Ruby Page 3

  I leaned over and kissed her cheek. I was crying, too. But not because everything would be different—I wanted that. I knew I’d never see Amy again. And the part of myself that had known her would be gone forever, too.

  I AM IN AMY’S peach-tiled bathroom with my head back and my mouth open. Amy is sitting in front of me with a bottle. She is dropping silver nitrate onto each of the sores on my tongue. Each drop makes my eyes fill with tears and my body go rigid with pain. Amy got the silver nitrate from her father, who is a dentist. I’ve had the sores for three days and they are so bad that I can’t eat without wanting to scream. Even water hurts. Amy says that this will help, and I trust her. She is one of the only people I trust.

  “Oh, Ruby,” Amy says, her eyes watering, too.

  When the stinging stops, my mouth is immediately better. We go downstairs to have French vanilla ice cream. Nothing has ever tasted so good to me.

  “What were those sores from?” Amy asks, serving me another scoop.

  “It’s stress,” I say. “Too much acid. It’s why my stomach always hurts.”

  “But why, Ruby?”

  I look at her with everything in my eyes but I don’t say a word.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here one day,” she says. “As far away as possible.”

  “THANK YOU,” I SAID. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”

  We kissed each other and I got out of the car and walked up the path to the white house with green shutters.

  ON HIS THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY, just at the time when even your own body stops being something you can rely on, the boy discovered the meaning of betrayal.

  His mother and stepfather had given him a party. They had rented out the pub and even hired a local rock band. His mother told him that she wanted him to feel he could have fun with her in the room. She hoped it would keep him from drinking in the woods and maybe getting some girl pregnant. His mother was happy that she had taught him how to treat a lady, but at the same time she wondered if he was too good at it for someone so youthful. His charm and sensitivity, combined with his faun-like beauty, was a lot to take. On the day of the party, a girl fainted. It might have been from the heat, but the boy’s mother believed the girl just couldn’t stand the sight of the boy surrounded by so many other adoring females.

  Later that night, the boy’s mother and stepfather sat with him in front of the fireplace, drinking tea. He thanked them for the party, and his mother ran her fingers through his lush curls, revealing his smooth forehead and slightly arched eyebrows. No wonder the poor child had fainted, she thought. Luckily she had recovered quickly, and the boy had promised his mother that he would call her the next morning to check up on her.

  “We have something to tell you, darling,” his mother said.

  He glanced up. He had been staring into the flames, and for some reason he had imagined he saw his father’s face.

  His mother and stepfather were sitting close together, watching him with the same expression. The boy couldn’t define it. They seemed joyful and sad at the same time, excited and worried.

  “We wanted to wait until tonight,” his mother said. “Until you were thirteen. It seemed right.”

  The boy was feeling uncomfortable now. He thought about the lavish party they had given him; it had almost seemed too much. He looked hard into his stepfather’s face, studying the shape of his nose and mouth and chin. That’s usually how it is when we hear life-changing news. It’s as if we’ve known it all along and the truth becomes clear just before the words are spoken.

  “Just to make it as easy as possible,” the boy’s stepfather said, “we might as well just say it right out, don’t you think?” He looked over at the boy’s mother.

  She took her son’s hand and he squirmed. Something didn’t feel right. They could have given him a normal party—a few friends, a cake.

  “It’s wonderful, really,” she said. “I think it will make you very happy when you get used to it.”

  “What?” the boy glumly mumbled, as if to say, Get on with things, will you? He had, after all, just turned thirteen that day.

  “I’m your real father,” the boy’s stepfather said, quietly but full of pride, without shame really.

  Did this news make the young man happy? He loved his stepfather. His mother loved her new husband. Since the boy’s father had died, the house had stayed filled with daffodil light. His parents slept in the same bed. The boy still heard his mother’s incantations late in the night but they were of a different kind now. There were no tears.

