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September 1, 2009
6:47 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Last night was a weird night. I saw Daddy doing some strange things in the garage.
I will tell you about it, Diary. Daddy gave you to me so I could get my feelings out. He said it will be just for me and I can write anything I want in here. The doctor we see told him I need to let things out that are bottled up. Daddy told me over and over this is safe. No one will see.
I like having you to talk to. My teacher always says Ruby, you are a good writer. She told Daddy I’m advanced at writing, beyond my years. That makes me proud. I even wrote a poem for Grandma, and she put it on the fridge when I was staying with her. Writing is the only time I feel good about myself. Talking isn’t so easy. The words always come out jumbled-y. So you will be my friend. I will tell you my secret. Just please don’t tell. I don’t want Daddy being mad.
Here’s what happened.
Daddy tucked me in after reading Goodnight Moon like we always do. He kissed my cheek and said Goodnight, Ruby. I love you. I nodded like I always do. He pulled on the lamp to turn out the light. I heard him close my door.
Later I woke up. It was dark. I hit the button on my watch. Daddy gave it to me when I turned five. I love telling time, so he bought it for me. I’m lucky to have such a nice Daddy, I know. It helps me keep track of time because I’m not so good at it. Like when my teacher says finish in one minute. It’s hard for me. But mostly I just like looking at the numbers, saying them out loud. I never take it off. Sometimes I like to watch each number change over and over, right in a row, like magic. Perfect. It never stops. It just keeps changing, one right after the other. I like that. I especially like when there’s a seven on the watch. I don’t know why. I guess seven is my lucky number.
It was 1:04 in the morning. I sat up and looked out the window. I heard a noise outside. That’s when I saw it. The garage light was on. Why was Daddy in the garage? It was late. Really late. Daddy always told me never go in the garage. It’s dangerous, Ruby. Don’t go in there. Ever. I was worried. What was Daddy doing?
I knew he would be mad if he found out I snuck there. He would be angry if I was around the garage. The dangerous garage. But I put on my favorite yellow rain boots and tiptoed real quiet down the stairs.
Daddy’s truck was in the driveway. I heard noises from the garage. Was he building something? Daddy builds for his job. Maybe he was working hard on a surprise.
I didn’t want to ruin it. I crept so quietly like the cat I once saw in the woods, the one with the ear with a weird edge. Its ear was all chewed up, like a big bite was taken out of it. I crept quiet, quiet, low, low. Careful Ruby.
I snuck to the back of the garage. When I was playing out there once I saw a hole in the wall of the garage near the ground. Daddy didn’t know it was there or he would have fixed it. I liked the hole, though. It gave me a peek.
Real quiet, I got down and looked in. I didn’t want Daddy to see me. I was curious. Curious was on our word list this week at school. C-u-r-i-o-u-s. I can spell it.
Curiosity killed the cat. My grandma said that once. I think that’s stupid. That’s not what kills cats. Grandma is weird sometimes. She makes me brush my hair and says Daddy isn’t doing a good enough job. I get mad at her a lot.
Real quiet I got down and looked through the hole. Daddy had a saw. There was lots of red, splattered about. All around. So much red.
I saw a big spot of red on the floor. It oozed out, quickly joining with other red splotches. It was like watercolors that you put too much water in and they were leaking out over the edge, making a mess.
I stared and stared and watched and watched as Daddy did something with the girl he had in there. I saw her long black hair. It looked pretty. Silky. I scratched my own neck, my hair up in its ponytail. I hate hair on my neck. That woman had a lot of hair. Did it bother her? Who was she?
I didn’t know, but I watched. I watched Daddy work and work. I watched him for a long time. Sometimes, Daddy would move and I got a glimpse of his face from the side. Daddy looked happy. Usually, Daddy’s face is serious. I didn’t know why he was happy. I was glad.
I worry that Daddy is lonely. It’s just me and Daddy. Sometimes Grandma when she stops by. She’s Daddy’s mom. He says she is lonely since Grandpa died. She worries about us, too, since Mama died. But I think she comes around too much. Hovers. That was a word I learned this week too.
Daddy says he is happy with me. He always says he only needs me, just him and Ruby against the world. Sometimes I still think he is lonely. I heard Grandma say that once.
But Diary, he looked happy with all of the red.
