XVIII. Concealment

"...she has the right to keep things hidden from me just like I keep things hidden from her-and the rest of the world."-Rick

"Vivian, this is getting old. Tell me what happened." My father has slowly become irritated with my stubborn silence. Like father like daughter I suppose. I think to myself.

"No, thanks." I reply, going up the stairs to my bedroom.

"You don't want to talk to your only parent?"

I freeze halfway up.

"I'm not your mother, Vivian, but I care just as much as she does-or did."

Slowly I turn around. For a few seconds I give my father a long look before I reply. "I know, daddy. It's just that you NEVER talk about her. You never mention the fact that she used to be here and how she kept the place alive while everyone was at work and school."

"I know." Dad approaches the stairs. "I haven't been as caring as I ought to have been these past couple of years. Remember she was just as important to me as she was to you."

"Yes, she is important to me." I fold my arms.

"She isn't here anymore." Dad says. "And she never will be. As cruel as it sounds, it's true, dear. I'm just trying to move on with our lives, not bury the memories of your mother."

"You never talk about how she died!" I raise my voice, fighting to keep the tears from surfacing.

"Her death took us all by shock, but-"

"I've had nightmares about it!" I blurt out, then quickly cover my mouth.

A glare slowly forms on his face. "What did you just say?" He begins to escalate the stairs. His tone is hardened yet calm.

I regain composure. "I said I've had nightmares about mom's death." I match my father's voice.

"For how long?" Dad moves closer."How long have you been having these dreams and haven't told me about it?"

I turn and clear the rest of the stairs.

"Vivian. I asked you a question." Dad follows me to the top of the stairs. "How long?"

"I don't want to talk about it." I turn around, crossing my arms again.

"Fine. You can talk to a counselor instead." Dad says. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

I can feel myself boiling. "Dad, I don't need a counselor!" I shout.

"I see." He remarks calmly. "You've got everything under control."

"STOP being sarcastic with me!" I grit my teeth. "You treat me like I'm some mental patient in an asylum, and you wonder why I never want to talk to you? You're a horrible parent without mom beside you!"

I storm into my room and slam the door shut. Dad calls after me once, but falls silent. Somehow that brings back the tears; full-on, long-anticipated, hot, fat tears.

Immediately I land on the pillow that I got from Queenie's house and hurl it on the floor. That pillow will always be a reminder of the disgusting sight that was laid in front of me. Instead I bury my face on my mattress and weep. Why would dad even think about sending me back to a therapist? Would they recommend me taking pills? I don't want to be on medication!

I lie face up on my bed and let the tears fall down to my ears. And Queenie! How COULD she do that to me after what I had told her? I trusted her with that information, and she does this? What type of friend is she?

I flip back over and sob again. She's the one I would find comfort in. She replaced my old friends from Chicago. Both she and Ivory. Now I don't have anyone to talk to. I lost both of my friends.

Have you forgotten about one? With a jolt I jerk my head up. He wouldn't do something like that to you. He'd listen to you.

This time I rest my chin against my pillows. As comforting as talking to Rick sounds, I'm not in any mood to talk to anybody. At this point in time I could stand to be alone. Everyone else has let me down. Why does my life have to be so crappy? My lip quivers and I sob again. Eventually I land into a light slumber after my strength ebbs away.

"You've been smoking a LOT lately."

It's the sound of a walking know-it-all. A voice of a chipmunk's though not so high-pitched: it's an eleven-year-old me.

"Yes, and it's no business of a little girl's." Mom argues back with me.

I sigh. "You know your lungs could get all black and disgusting right? You could have really nasty yellow teeth as well. Why do you do it?"

"Because she's tired of you."

I turn around and find my fifteen year old brother standing behind me.

"Oh really?" I put my hands on my hips. "I'm positive she's more fed up with your random scientific facts that aren't important to anyone whatsoever!"

"Stop, the two of you!" Mom snaps. "At least pretend to like each other around me."

"Oh I like Vivian just fine." Vince says. "She's the one who's annoyed by my technicalities."

"Baby." I taunt.

"Ehh-Hmmm." Mom obnoxiously clears her throat.

"Sorry." I say.

I've found her like this almost every time I come home from school. She's in the living room with the T.V. on; sitting in the large blue chair; and she has a cigarette in her mouth. When I'm in my room doing homework, I can hear her and dad screaming at each other about it.

"You want anything out of the kitchen, mom? Some water? Soda?" Vince asks her.

"Get me that last can of Coke from the fridge." She replies.

"Ah, I was hoping you wouldn't want that." Vince moans as he leaves the room.

"You." Mom looks directly at me.

I walk over. "Yeah? Did I forget to do something?"

She shrugs. "I...don't know. Did you?"

"Huh? Usually you're on top of that." I rest my arms on the armrest of her chair.

"You're right. I just haven't been feeling well."

"Were you turned away from another job?"

"You could say that." She replies.

