Page 75 of Under the Ink

“I didn’t saythat—but I hadn’t planned to. Mrs. Rodenbeck never gave me the chance. She told my mom about my conversation with her. And my mom didn’t exactly call me a slut or a temptress…so maybe I have to give her credit for that. She kept asking me if maybe I imagined what happened. So, for the longest time, I doubted myself. But she told me not to say anything. I don’t know why. I think my parents worshipped Jacob’s dad. Like the fucking preacher was the one with the keys to salvation.”

Sage didn’t grin, but he was certain this was the first time Naomi had ever used the F word around him.

And good for her. If any occasion called for it, it was this one.

“At least she didn’t question why I stopped dating Jacob. I can’t even imagine.”

“Did she at least encourage you to get therapy or—”

“Nope. And I was so afraid I’d wind up pregnant—and, if I did, who would I turn to? But Ginny offered to drive me to the Springs if it had come to that.”

“Fucking A. No wonder you were cutting yourself.”

“Yeah…and that’s when my mom really became a peach.”

Sage wasn’t about to step into that. Even though he didn’t always feel close with his parents, they weren’t religious nuts—and they’d always supported him. If they hadn’t…maybe he’d feel the way Naomi had.

“I mean…I was pretty sure my mom had seen a couple of the cuts but it was easier to ignore them. I tried telling her once or twice. No way could I talk to my dad about it. Because of him, I always had to wear dresses and they had to be past the knee and nothing sleeveless…which was fine with me when I got older and had stuff to hide. The church was pretty fundamentalist…so all the shit Paul spewed about women having to be silent and subservient and dressing modestly was pounded into our heads.

“I wasn’t as important as Jacob—or any of the other men in the church.”

Naomi took a long breath but Sage stayed silent. As he expected, she began speaking again after a few seconds. “Anyway, I figured out pretty quickly that a pin or a razor or a knife was welcome relief—and even though once or twice I overdid it and bled way too much, even then I thought…if I died, at least I wouldn’t have that shit in my head anymore.”

She grew quiet again and it wasn’t until she sniffed that Sage realized she was still crying. “Do you need me to get you something? A Kleenex or—”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.” When she sniffled again and cleared her throat, Sage figured she was done talking. He ran his hand along her back, instinctively trying to soothe her. Finally, though, her voice floated into the silence. “Near the end of my senior year, I was doing dishes after dinner. I had cut my arm pretty badly earlier that evening—my upper arm, under where the black rose is now.” Sage knew now exactly where that spot was, right about where her t-shirt sleeves normally ended. “I had a Band-Aid on it and I didn’t realize it was still bleeding—bleeding right through to my shirt. It was white with light blue flowers, so the blood was noticeable—well, to my mom anyway. I was busy scrubbing a skillet. But she asked what happened and I just said something lame, likeI scratched myselfor something.

“‘No,’ she said, ‘this is more than a scratch,’ and before I could stop her, she pulled my sleeve up—and then she saw everything. All the times I’d cut myself over and over. Faded pink slashes, red scabbed lines, and everything in between. And even though she asked me why I’d done it, she didn’treallywant to know. I know because she didn’t wait for an answer. She just kept repeating, ‘What have youdone?’ but it was a rhetorical question. And rather than let me try to explain anything, she called for my dad, the expert at everything, to come to the kitchen and kept telling me I was ruined.

“Ruined.

“Until that point, I thought and hoped maybe my dad would be more supportive. Instead, he asked who did that to me. I’ll never forget my mom screaming that I did that to myself. The worst part was when my sister showed up in the doorway. I don’t know why that bothered me more than anything else. But I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t have the words. How do you explain to your parents that you were drugged and assaulted and somehow those slices made you feel better? They would never understand. Especially my dad. I don’t think my mom ever said anything to him about Jacob.”

“So you didn’t tell them about what happened from your perspective?”

“Hell, no. I never really had the chance. And after the night my mom saw the cuts, I knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Finally, the berating ended and I could see on their faces everything they were thinking—that I was a freak, a weirdo, and how had I come from their genes? How could I be a product of their perfect love? So I didn’t even try. I just said it was an accident—which they knew was BS. And then I told them I wouldn’t do it again. By then, my mom was crying and she’d pulled my sister in and got her crying too. And then we prayed on it—as a family. Because they believe prayer fixes everything.

“But I’m living proof it doesn’t.

“And, after that, I just picked better places to cut—and they stopped asking questions, because they didn’t want to know. The imperfect daughter was ruining their perfect life.” Naomi sat up, swiping her hand under her nose. “I’ll be right back,” she said, sliding out of the sheets.

Sitting up in the soft bed, Sage watched her walk across the room, marveling at how her back and ass were completely pale—no tattoos but no scars, either. Pale flesh, innocent and untouched…the way Naomi should have been in her youth.

He hoped she understood just how strong and amazing she was. Her story made the few incidents in his childhood when he’d been bullied seem like a day at the fair.

When she came back, she had a box of tissues and was running one under her eyes to swipe off the running black makeup. Goddamn, she was beautiful from head to toe, and it hit Sage again right in the heart.

Sitting on the bed next to him, she pulled the sheet over her body quickly. He said, “You don’t have to do that. Every inch of you is beautiful…and you don’t have to hide from me.”

Smiling almost shyly, Naomi lowered her head and began picking at a cuticle on her thumb as if it were the most important thing she had to do at the moment—but Sage wasn’t going to force her to look at him. She could look when she was good and ready.

“The day I turned eighteen…I left with a backpack full of clothes and went to the homeless shelter. Ginny told me I was crazy and snuck me into her bedroom—until her parents found out. But she convinced them that I just needed a place to stay for a little while. I got a job at McDonald’s and saved every penny and, by then, I didn’t care if I graduated. I just needed my own space—which I got shortly after that, complete with coworker roommates. And every dime I didn’t have to spend on rent or food went towards covering up all the scars that told everyone what I’d done…covering up the shame…”

Still sitting up, Sage pulled her into his arms and held her head against his chest as her tears started to fall once more. “You know you havenothingto be ashamed of, right?”

She sniffed and looked up at him. “Knowing is one thing. Believing,” she said, rapping on her chest with a fist, “is another thing entirely.”

Inside the deepest parts of him, Sage wanted nothing more than to hold her close and reassure her from now until the end of time that she would be okay…that if she could find that belief in herself, no one could take it away.

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