I watched some more, amazed as a tool cut, cut, cut. It was so pretty, the way it chopped down.
My legs started to hurt. I looked at my watch. 3:05 a.m. Had I really been out there so long? Didn’t Daddy need to sleep?
I yawned. I needed to go to bed. Daddy would be in at 7:07 to wake me up. I love sevens. Times that end in sevens are the best, so I make Daddy get me up at exactly that time. He made sure his clock is set exactly to my watch so they match.
I knew I needed to sleep last night even though I was so curious about Daddy’s work in the garage. I crept back quiet, quiet, quiet to the house, careful not to open the door too loud. I went to bed, though, tucking myself back in. I thought about all that red, red, red.
Daddy made me cinnamon and sugar toast this morning before school. He looked tired but happy. I wanted to ask him about the garage, about the lady. I didn’t. I know Daddy is careful of the garage. He doesn’t like me asking questions about it. I can ask him about lots of things. But not the garage. And not Mama, either. Those are no-question zones. I still ask them—I can’t help it. But he just gets all weird about it.
I wonder if Daddy needs some space from me. I am difficult. I worry about how difficult I am. The teachers say it when they think I’m not listening. The kids say I’m weird. I don’t know. It makes me so sad. I wish I had friends, but people are hard. I feel bad, bad, bad because I am so difficult. There are too many confusing things about people.
Just Daddy. Just Ruby and Daddy against the world. That’s all I need.
School passed by quickly because all I could think about was the red, red, red. So pretty. Red. Red everywhere. I kept picturing that one perfect splotch running in the middle of the concrete floor. I wonder if Daddy will go back to the garage tonight.
Well, Diary, that’s all for now. I will see you tomorrow at the same time, 6:47 p.m. Daddy sits down to get ready for his favorite show that starts at 7, so it’s a perfect time to write.
I will have to let you know tomorrow if Daddy goes back to the garage.
Ruby
September 2, 2009
6:47 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I wrote a lot yesterday. I like writing though. My teachers always say how much I write. How I’m good at writing. I like it. It’s easy. I wish I could write instead of talking forever. I hate it when teachers and Grandma try to make me talk.
Daddy read me Goodnight Moon again last night, but he was tired. He was not excited with the voices like the night before. He tucked me in and kissed me and said I love you. And then I sat up and waited. I waited and watched. I was tired. I didn’t sleep though. My insides were buzzing. It was exciting.
But there was no light in the garage. There was nothing. I think I fell asleep because then Daddy was waking me up and it was time for school.
I wanted to see more of the garage.
It made me think. Does Daddy go to the garage a lot? Is that lady still in there?
I remember a few times when I was younger, maybe five, when I would hear Daddy’s truck late, late, late. But I just ignored it. I was too young. But not now. I’m older. I can figure it out.
I like that Daddy has a game. A secret game. I hope I can learn the rules soon.
This will have to be our secret, Diary. I don’t want Daddy knowing I saw some of his game. He might be embarrassed. And I won’t tell Grandma. No way. She came over today and brought us raisin cookies and salads to eat because she said Daddy doesn’t feed me right. I hate raisins and I hate salads. Sometimes I hate Grandma. So I won’t tell her. I won’t tell anyone.
Ruby, we all need privacy. You have your Diary for privacy. That is what he says.
So I think, Diary, that I should give Daddy privacy. His garage is like his diary, I guess. I won’t tell a soul. I love him. He takes such good care of me. I owe him this.
Sometimes at school the kids talk about their moms. About the snacks they make and about how they wait to hug them when they get off the bus.
I wonder what my mom was like. There is only one picture of her out in the house. Well, only one picture Daddy knows about. It’s on the fireplace downstairs now. She has red hair, just like me. Daddy doesn’t like to talk about her. It makes him sad, I think. She died when I was really young. I don’t remember her.
But when the kids talk about hugs and things like that, I’m sort of glad I don’t have a mom. I hate hugs. I don’t like being touched. It’s an icky feeling. I hate it hate it hate it. Daddy never hugs me. He knows I don’t like it. And he’s okay with that. We love each other but we don’t need to hug.
I’m glad I don’t have a mom to hug me. Daddy does just fine without hugs.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 7, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Today was Monday, so I had school. Back to being around people.