"Well how else would you say it? Anyway, did you want me for something?"

Mom flicks out her cigarette. "Nothing in particular." She runs her hand through my braided ponytail.

"Why didn't you get this job, mom?"

She shrugs. "Same reason as the others: I wasn't what they were looking for."

"Their loss."

She nods. "Yeah. Their loss." She wraps an arm around my waist. "Did you finish your essay?"

"I'm on my last paragraph. Wanna read it?"

"Not now, sweetie."

"You always look over them."

Mom smiles up at me. "I know it's already a great essay." She brings my hand close and kisses it.

"Well could you read it for me? I like it better when you do it than Vince. He's way too serious about-"

As I take back my hand, I realize it's covered in dark blood. Gasping, I look over at mom. She's slumped down in her chair with blood flowing from a gash in her throat.

I leap over the seat, straddling my own mother, and cover the wound in the center of her throat. It takes all of my strength to clog the flow of blood, but even this isn't enough. Blood spills everywhere, drenching my hands and covering the blue chair in dark, blood-streaked stains. The red substance covers the floor and spreads around my feet.

"Vince!" I cry. "Help!"

No one comes from the kitchen; I slip in the puddle of blood forming around my socks and land on my bottom splashing right into the pool, releasing the grip around my mother's throat. Blood surges over her body and onto the floor. I watch in horror as she slowly becomes blanketed in a red gown.

I sit up on my bed with sweat soaking my forehead and my breathing rapid. Another nightmare, I think. Impulsively I look down at my hands: they're perfectly dry-and shaky.

Before the gore entered the dream, it was a flashback of my mom and my brother one afternoon. I slowly watched her transform: she had gotten really lousy with housework in the late years following her death. I shudder at the memories. It makes sense since there was blood involved...

No don't go there! I squeeze my eyes shut. Think of something else!

My eyes snap open. The trunk! Surely we have it here?

I hop off of the bed and take off my sneakers. Where should I look first? Attic or basement?

I leap at the sound of my cell phone ringing. I look down at the number. Do I know this person? They have the same area code.

I answer it. "Hello?"

"Vivian? Hi. It's Rick."

"Oh!" I can feel my hear beat accelerate. "Hi. Are you okay? I didn't see you at school today."

"I'm fine. I just needed to do some private business with my family." Rick answers.

"Oh, okay. It's good to hear that you weren't sick." I reply.

"Nope. Now I'm going to ask: are you okay? You sound troubled." Rick's voice is warm and soothing on the other end.

"No, no! I'm fine." I answer immediately.

"I find that hard to believe."

"How so?" I lie down on the bed. "I'm great. Honest."

"So you keep telling me." He remarks. "Do you want me to come over?"

This sends a wave of shock through my body. "What?"

"I want to see you." He replies. "I've been wanting to all day. I missed you."

My cheeks are on fire. "Well...I-I don't know if my father would like company at..." I look over at my alarm clock on my bedside desk. It's a quarter until four. What am I saying? "Um...okay."

"You don't sound so sure. It's okay if you don't want me to."

"No, I do!" I say. "I'm sorry. I'm just..."

"Troubled." Rick finishes. "It's okay to tell me, you know."

I stifle a moan. This boy won't let up! Well isn't he your friend? One of the few friends you still have? I swallow the lump in my throat to suppress the next surge of tears. Will I ever get past what Queenie did? I told her all about what Jay tried to do to me, and she does it with him? I bite my lip. I cannot cry on the phone!

"Vivian?" Rick says. "Do you want me to come over now?"

"Sorry." I say. "Yeah. That's fine."

"Okay." He replies. "I'll see you soon?"

"You bet."

"Good. Bye."

"Bye." I hang up the phone, not bothering to prevent the small smile forming on my face. He knows me pretty darn well to tell that I'm upset, or maybe I'm just so obvious about everything I'm feeling. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful for him and the many times he has helped me out this year.

Almost as if the person he was before was just an evil twin.

Rick's P.O.V.

What is she hiding from me?

I run a shaky hand through my hair. Why would she ever hide anything from me? I'm her friend right? What's wrong with her?

I can't be this way! I shake my head. I can't afford to act this way with my standing reputation; I can't think like this.

But paranoia is slowly gripping me. The same paranoia that drove me to jealousy, which turned to rage, which then caused me to strike Terri.

You have nothing to worry about. You didn't have anything to worry about last year either.

I remind myself that I'm not even her boyfriend. I don't have her in that way, so there's no reason to panic about what she's covering from me. Even if we were a couple, I would force myself to behave normally; force myself to hold composure, so I would never lay a hand on her. After all: she has the right to keep things hidden from me just like I keep things hidden from her-and the rest of the world.

I put my phone in my pocket and walk over to the refrigerator in the kitchen of my home. I find a carton of milk and drink out of it. There's so much I've tried to do these past twenty-four hours I haven't seen her: work on homework; study for Whack-Your-Brain; help my mother with chores around the house. Nothing worked!

