Daddy isn’t completely comfortable talking about Mama, though. He still gets clammy, cold when I mention her or ask a question. Still, it’s progress because at least now I get some answers. Just a few tiny snippets here and there. It feels good to get to know my Mama, even just a little bit. It’s weird to think she lived in this house and spent time with me—but I don’t even know her at all.
I think she might be why he’s sad sometimes. I still see the tattooed wedding ring on his finger, the way he rubs it with a faraway look. Mama must have hurt him badly. It makes me angry at her. Who could hurt Daddy? And how could I have ever loved a person who would hurt him? It makes me not want to miss her or be sad that she’s not here.
Someone at school lost their mom a few weeks ago. Her name is Anna. She’s been crying a lot. I hate it when people cry. Mrs. Hollenberry told me I should talk to her, maybe because she knows I lost my mom when I was young. But I don’t want to talk to Anna.
I told Daddy about it at dinner. Usually, I like when we sit in silence at the table. I eat my chicken tenders and fries, just like every night. Dad eats pizza or eggs or whatever he feels like making himself. Sometimes he eats cereal. But tonight, I told him about Anna and her mother and the car accident.
Dad stiffened. It was a long moment of him slowly chewing on his scrambled eggs before he said, “The world’s unfair, sometimes, Ruby.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, what rules the world isn’t following. But I knew he was talking about Mama. I wonder if Mama died in a car accident like Anna’s Mom. I’ve never asked.
I know some things about Mama even though I don’t remember her. I know:
She died when I was 2.
She had red hair.
She loved poetry, especially Shakespeare.
Her favorite food was Chinese food, which I’ve never tried.
She wanted a cat in the worst way, but I’m allergic to cats so she couldn’t have one.
Her favorite color was blue. Not red. That’s unfortunate (vocabulary word. I can spell it perfectly. Easy).
Looking back at the list, I know six things. Six things about Mama. I wonder if that’s normal. How many things do other kids know about their moms?
It’s okay. Don’t feel sorry for me. People are complicated, but paper and pen are not. Daddy is not.
I worry about him, though. I can sense he is agitated. I wonder what about. I keep thinking that maybe I did something wrong. Last week, I dropped a glass and it shattered everywhere. But Daddy just helped clean it up, said not to dwell on it. I did think about it, though. All night. All the next day. I cried a few times, and my teacher didn’t understand. But Daddy did clean it up and I realized that you couldn’t even tell it happened. He’s so good at cleaning.
A part of me is sort of hoping, I guess, that he continues the garage work. I miss watching him there. For so long now, I’ve had to rely on rereading my Diary entries to get that rush. It never quite compares, though, to witnessing it live. It’s not as passionate and thrilling.
Daddy in the garage was exciting, peaceful. Methodical. Just how I like it. It was more interesting than any other show I could’ve ever watched.
The other night when I’d gone to bed, I heard Daddy watching a show on television. I crept down the steps real quiet, peeking in. The show had lots of blood, lots of red. There was a man holding a saw. I blinked. Was it Daddy? Daddy just shook his head at the screen, not knowing I was there. Like he was judging the guy. Maybe that’s what stirred it all in Daddy again. Maybe he realized he is so much better at the red, at the saw, at the game.
I don’t blame him for thinking that. I watched the show for a minute. The guy had it all wrong. The red doesn’t splash like that. I know what it splatters like, and Daddy sure as heck knows what it splatters like.
I’m going to go down and watch television with Daddy now while I work on my scarf. The school librarian gave me a book on knitting, so Daddy took me out to buy yarn. Not scratchy yarn, yuck. Soft, soft, soft yarn, like a bunny’s fur. I’m going to make Daddy a scarf. Maybe if he has to go into the garage this winter, it’ll keep him warm.
I picked white yarn. The red specks would look so good on it, wouldn’t they?
Stay Safe,
Ruby
March 13, 2012
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I wish I didn’t have to go to school. I wish I could stay home or help Daddy at work or just stay home and write. It must be wonderful to be a writer because you could just stay in, away from everyone. People reading your words can’t see the faces you make or the way your hand twitches or how you stop to scratch your neck. They just see the true you, what you want to say. Maybe someday that’s what I’ll do.
Today was a really bad day at school. Worse than ever. Some of the girls in my class, Clarissa, Sarah, and Chloe, have been very mean to me. I don’t know why all of a sudden they’ve noticed me. They know I don’t like to talk to anyone. They know I’m different. They usually just leave me alone. But for some reason, it’s become apparent that they really don’t like me.
Yesterday, in art class, I was working on my painting. I was making a picture of our house using red. All red. Just how I like it.
“What a freak,” Clarissa said as she passed by. “Is that period blood?”
The girls snickered.
“No. It’s paint,” I replied because what else could I say? We’d just learned about periods at school. The school nurse had the talk with us while the boys played outside. I’d doodled on my desk trying not to make eye contact while the girls in the class had laughed and whispered. I tried to think about what the appropriate response would be to her question. I decided I should reassure Clarissa that no, it wasn’t period blood. I hadn’t had my period, in fact.
“I heard you’re a Daddy’s girl,” Chloe said. She has long, long black hair that reaches way down her back. It reminds me of the shiny black hair of the lady Daddy once had in the garage. I imagined what it would look like with streaks of red paint in it, but I stopped myself.
“Yes,” I replied as I worked on the door of the house. My neck itched, but I tried to fight the urge to scratch it with red paint on my hands. The teacher, Mrs. Cartwright, was busy helping a table of girls in the other corner work on their perfect flower paintings. She didn’t notice the three around me.
Clarissa laughed, leaning in. "Just how close are you, huh? I mean, you don’t seem to talk to anyone else and I always see him drop you off in the morning. Kind of weird that you don’t have any friends. Daddy’s girl, huh?”
“Yes. I love Daddy.”
“She loves Daddy,” Clarissa repeated. I didn’t know why she was repeating me.
“Daddy’s girl. Daddy’s girl. Do you sleep in his bed with him?” she asked, adjusting her too tight top and hiking up her skirt. It made me uncomfortable. “Does Daddy touch you? Huh?”
The other girls were giggling wildly.
“No. Daddy knows I don’t like touched.”
Sarah, the girl with short, short brown hair snorted. “So he just looks then, huh? Or maybe you touch him? My Mama says your Daddy always was a weirdo.”
I didn’t quite understand what she meant, so I just kept painting. Anger started to surge though. They didn’t know Daddy, not like me. It made me upset they would say mean things about him. And how did Sarah’s mom know who he was?