The weekend was nice. Daddy made me breakfast. Waffles on Saturday. Waffles are always Saturday. We had bacon and eggs Sunday. Bacon and eggs are always Sunday. Mostly, we played outside. Daddy helped me ride my bike. We’re working on riding faster and getting rid of the training wheels.
When I was riding on the lane I came to a stop by the garage. The door was shut. I couldn’t help but think about that lady. I wanted to sneak around to the back and look through the hole. I got closer but Daddy yelled.
“Ruby, no garage. It’s not safe. You know the rule.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” I’d said. I do know the rule. Ever since I can remember, that was Daddy’s rule. No garage. I can use the shed that is on the other side of the house. That’s where bike lives. But no garage.
Daddy doesn’t have many rules. Just ones to keep me safe.
Those are the main rules. I make up some of the other rules for us. Like what times we eat and what time we do things. But I like time. Daddy knows that. He lets me be in charge of time.
So I didn’t go near the garage. I didn’t want to make Daddy mad. Once, when I was little, I wandered in the door of the garage and Daddy got really angry at me. It’s one of the few times he’s yelled at me. It scared me so much, I cried.
Now, Daddy is more careful about the lock on the door. It’s always locked. But he still warns me, just in case. I don’t think Daddy would be happy that I looked in there and saw that lady. It’s his secret. We all have secrets.
Like what I write in you.
But this past weekend, it was just me and Daddy. I wrote some poems for on the fridge. Daddy said they were really good. One was about a rabbit. One was just about red. I didn’t tell Daddy I was thinking of the red in the garage when I wrote it.
So much red. So pretty. Red, red, red. Just like my hair. Just like apples.
I like red. It might be my favorite now. Maybe Daddy will get me red rainboots for my birthday. It’s in December, Diary. Just like Christmas. I was a Christmas-time baby.
Daddy is quiet sometimes. This weekend was a quiet weekend. But he was calm. Peaceful even. I like it when Daddy is quiet because I like quiet. It makes me happy.
We sit on the porch a lot out front. The garage is out back. We sit and look into the forest around us, the trees, the lane. We don’t have neighbors. There are no children around to play with. Sometimes the kids at school talk about playing with their neighbors, the kids who live in town near the school. It doesn’t make me sad, though. I like it out here. In nature. In quiet. Town is too loud. School is too loud. And kids call me weird and annoy me. I only go to school because Daddy says I have to. Because he has work. And I need to go to school because it is my job.
I try to do a good job. It is hard.
The kids are loud and yell and I hate it. And the teachers try to make me talk and I don’t like talking, not in front of the group.
Ruby, look at me when I talk to you, they say.
Ruby, stop slapping your hands on the desk.
Ruby, stop scratching your neck and pay attention.
Ruby, stop lighting up your watch. It’s science time.
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby.
I’m the one who is always in trouble. The other kids are loud, but I’m in trouble.
Last year, the school had a lady who would follow me everywhere. To help me, they said. Help me adjust. I hated that lady. She talked a lot and tried to make me talk. She talked about me right in front of me like I was stupid.
I’m not stupid. Just different, Daddy always says. Different is fine, Ruby. Different is good. But sometimes it doesn’t feel good. School doesn’t seem to think different is good. The other kids don’t think different is good.
Daddy made them get rid of that lady. I was in the meeting when he said I didn’t need some aide. I was just fine without her. He wouldn’t have me treated like that. Ruby is smart and fine on her own. She’s just different. She doesn’t like to talk to people. But she’s smart, and she will learn at her own pace.
But I know that’s not true. I’m not fine on my own. I had squeezed Daddy’s hand in that meeting.
I’m fine with Daddy. He makes everything better. He knows what I need. He knows I’m different . . . and he’s okay with that. I love him. He’s the best.
I hate school. Hate, hate, hate.
So weekends are my favorite. Just Ruby and Daddy.
That’s how it should be.
Goodnight Diary. Stay Safe (Daddy always tells me to stay safe. I like that.)
Ruby
September 10, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I was late to school today. It was Daddy’s fault. But I’m not mad. I’m never mad at him. He tries so hard.
Last night, after Goodnight Moon, I stared at the ceiling. I wasn’t tired. My brain was doing that spinny, wild thing. I was thinking about all sorts of things that happened, my brain jumping, jumping, jumping all around. The air was too hot and the blanket too scratchy. And then I heard a cricket out my window that wouldn’t stop. I pounded my head, just a little, to make it stop. It never stops.
