can you just leave me alone?” I stick part of my head out from under the blanket so he can hear me.
“Fine.” I breathe a sigh of relief as he lets go and tromps out of the room. Close freaking call.
Several hours later, I finally emerge from my room, fully-dressed and sporting my scarf. My mother is still in her room and Dad's out doing something with the lawn, so I have a chance to sneak in and see her. I ignore the fact that I have to sneak around to see my own mother and knock quietly on her door. She calls out to come in.
“Can I get you anything?” She motions to a table that normally sits next to her dresser, which someone's pushed next to the bed and piled high with anything she could need. Glasses of water and juice, bottles of pills and tissues and a bowl of oatmeal that she hasn't touched.
“No, baby, I'm fine.”
“Are you sure you're fine?” I lean on the doorway, looking her over. She's pale, but other than that she looks fine.
“Just tired. Come and sit with me?” I'm reluctant, but I can't say no to her. There's a rumble from my stomach as I sit down and she puts her arms around me. She doesn't say anything, but hands me the bowl of oatmeal. It's still warm and is studded with cranberries and raisins. I'm starving.
“This is pretty,” she says, tugging at my scarf. I grab at it, pulling it back around my neck. “I thought you didn't like it.” I glance down into the bowl of oatmeal. I'm not hungry anymore.
“I found it in my closet and thought I should wear it,” I say, trying to put it back in place, bu not fast enough. Her face changes. Cold fear drips through me.
“Ava? What's–” Her hands go to her mouth. Damn.
“It's nothing.” I put the bowl back on the table. My stupid hands are shaking again. I can't look at her.
“Who did this to you?” Her voice is sharp. She doesn't sound sick anymore.
“Don't tell Dad.” I make the mistake of peeking up at her. Her green eyes are hard as polished stone. She's sitting up straight, her spine like an iron rod. No one would call her weak now.
“Ava-Claire Sullivan, you answer me right this moment or I'm calling your father.” Each word has a point that drives into me. This is what I'm afraid of.
“It's not what you think,” I whisper. Why did I think this was going to work?
“Of course it's not,” she snaps.
“I was messing around with this guy–” No, that doesn't sound right. I try again. “I met this guy and we were wrestling and it got out of hand.” Nope. I should have come up with a better way to explain this. Her hands reach out to take mine.
“Tell me the truth. Don't stop.” She's gripping my hands tight, trying to get me to tell. I take a deep breath.
“I don't know. It was something that I asked for. I provoked him and he got fed up and it won't happen again. He's not... He's not like that. I don't know. He's kind of messed up in the head.” The words sound as awful as it feels to say them. I leave out the part where he said he'd kill me. She doesn't need to know about that.
“Ava. I want you to listen to me.” She takes my face into her hands. “No one has the right to hurt you. No matter what. I don't care who they are, or how it happened. You see that you made a mistake, and you're acknowledging it. I want you to remember this; how you feel right now and carry it with you. I never, ever want this to happen to you again. Never.” She kisses my forehead.
I sit in shock. She should have yanked me down to the police station to file an assault report. She would have forced every word out of me, like water wrung from a sponge. Dad would have gotten involved and it would have been a huge mess. Instead she holds me close and whispers things in my ear that I can't make sense of.
“Knock, knock.” Dad comes in with a tray of fresh fruit he painstakingly sliced and arranged. He pauses when he sees me, but reins his anger in. Must not upset the invalid. I pull the scarf back around my neck and my mother angles herself so she's in front of me. So he doesn't see.
When I was little, the threat of telling my father about things was the one way to really terrify me into behaving. Not that she'd used it as a way to keep me in line, but when I did something wrong, she would always say, “you know, we have to tell Dad,” and my heart would freeze and the bottom would drop out of my stomach.
Telling him was always so much worse than telling her about anything. I could have stumbled in blind drunk and she would have laughed and told me I'd regret it in the morning. My father would have yelled and his face would have gotten red and I would have lost my phone, TV, and breathing privileges. She;s the kind of mother who thinks that the mistakes and the consequences are punishment enough. Nine times out of ten, she's right. Doesn't mean that I'm not terrified of telling my dad that I failed a math test.
Often, we've been partners in crime, she and I. Bonding over the shared secrets of my misdeeds, minor as they might be. A secret for just us girls. Most of the time I figure she does it because she doesn't want him to have a heart attack at forty. He's come close, and she's even tried to get him on some anxiety medication. No such luck. He's calmed down a little bit in the last few years since I've gotten older and stopped doing things like trying to fly off the porch. But since my mother's diagnosis, he'd begun his descent into crazy again.