“Right,” I say. I down the glass of water, set it on the counter, then wander through the one-story house until I find a bathroom. Whoever decorated this place sure likes ducks. And plaid.
I peel my jeans down, slowly. Talk about a bloody, sticky mess. After some wincing and swearing, I get my jeans off and take a good look. Yeah, I need stitches. Without them, I’m going to scar, big time. Oh, well. I mean, it’s not like I aspire to be a lingerie model.
Under the sink I find a washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and three big Band-Aids. A butterfly bandage would be better, but no such luck.
There’s a knock.
“What?”
Patrick’s voice. “I’m just setting these inside for you.” The door opens a crack. “Your favorite jeans and a polo.”
In tumbles a fresh pair of jeans and a pink top. “No thanks,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks through the door.
“Pink.”
Patrick is silent for a beat, then, “You love that shirt.”
“Really, I don’t,” I say. “But thanks for the jeans.”
I hear him sigh heavily, then retreat down the hall. After I clean and bandage my leg, I wiggle into the jeans, even though they’re tight. Much worse, they’ve got these fake diamonds along the tops of the pockets. I run my finger across the jewels, wondering if I can pop them off. Maybe they say something in Braille: I’m mentally vacant. That’s why I’m dressed like a poodle.
I wad up my bloodstained jeans and shove them to the bottom of the trash can, splash cold water on my face, use the toilet, then just sit on the pot. What am I going to do next? Crawl out the bathroom window and make a run for it? I can’t. It’s storming like mad. I mean, thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour that would make it impossible to see four feet ahead.
I rock back and forth, my stomach twisting with worry. A high-pitched sound fills the room, like a kitten mewing, and with a start I realize that it’s me. Whimpering. I put my hand over my mouth and start to pace, from the bathroom door to the toilet.
“The important thing is not to stop questioning.” That’s what Einstein once said. No problem, Albert. I’ve got a million questions. Maybe I can answer one or two by snooping around.
I sneak down the hallway toward the bedrooms. The walls are folk-artsy with wooden American flags, corn, cows, and chickens. I’ve never understood how farm animals and home decor equate. I guess it’s better than Willow’s black paintings—the ones that look like truck exhaust and tar puddles. The bleak period.
I continue to scan the wall as I tiptoe down the hallway. After a large, polka-dotted pig, there’s a framed photo of Patrick in a football uniform (I knew it), then an eight-by-ten family photo.
It’s Patrick, Dad, a woman with short black hair, and … me? At least it looks like me. All of us wearing matching khakis and white button-down shirts. The photo is maybe five years old. Patrick is wearing glasses, and my hair is in pigtails. My hair? No, that can’t be me. Of course it can’t.
The woman looks so familiar. Like a cousin or an aunt I’ve met once, at a wedding or a graduation party. Something about her faraway eyes. And what’s Dad doing in this photo?
It’s unnerving. Creepy. I have to turn away.
That’s when I notice a bedroom door. In dark red letters, it says RUBY. Yeah, it says Ruby. Ruby! I can feel the bile rising in my throat. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to run, then the urge to open the door. It’s a fierce tug-of-war, like positive charge versus negative, proton versus antiproton. The sum equals zero. So I just stand there, statuelike.
Deep breath.
With the tips of my fingers, I push open the door.
Inside, there’s a twin bed with a pink patchwork quilt. Above the bed hangs a poster that says PARIS, JE T’AIME. It’s a collage of photos of the Champs-Élysées, Eiffel Tower, and the Louvre. On the bookshelf are a few romance paperbacks. Then some yearbooks. I pull down the most recent and go straight for the index. My finger lands on “Wright, Ruby, 11, 27, 32, 54, 96.” Page eleven is topped with Ó Direáin High School’s Best (or Worst)! Photos of smiling kids are captioned by Most Likely to Succeed, Biggest Flirts, Most Detentions, Biggest Gossips, and Best Dressed.
Ruby Wright lands the coveted title of Most Likely to Lead. Class President, President of the Pep Club, and President of the French Club, it’s no wonder Ruby’s smiling. C’est cheese!
It’s me. Or someone who looks like me, though I’ve never owned a fuchsia V-neck sweater. And my hair has never been that shade of reddish orange—the color of iron oxide, the color of Mars.
My name, my face, my smile.
Panic pulses through my veins. I can’t process this. With trembling hands, I slide the yearbook back into its spot on the bookshelf. Now my eyes are drawn to a shoe box on the bottom shelf. The box’s top is off and I can see that it’s loaded with postcards and letters. Yeah, I know. The last time I read someone’s personal stuff, I got chased smack into a coffee table. I’ll just read one or two things. I need to get my bearings; I need some clues.
A handwritten note on top, dated a couple of days ago.
Dear Ruby,
I can’t remember the last time we talked (really talked, like we used to), and I know that’s at least half my fault. So I thought I’d try the old-fashioned way to get a few things aired out. We can’t scream at each other in a letter, or storm off angry. For me it’s a better way to organize my thoughts and feelings. Maybe if you like this method, you can write me back, and we can work out a few things this way.
So I wanted to say thanks for letting Willow and me escape for a weekend. I wish your mother would have kept her promise to stay with you three at the house, but I don’t blame her. I hope that someday we can be on friendly terms again, but that will no doubt be a slow process.
Please spend some time with Kandy while we’re gone. Willow is hopeful about the new medications … Kandy seems to have found her footing. I think eventually you’ll be fast friends. We need to talk again about the two of you sharing your room. We can find a way to divide it fairly. Just keep an open mind.
I understand that this has been difficult for everyone. I apologize for the hurt, Ruby, but you know that your mother and I have been heading in different directions for some time. I love Willow, and my hope is that we can all move forward with forgiveness and acceptance.
Love,
Dad
P.S. No parties! And enjoy Patrick’s gourmet cooking. I don’t know where he gets his talent.
I know that handwriting. It’s Dad’s. I start to read the letter a second time, trying to make sense of it. Kandy is on medication; Mom was supposed to stay for the weekend.
Mom? Whose mom?
A voice jolts me. “Ruby?” It’s Patrick, shouting from the kitchen.
“I’m fine!” I holler back.
The house is starting to smell like food. Kandy must be back with the wings, and maybe Patrick is baking something too. Smells like chocolate chip cookies.
If I weren’t so completely disturbed and confused, I would be tempted to eat. But right now I just feel queasy, frazzled.
As I push the box of letters back into its slot, the corner of a photo catches my eye. I pull it out and hold it in the palm of my hand. It’s my three-year-old self, wearing a red-gingham blouse with denim overalls. I’m sitting on Mom’s lap. This is my photo, from my dresser!
Only it’s … not. In this version, Mom is looking straight at the camera and she’s forcing a smile. This photo is in focus.
Oh my God.
I rush back into the hall and hold the snapshot next to the eight-by-ten I saw earlier: Patrick, Dad, a woman, and me. All of us wearing khakis and white button-down shirts.