So I lay there for a long while. I heard Daddy’s footsteps downstairs and the door creak. He was being quiet, but I could hear him. I heard the truck. I looked at my watch. It was 11:00 p.m. On a school night. He was leaving on a school night. Where was he going?
I sighed. Maybe he needed more time in the garage.
And that got me wondering if the lady was still in the garage, her black hair spread out behind her. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to see so badly.
I knew Daddy wouldn’t want me out of the house alone, but I couldn’t help it. I got that image in my head and I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to see.
So I crept down the stairs and out back. I snuck to the spot behind the garage with the hole and peered in. But I was surprised. The black-haired lady was gone. Her white face, her eyes staring. Gone. All the red was gone too. Everything was back in its place.
Saws and tools hung in their spots. I smiled and got goosebumps on my arms. I loved how orderly it was. A board with tools in a row, everything in line. A table sat in the middle of the garage, the floor clean. Not a dot of red. Not a dot of dirt. Clean, clean, clean.
I made myself small, small, small, and waited. Maybe Daddy went to get the black-haired lady and bring her back for the game. I yawned and yawned but fought to stay awake. I needed to stay awake. I counted. I checked my watch over and over.
Finally, at 12:38 a.m., he came back. The truck rattled down the lane. The headlights went out, and the door opened. I heard Daddy grunt as I peeked through the hole. He was carrying something.
A lady. This one had red hair. Red like me.
I almost squealed. Red, red, red. Red like me, Ruby. So pretty.
The lady was sleeping. Her neck looked funny, her eyes bulgy like a frog. Daddy sat her on the table, and I watched. She was naked. I closed my eyes. We’re not supposed to show those parts to anyone, that’s what Daddy always said. Maybe the rules were different for grownups. I’d have to ask him sometime.
I opened my eyes and watched as Daddy grinned. He went to the wall and pulled off some rope. What was he doing? Was this a game?
After a long time, I watched him hang that lady up from the ceiling. She dangled like the tire swing at school, swaying back and forth. Was Daddy making a swing? I watched with my mouth open.
He took out a camera. My favorite, the instant camera. I like it because it comes out black and then poof—there’s a me on it. Grandma says it’s a relic. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a bad thing.
He snapped a picture, and I wondered what he would do with it. Would he hang it up in the house? I didn’t see one of the black-haired lady. Then, after that, he stood, staring at her. For a moment, he didn’t look so happy. He looked like he wanted to cry. I wanted to run over and ask what was wrong, but I stayed in my spot.
A long, long, long time later, he pulled her down. It seemed weird to hang her up only to pull her down. He put her on the table, the one the black-haired lady was on. The smile came back as he went to the tools. He took a saw and then another. Two saws. Wow.
He walked to the table and touched her face. He was so close I thought he might kiss her. I’ve never seen him so happy. Well, once, I think he was happy. There’s a picture of him with Mama I saw and he looked happy. He was wearing a suit. She was wearing a white lacy dress and they were on a beach. Daddy looked happy then.
I stared. The saw cut. Then there was red. So much red. My heart beat faster. I loved seeing the red puddling underneath the table. How would he clean it all up? I wanted to see the process. How did he get it clean?
I watched and watched as he worked and worked. Small bits of something were falling to the ground. It was like art class, except all the paint was red. Maybe I would have to try that in school, I thought. Painting with just red. Maybe I could make Daddy a picture out of red paint. He could put it in the garage.
Daddy worked and worked, and I wanted to stay. But I could tell he was getting tired. It looked like hard work. And I knew he’d go to sleep and I couldn’t be outside when he went in. So I had to leave.
I hoped I’d get to see the rest sometime. I needed to see the rest. How he cleaned up.
I wanted to know how he got it so clean.
2:41 a.m. I went to bed.
And then, the next thing I knew, Daddy was in my room.
“We’re late. Let’s go,” he said gruffly. My eyes opened. I looked at my watch. How had I slept in? I never slept in. Daddy never slept in.
I was mad. We were off schedule. We were off schedule! The day was ruined.
Daddy looked tired. I thought of the lady. She must have kept him late.
