So camp is going okay. It’s fine. I write. It’s good like that.
Daddy told me once that Mama liked poetry. She did English in college. Mama must have been smart to go to college. Daddy didn’t go. He said that she liked some man named Shakespeare. I asked Daddy how to spell the word so I could get it right in here. Daddy says I’m too young to read Shakespeare. I’ll have to see if they have him in the library when school starts again. It would be neat to read the books Mama liked.
I don’t want to ask Daddy to go to the library because he seems busy. I’ve noticed he’s been in the garage a lot. Even during the day on the weekends, no ladies or anything. He just goes in there and cleans and organizes. He tells me to play in the yard, not to come in. I wonder what he’s doing in there. I saw him bring a couple new tools in once. Sometimes, he just paces in there, back and forth. Back and forth, wringing his hands. Once I even heard him slam his fists on the table. I kept my head down and kept drawing with my chalk. I didn’t want to make him mad.
Tonight, Daddy is watching TV downstairs. He’s watching a Western. I like those.
He seemed upset at dinner. Usually, once he plays the game in the garage, he’s happy for a long time. A long, long time. But not this time. Maybe the game didn’t end right. I don’t know. But his hands were shaking last night when he read Green Eggs and Ham. And Sam’s voice just wasn’t as happy.
I’m worried. I hope he can win the game so he can be happy. Maybe he’ll go out again tonight. It would be good to see him happy again. I’ll let you know tomorrow.
But Diary, he did love the friendship bracelet. He said it was his favorite color when he put it on. You already know that, though. It’s my favorite, too. But at least now we have matching bracelets in our favorite colors so even when he’s working and I’m at dumb camp, we can remember each other. I like that. I’m never taking mine off.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
June 22, 2010
6:57 p.m.
There was red last night.
Lots of red.
Her hair was even red.
It made me look at my hair.
Would Daddy ever put me in the game? I imagined myself swinging from the rope, dangling and staring as Daddy took my picture. I wondered what it would be like to look up at the garage ceiling while Daddy worked, my eyes bulgy and my neck purple like hers. Her red hair was short in a bob. I liked that it wasn’t touching her neck. I wonder if she hated hair on her neck like me. I bet she did.
He worked hard, smiling and peaceful, but the saw seemed angrier than usual. It bit into her faster and harder and there was more red spraying every which way. It took him longer to clean up. He was a little sloppy. I wanted to tell him a couple of times that he wasn’t doing it right. But I reminded myself it was a secret, he didn’t know I was out there.
He dropped a rag when he was heading to finish the game in the field. He pushed the wheelbarrow away. I waited until he was gone. I picked up the rag. It smelled bleachy, but it was stained. Red, red, red. I could barely contain my smile.
What should I do? Daddy never dropped the rag. It seemed wrong to leave it there. Stealing is bad, I know. But I wanted to help Daddy, and I finally had my chance. I snatched it off the ground, looking left and right as if someone might see me. Which was silly because there’s no one out here on our lane to see. We’re out here all alone, just the way we like it. That’s what Daddy always says when Grandma says we should move in town so I can be by the normal kids. Whatever normal means.
I wanted to take the rag with me to my room and put it in the perfect hiding place. With you of course. Right with you. I bet you like red, after all. But I was too scared Daddy might find it there. I had to think fast, so I put it in the next best spot.
The shed. Where my bike lives. I snuck over to the shed, creeping along like a quiet little cat. I searched behind the shed, trying to think of where to hide the rag so Daddy didn’t find it. I didn’t want him feeling bad about making a mistake. We all make mistakes.
I found a rock, a big rock behind the shed. I folded up the rag real small and covered it with the rock. Behind the shed there are tall weeds. It’s overgrown. Daddy doesn’t bother cutting weeds back there because it’s right along the trees. Perfect. A perfect spot for the rag. Not as perfect as with you, Diary. Of course not. But it will have to do.
The rag would be like a soft blanket for you if you could have it. It could keep you company—maybe someday. But for now, it’s keeping rock company. And it will keep the red memories alive.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
He marches in anger.
It’s not red.
He’s not smiling.
It’s not right.
The sun is out,
But he doesn’t notice.
The lightening bug burns me.
I want to twist its neck.
Will it scream?
Part III
2012
10 years old
March 6, 2012
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I think Daddy’s upset again, just like he used to get a couple of years ago. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in the garage. I’ve been pretty sure he was done with that. I thought maybe he’d won his game or the switch in him turned off completely. The past couple of years have been—ordinary. Quiet. Good. However, things seem to have changed. Things aren’t so quiet and good and peaceful with him anymore.
Something’s sparked the game in him again. I can feel it, can sense that he’s different. Just like the last time he was different. I don’t understand what triggers the game or what keeps it at bay. It must be one of the things that only grownups understand, like love and grocery shopping and bills.
All I know is, I think things are changing.
For one thing, I notice his hands are shaking again. It’s not a little bit of a shake like when someone gives a speech and is nervous or when my teacher claims she has caffeine withdrawal and needs more coffee—ew, coffee. I hate the smell of coffee. Thank goodness Daddy doesn’t drink it.
These are wild shakes. It seems like he can’t control them or doesn’t notice. I wonder if it’s like me with my neck, when I scratch, scratch, scratch until it bleeds but don’t even realize it happens.
We still read together every night. I can read by myself, but sometimes the sentences are so long and hard to focus on. I pay attention better when Daddy reads. Plus, I like the routine of Daddy reading to me. We’re in the second book in the Harry Potter series. Daddy says he doesn’t really like wizards and fantasy, but he reads it with me anyway. I think he truly does like it because sometimes, he keeps reading past the chapter’s end. I like the spells. I memorize them and at school I shout them out. The kids laugh at me, and the teacher yells. I try to stop, but I can’t sometimes. They just comes out because they just fit.
Last night, when we were reading, I noticed Daddy’s hands were shaking wildly when he was reading. And there’s something else, something I didn’t notice when I was young. He rubs his ring finger on his left hand a lot. There’s a pained look on his face when he does.
He told me more about Mama last week. He talks about her more lately. Maybe because I’m older, or maybe it’s because time has passed. Grandma says enough time has gone that he could move on. Grandma’s always pushing, pushing, pushing. Like how she insisted on taking me shopping last weekend for appropriate clothing for a young lady. She tried to get me to buy a lacy dress. It’s like she’s trying to make me hate her.