Vivian, along with Toby, is one of my few closest friends I have at Degrassi. In fact, they're the only two friends I really have. Sure there's Emma, and I think she's fantastic: she's strong-willed and extremely intelligent; Queenie hasn't changed at all from last year although we tolerate each other better than before. Then there are some who are acquaintances like Heather Sinclair, who's also on the Whack-Your-Brain team (though she almost never shows up to study sessions).

I really don't have anyone else than the few people I named. I haven't seen the Darcy girl since she kissed me during the game Toby and I played last week. It's really a shame: I thought she was a cute niner.

Therefore, my point being made, I don't like the thought of Vivian keeping things from me. She's not mine in that way, but the night before is a permanent video in my mind. Even when I was in past relationships with Ivory and Terri, I had never cuddled with someone the way I did with Vivian, and yet she's not even my girlfriend. I still have that connection with her, and able to obtain it without moving our relationship to the next level.

I need to stop thinking about this. I can just drive over to her house in the new, but old, car I just received from my dad. I walk over to the counter by the sink to set down the now empty carton of milk when I spot a note taped down:

Richard,

Come to my office. There's something important I need to tell you and your mother.

-Dad

I roll my eyes at the "Dad" signature. When has he ever liked to be referred to as dad? I don't think this was here before, so I'll drop by before I drive over to Vivian's place. I wonder if her brother will be back anytime soon? I think he'd make a good friend regardless of the many years between us. I think of the last time I played cards with him, Vivian's father, and Queenie as I walk out of the kitchen and head to dad's office, which is right next to the bathroom.

"Father?" I knock on the door to his office.

"Come in." He replies on the other side. "Your mother is already here."

I obey and open the door to his sanctuary; the place where he spends his time when he's ever at home. Everything is in perfect order: the red cherry wood desk is aligned perfectly in the center directly across from the entrance. His huge, black office chair is tucked away snugly behind it; the computer on his desk is situated at a perfect angle whenever he turns his chair to the left; bookshelves of the same cherry wood material border either walls facing the desk. Everything is symmetrical in the room. Mother and father are both near the oddest piece of furniture to sit within an office: his wardrobe behind the desk. Mostly he keeps his best suit jackets tucked away inside, but still, I think it gives the room a weird touch. Then again, it's not like father isn't quirky, nor I for that matter.

Father motions for me to walk over with a tilt of his head in his direction. "The information I'm going to tell you is extremely confidential and should not leave the walls of this room whatsoever. Richard, I wanted to wait for the right time to tell you this; for a time I knew you were at an age that's not only mature enough to handle this information, but also trustworthy enough that you can be counted on to think and act rationally."

I squint. "What's so important that you want me to know now?"

In reply, father unlatches the cherry wardrobe and opens the double doors, each of them giving a loud squeak as if they hadn't been opened in a hundred years. He reaches up on the very top shelf and pulls down a large, box-like case made of the same material as the wardrobe. He sets it down on the desk carefully almost as if there's a bomb inside. Mother crosses her arms beside me, the only gesture she's made this entire time that reminds me she's here.

"Richard." Father rests his hand over the lid of the box. "This is extremely important. Do not, do NOT use this unless your life is in grave danger and you absolutely have to."

Oh. So that means inside...

He lifts open the lid, and inside gleams a silver hand gun resting on its black cushioned bed. I take a long look at it. The thought of father having a gun doesn't phase me in the least, especially considering how tough he was trying to raise me, including our "bonding" moments.

"Now you understand why I forbid you to enter my office these past few years." Father replies.

Yeah. I have the scars on my upper arms to remind me.

"I didn't want you to get your grimy little hands on this for obvious reasons." Dad continues. "Your mother knew about this as well although she couldn't be more rooted against me on my decision to keep a firearm in our home." He looks over at her and sighs. "But listen to me, Richard: I don't expect for this to leave its resting place unless you are in a very dire situation. Is that clear?"

I nod. "Absolutely."

"Good." Father closes the lid. "You can leave now. Do whatever you want just be back before nine 'o clock."

"Alright then." I say. "I was going to go pick up a friend of mine's."

"It wouldn't happen to be Vivian, would it?"

Slowly I nod. "Yes it is."

"Don't get into mischief this time."

"Oh stop it, Adam." Mother says.

This gets a chuckle out of my father, and I grit my teeth to conceal the rage on my face. "Okay, okay. Have fun, and remember what I said about that gun."

"I won't forget." I turn and walk out of the room.

As I make my way outside to the car, I can't help but think about the reason why anyone in this house would ever use a gun; even my own father. Mother would never be seen with one: she despises them way too much. Even with the torture I receive from other students, I could never see myself using a gun as my only defense mechanism.

Me? Firing a gun? I climb into the driver's seat of my own car.

Why would I ever do that?