I wanted to tell Daddy to save his garage game for weekends, that we can’t be off schedule. But I didn’t. Secrets and all. Privacy. Rules. He would be mad that I was near the garage. I didn’t want him to think I was breaking the rules. I never break rules Daddy sets, not on purpose. Not if I can help it—sometimes I can’t.
I hadn’t gone in, I hadn’t. I’d just looked. He’d never said I couldn’t look. But I didn’t want him to think I was breaking rules.
I made it through the day. Daddy had driven me to school and then went off to work. He didn’t tell me to stay safe when he dropped me off. That upset me. My whole day was bad. He always said stay safe.
But at least he got me to school. And I was safe. That was good. I drew a picture of a lady with red markers. All red. The teacher said it was interesting as her eyebrows crinkled. I don’t think she meant it. Some of the other kids laughed. I ripped it up. I didn’t want Daddy to have a picture that wasn’t good, and I was mad that he hadn’t said stay safe. It was his fault the picture was bad.
But it’s okay. I know he’s a good Daddy, after all. He knows the bus is too loud for me and it makes me upset, so he drives me every day. Even if it means he is going to be late for work like today.
Diary, I like telling you what happens. Maybe I’ll get some red pens for next time I write. I think it would look so good in red. Don’t you?
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 16, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Mama didn’t follow rules. Daddy doesn’t like to talk about her but when he does, he says she didn’t follow rules. He says she was a free spirit. I don’t know that that means exactly, but I don’t like people who don’t follow rules. I bet I wouldn’t have liked her.
I will follow the rules. I don’t want to go where she is. Some kid from school’s hamster died and his mom told him it went to hamster heaven. I asked Daddy what heaven was. He sighed and said Ruby, some things are too hard to explain. I don’t think he believes in this hamster heaven.
I don’t know where Mama is, if she is in hamster heaven or somewhere else. I don’t remember her. Daddy said she had pretty hair. My hair is red. Red red red. Red like apples my teacher says. Red like strawberries, Grandma always says.
I hate strawberries. Grandma doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know much of anything, in truth.
My hair is red like the licorice Daddy likes and red crayons and my backpack. I like red. It’s my favorite color. Daddy’s too. He said so yesterday when I told him I love the color red and asked for those red rainboots. He said maybe he could take me shopping for some if I wanted. I hate shopping. Too many people. But he said if I want them, I should really try them on and make sure they are good. So I guess I have to go to the store. I hate when shoes are too tight or too loose. Daddy says I’m picky, which is fine. He says it’s perfectly good to know what you like. So I guess this weekend we’ll look for boots. Daddy will hold my hand or say something to calm me if I’m upset. He never gets mad when I have one of my fits, as the teachers call them. He is nice and makes me feel better.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 18, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Daddy used to have a picture of Mama in his room, one besides just the one on the fireplace. I took it from his room when he threw it once. It was in March. I was scared but when he went outside to take a walk, I took it and hid it under my bed. I think he knows I took it. But maybe he’s glad I took it from his room. I think it makes him angry. I’m not sure why. I look at it sometimes. I look at the red hair like me. She was pretty, Mama was. I miss her some days when I think about her. I don’t know her but I miss her even though she probably would’ve given me hugs and I hate hugs and maybe I would not like her much. It’s weird to miss someone you don’t know, but it’s kind of like when I miss Santa Claus after Christmas. I’ve never met him, but I miss him.
I asked once what she was like, just a little bit ago. Daddy said girls who are seven shouldn’t ask so many questions. He said it’s Mama’s fault I’m so curious. I guess at least I learned that. Curious. I never realized I’m curious. I like the idea of being curious. It sounds good.
But curiosity did not kill a cat, as my stupid Grandma says. She came over today. She was asking Daddy questions about me. If I’ve been to the doctor. To the therapist. If he’s making me try new foods. She is nosy. Nosy, nosy. Daddy gets annoyed. I can tell. Grandma needs a hobby. I don’t think he likes her coming around. I don’t either. But I also don’t like when I have to stay with her. Sometimes, Daddy has me stay with her in the evenings. I wonder what he’s doing then. He just says he’s going out. Whatever that means.
Some of the things Grandma says are so dumb. They make no sense. Like about early birds catching worms and about breaking legs when I have a speech at school. I don’t know why she does that.