  But it didn’t matter. What they told him was still a betrayal. It would still make it hard to trust anything that happened after.

  nice men

  OPAL AND I USED TO VISIT Bobbi and Marcus Becker, friends of my parents, who owned the florist shop in town. Mr. Becker was also a highly respected veterinarian, who taught at the university. He and his wife lived in a house made of redwood and glass, which they had built themselves way out in the woods. It was filled with art—modern, minimalist Asian, and the Native American pieces Bobbi had inherited from her Blackfoot grandfather. There was a greenhouse off the back, where they grew a lot of the exotic plants for their florist shop. Wild gardens stretched out on all sides, slowly merging with the woods around. Deer came right up to the door to try and eat the day lilies. You’d catch sight of them through the tall windows, munching happily. Mrs. Becker never had the heart to chase them away, so her outdoor garden always had a half-eaten appearance, even though she put up strips of silver foil as a deterrent. Opal and I ate dinner with the Beckers on the screened porch overlooking the woods and a pond with a dock, safe from the mosquitoes that loved to feast on me. After the meal, Opal and Mrs. Becker usually went inside to watch TV or play Scrabble, but I’d stay out there for hours, listening to the night sounds—crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, the song of the bobwhite quail, an occasional owl, coyote, or chattering raccoon, and the water of the pond lapping on the dock and the bottom of the two-man metal fishing boat. I imagined I could understand what they were all saying. It was really noisy, like being in a shopping mall where all the little groups are having conversations that create a sort of hum. I was usually alone, and I was grateful for that, just staring up at the moon, lost (or found, really) in her glow. Sometimes Mr. Becker would join me, but I didn’t mind. He was the one who taught me to tell apart the night-animal sounds. Once in a while, I’d sit on his lap and let him tuck my hair behind my ears. I never let anyone else do that.

  This was my father’s friend, I thought. Why couldn’t Mr. Becker see who the man really was? But my father was good at deception and I needed kindness in my life.

  That was what I got from the Martins, too. Their world was normal. Safe. I was able to just be.

  ONE DAY, JULIET AND I were playing with her dollhouse dolls. She handed me the father. He wore a white shirt, brown pants and shoes, and red pullover vest. His face was blank but kind.

  “Ruby, do you have a mommy and daddy?” Juliet asked.

  I nodded and picked up the mother doll. She was wearing a blue dress and had fluffy yellow hair.

  “Do you miss them?”

  “I miss my mom, sometimes,” I said.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She has pretty brown hair and teeth like this.” I bared my sharp incisors and Juliet shivered happily. “And she is a really good cook. She used to sew me all my Halloween costumes. She had a great-aunt named Ruby and one named Opal and that is how she named me, and my sister, but also because she loves jewels, what they mean.”

  Juliet nodded solemnly. “What about your daddy?”

  I sat quietly for a minute, holding the dolls.

  “My father isn’t a very nice man,” I said.

  Juliet looked up at me. Her big, brown eyes were so sad; for a moment, I wished I hadn’t told her. Then she brightened.

  “You can share my daddy with me. He’s a really nice man,” Juliet said.

  MY ROOM AT THE MARTINS’ was down
stairs, off the kitchen. It was very clean and plain. Just my bed and dresser and a closet with a few plain clothes. I didn’t go out; I hardly bought a thing. I was saving every penny.

  When I had free time, I went into the huge kitchen with one of Mrs. Martin’s cookbooks and made meals. French and Indian and Thai and Italian. I’d never really cooked before, but the more I did it, and the more the kids gobbled up the food, the more I wanted to make. Sometimes I’d experiment and come up with my own recipes. I’d use the fresh herbs that grew in the garden and I’d work very slowly, enjoying the feel of the beautiful pots and bowls and knives, closing my eyes to discern the smells.

  For exercise, I took Juliet to the stables to ride horses, or I danced. Mr. and Mrs. Martin went salsa dancing every Saturday, and sometimes they gave me lessons. Mrs. Martin would lend me a silk dress and high heels, and we’d put on music and glide around the mirror-lined room with the beautiful wood floors and the ballet barre while Mr. Martin shouted out encouragement.

  Mrs. Martin’s voice was breathless. “Ruby, you’re getting so good, doll, you have to come with us. You’ll have the men just going crazy.”

  But I never took her up on it. I knew I was waiting for something. I just didn’t know what yet.

  Instead of going out at night, I’d go into the library and choose books and read. Mr. Martin always asked how I was doing and if he could get me anything new. My goal was to read everything on the shelves, to know as much as possible. It was like that summer when I’d run to the library every day, checking out all those books to read and talk about with Old Man Tree. But now it was all right here. I wondered if the books might enter into my consciousness, somehow, while I slept, and fill me with their wonder. Sometimes I read under the big, glossy lemon tree. I wanted to tell her the stories, but she already knew them all.

  When I wasn’t reading, I watched DVDs. The Martins had a huge collection. A lot of the films were ones that Jack Martin had produced.

  One was called Knights of the Sun.

  I LOOKED UP FROM MY DARK PLACE and there you were. Your smile blooms on your face, sudden and unexpected like a speeded up film of flowers opening. Your eyes shine with something between joy and sadness. Your hair is all reckless brown curls. Your body is lean and fine like a swimmer’s. I know what I am waiting for. I know that you are meant to be mine. Why are we given free will if we are not meant to use it? To create. To re-create. I will do whatever it takes.

  “WHO IS THIS?” I ASKED Mrs. Martin, showing her your picture on the DVD.

  “Ruby, you are so funny!”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Don’t you see any movies?”

  “I didn’t much before,” I said.

  “Ruby is a pure soul,” said Mr. Martin.

  “That’s Orion Woolf,” said Mrs. Martin. “He’s on his way to being the biggest star in the world, that’s what Jack says.”

  Mr. Martin nodded. “Girls love him. Look at that smile. And he’s pretty down-to-earth actually.”

  “Juliet adores him,” said Mrs. Martin. “I have to fast-forward over all the sex and violence so she can see him.”

  Juliet looked up from where she was putting her horses into their wooden corral. Her eyelashes formed star points as if they were always wet.

  “That’s who my favorite horsey is named for, Ruby,” she said solemnly.

  Orion.

  I HAD BEEN WITH THE MARTINS for almost a year when Steven called. He had gotten my number from Opal. I’m sure she thought I wouldn’t mind; she always liked Steven. I was so shocked to hear his voice that I almost hung up, but then I figured he’s harmless, over a thousand miles away, I’m safe here.

  He told me about his life and how it wasn’t going so well. He had married the girl he had dumped me for. Barb was ten years older than he was. Her dad owned a mechanics shop, so he got a job there instead of going to school like he’d planned. Barb wanted a baby but Steven wasn’t ready. She got really angry and upset but all of a sudden her mood just switched. And she wouldn’t be home when he got back from work; there were the typical hang-up phone calls. It turned out she was pregnant with his seventeen-year-old cousin’s baby.

  I couldn’t believe the high drama of it all. And I felt so grateful not to be a part of it. But I also felt sorry for him.

  When he told me he still loved me, he’d always loved me, I was completely silent. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d either scream or vomit. He just kept talking, didn’t notice my silence. It had always been like that. He went on to say he had decided he was good-looking enough to try acting or modeling, and he wanted to come to California, just like we’d always dreamed.

  “What do you think, Ruby?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I know you’re scared and alone. I’ll come and make it all better. I’d bet you’d like that. Can’t wait to see you, babe.”

  Then he hung up.

  I just stared at the phone. He wasn’t serious, was he? He couldn’t be. I knew Steven; he was all talk. And I’m safe, here in the Martins’ house, I told myself. He can’t find me here among the trees.

  But I was wrong. Two weeks later, I was playing with Juliet in the garden room, making a jungle for her wild animals among the ferns, when Jennifer, Mrs. Martin’s assistant, came in.