I like that Daddy knows I’m smart even though I don’t talk to people much. My teacher said I am smart but also bad and stubborn. She thinks I’m bad and stubborn because I’m quiet. And because I always remind her of the time, like when we’re almost late for recess or lunch. I just want her to know that we are not on time. You’d think she’d be happy that someone is helping her stay on schedule. Someone needs to watch the minutes turn over, and I am nice enough to take the job on so she can focus on the loud, really bad kids.
After Daddy said I was smart, Daddy said Mama liked rubies. I don’t know what rubies are. Daddy said they are reddish like my hair, which is why I’m called Ruby. Ruby like my hair.
Ruby Marlowe.
Marlowe with an “e” at the end. It’s a hard name to spell. I used to get it wrong sometimes. My teacher got mad when it was wrong and shouted “e” like she was an animal. I saw a monkey on the TV once. It made noises like that. The teacher didn’t like when I made monkey noises out loud at her. I was just trying to show what she sounded like. The kids started calling me monkey girl. I missed recess and snack.
I hate recess, and snack was gross peanut butter. Sticky, sticky. I hate sticky. So I didn’t care.
Daddy was mad when he found out I got in trouble. You need to follow the rules, Daddy said. He wants me to follow the rules. Sorry, Daddy, I’ll try and do better next time, I said.
My hand hurts now, Diary. I’m going to go now and watch TV with Daddy. That show is on tonight with people sending in videos that are supposed to be funny. I laugh sometimes, but not at the stupid videos. I laugh because sometimes they stir memories in me, like the one of Daddy and the ice cream cone and the dog at the fair. That’s a funny one. But Daddy thinks I laugh at the show. He says it’s good to laugh, so we watch it together.
Daddy doesn’t usually laugh, though. He just grins and lets out a bit of a coughing sound.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 20, 2009
6:58 p.m.
Dear Diary,
It rained today. I got to play outside in my new red rainboots. Bright, bright red, my favorite color. Daddy watched from the porch as I splashed out front in a big puddle. Mud went everywhere. Daddy didn’t care. He smiled and smoked his cigarettes while I jumped.
I usually don’t like water. Rain is okay and puddles, but not the bathtub. Water scares me. It always has. Daddy has to sit by me when I’m in the tub, and he only can put a little tiny bit of water. He says I’ve always been like this. But puddles and rain are okay. Fun, even.
Smoking is bad for lungs. I tell Daddy that. He should not smoke. We learned at school it is harmful. There are thousands of chemicals and it is addicting and it can kill you. Second-hand smoke is bad, too, but I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Daddy. I don’t want something bad to happen to him. What would I do without him?
He told me old habits die hard. That saying doesn’t quite make sense to me, but I still don’t think he should smoke.
I splashed and splashed in the puddles. I jumped super high, higher than ever. It made me very happy to jump. My new red boots make puddle hopping a true blast.
Shopping for them was tough. The sales guy tried to touch my feet and I got very mad. I stomped and stomped and cried in the corner. I didn’t want to cry, but sometimes emotions just burst out of me like the volcano our teacher made in science class. They just erupt and I can’t stop them. Some mother with her kids called me a brat, which made me even sadder and I cried harder. Daddy called her a bad word. We went home the first time without boots. But eventually Daddy convinced me to go back. He always helps me see things in a better light. It took a few trips for me to decide on the right pair and the right size. But I finally got them just perfect.
Daddy helped me try on the boots, and once they were on, I nodded. They felt so good and they were red, my favorite color. But you know that.
I haven’t wanted to take them off. I even wore them to bed last night. Daddy didn’t mind.
So I spent the day jumping in puddles and having so much fun in my boots, testing them out in every type of puddle. I didn’t tell Daddy, but when I splash, splash, splashed, I pretended it was the puddles in the garage, the red puddles.
Can you imagine, Diary? How fun it would be to jump in the red puddles in my red boots? It would be so pretty. But then it might be harder to clean. I hope Daddy goes back to the garage soon so I can see him clean. I want to see what he does. How he does it.
I’m tired from splashing. I might go to bed early tonight. I don’t know. I don’t ever go to bed early but I’m sleepy.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 25, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Today was a good day at school.