  “There’s someone here to see you, Ruby. He says he’s an old friend.”

  He was clean-shaven and his hair was slicked back. He had on a La Coste shirt, new jeans, and loafers. Even though he swaggered in and spoke in a loud voice, I could tell he was terrified. It made me feel sorry for him.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “I got your sister to tell me. I hounded her for months.”

  I knew Opal wasn’t good at saying no. You couldn’t blame her, after everything she had been through.

  “I can’t see you,” I said.

  “Ruby,” he said. “Please. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “Please leave,” I said.

  But he came back the next day, and the next. Each time he looked more like a sad puppy dog. Finally, Mrs. Martin stepped in. She told me I had to go.

  “You never go out, sweetie. And he’s not bad. You could use a little wining and dining.”

  “What about whining?”

  I didn’t tell her that Steven broke my heart. It wasn’t even really true, anyway. It had been broken long before he came along and now, I told myself, it was whole. I decided to go to dinner with him because I wanted to know for sure how much I had changed.

  Steven took me to a large, loud, fish restaurant at the beach. The very tanned waitresses wore Hawaiian-print miniskirts and served fishbowl-sized, fluorescent tropical drinks garnished with skewered canned pineapple and poisonous-looking cherries. I ordered a salad but I didn’t feel hungry. Outside the window, the sea and sky and rocks were all the same shade of gray. I wanted to be out there on the water, sailing far away. I remembered the octopus that Amy and I had seen on the beach when we first arrived. I felt like that creature, caught in a tide pool, being examined by Steven’s eyes, something unusual and odd, a souvenir he might want to put in a tank and take back home with him.

  “I’m sorry, Ruby,” Steven said, after he had finished his third beer. “I just want to say I’m really sorry and I will never treat you like that again.”

  “Again?”

  “I want you back. No one else is like you. We can stay out here; you can keep your job. I’m going to get head shots and take acting lessons.”

  He was talking too fast and I just stared at him. It was like looking at someone reading lines behind a scrim. He was so much less real than you on a DVD.

  “I came all the way out here,” Steven said.

  I shook my head and pushed my plate away. I stared out at the waves crashing on the rocks.

  “Ruby?”

  “Steven, it is so completely over,” I said.

  He looked shocked. I realized that he had actually expected me to say yes to him. It made my st
omach hurt.

  “Did you really think I would want to get back together? My life is different now. I’m looking for different things.”

  He was angry. I saw it flash in his eyes as though another person were coming up from inside of him, and his teeth were clenched and it made me think of my father. He even pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and began tapping it on the table. When had he started smoking?

  “I know you don’t want to be reminded of where you come from but it will always be with you. You can’t escape it by pretending it doesn’t exist. I was there, Ruby. I saw it.”

  I remembered, once I was in the basement playing our new video game, sitting at the end of the couch closest to the TV. The TV was always on. My father was lying on the couch, watching me and coaching me. His voice getting louder and louder. I was playing worse and worse the more he yelled.

  “You’re not trying hard enough!” he screamed.

  He started kicking me into the couch. Then he sent me to bed. It was seven at night. I climbed out the window and met Steven.

  I had bruises on my legs, and when he asked I told him about them. He took me in his arms and we ended up having sex. But he never said anything. He gave me that flashlight and phone on Christmas but he never said anything. He was right; he had seen what I went through. But he never did anything.

  “You can’t escape that way,” Steven said. “You can’t leave where you come from.”

  He was right. You can’t leave.

  Unless you do.

  It was a little like my first memory, when I was three. Standing there, watching it all. Detaching. Deciding. I could leave.

  I got up and threw a twenty onto the tablecloth. Then I walked out of the restaurant, called a cab, and went back to the Martins’.

  Mrs. Martin was reading in the den. The light was soft and warm, and there were peonies in the cloisonné vases. They were so full-blown, ready to scatter their pink petals at the slightest touch.