The teacher had us write poetry. Most kids hated writing poetry, but I loved it. And the teacher noticed my poem. She said it was very interesting. She was worried the bunny was hurt. I told her how once, when I was younger, we found a baby bunny in our yard. It was hurt. Daddy helped it. Still, it didn’t live. I was sad but couldn’t stop staring at its stiff yet floppy body. Daddy said that happens sometimes, that all things die. Like Mama? I had asked. He didn’t answer.
My teacher smiled at me today. She said poetry is a way to show feelings. She said the poem was good. She said I did a wonderful job. This time, I think I believed her.
We had to have rhyming words in it. I like rhyming. Rhyming is like cat and hat. Jump and bump. Caboose and noose.
I made the last one up. I don’t know where I heard the word noose. I’ll have to ask my teacher what it is. But caboose is a train. Daddy and I went on a train once, a couple of years ago I think. I don’t remember why. Writing the poem was easy. I showed it to Daddy. He liked it too. He put it on the fridge.
He asked why the bunny was hurt.
I said I didn’t know. It just came to me. I don’t think he remembers the bunny from a while ago. When did that happen?
Here is my poem Diary. I hope you like it. Maybe I will write more poems tonight instead of watching TV. Daddy said it would be okay to break the routine. I get nervous when the schedule is different, but he told me to work on my poetry if it made me happy. He said we all need an outlet to express ourselves.
So maybe I will write more. But here is that poem.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
Little bunny in the flowers.
He rests for hours.
White as a cloud.
He isn’t loud.
Soft like a shirt.
The bunny is hurt.
October 2, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Daddy has been really tired lately. We get home from work and school and eat dinner and do homework. And sometimes after I’m done writing, I go out to the living room and he’s asleep already.
I worry about him. He has been quieter than usual. Last night, he was too tired to read Goodnight Moon. It made me sad and mad at the same time. I read it to myself, but it wasn’t the same.
Sometimes Daddy gets in these moods, these weird little funks, as Grandma likes to say. He pulls away. It usually happens in October. I don’t know why. Grandma told me October is hard for Daddy and to be patient and good. I asked her why but she just shriveled up her weird looking face. The wrinkles got deeper and she shook her head and told me not to ask that question.
October is hard, but sometimes March is bad for Daddy, too. The picture, the one that was in his room that I stole, the one of Daddy and Mama . . . it has a date on it. March 12th. I wonder why that date is important. I want to ask him but I am afraid. He seems upset and I don’t want to bug him. I hate it when people ask me questions when I’m upset. So I’ve tried to be quiet and good and follow the rules as I always do.
I wonder if Daddy gets lonely. I sometimes do at school when the kids are mean and won’t talk to me. But at home, it’s okay. I like it just me and him. I don’t like talking to other people anyway because it’s really hard and they get confused and I get mad. But Daddy isn’t like me. He doesn’t mind talking to people. At least when we grocery shop or go to the Post Office or to the hardware store for supplies, he talks to people. He smiles at them and asks how they are. Everyone in town seem to like him. But Daddy never really has anyone over. Not except the ladies in the garage.
He used to have a guy from work who came over sometimes. His name was Pete. He would come over on Fridays and drink a beer with Daddy and they would watch TV. But then Pete stopped coming over. I don’t know what happened or why. I should ask Daddy.
So now it is just me and Daddy, all the time. When Grandma isn’t butting her big butt in.
I like that it’s mostly just us. I wonder if Daddy gets sad though. I wonder if that is why he gets moody in October. I wonder if he misses Mama. I wonder so many things.
Maybe Daddy is just really tired. He’s said that a lot this week. His job keeps him busy. Daddy builds things. He works in construction and he has built a lot of things in town. He helped build the church and some houses and even a big mall. He says he was always good at building things.
Sometimes, I like to look in the bed of Daddy’s truck and look at all the tools he keeps in there. Shovels and axes and all sorts of things. Daddy says you can never be too prepared. That you never know when you might need to build something.
I like that Daddy is good with tools. It makes me proud.
I think tomorrow maybe I’ll ask Daddy to help me build something. Maybe a birdhouse. I like to watch the birds sometimes. That would be good. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t be so sad if I take his mind off of things.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 7, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was a bad, bad day.
Daddy’s been having a hard time. He’s moody. He forgets things like our schedule and our dinner foods and to get milk at the store. He tucked me in bed early even though he knows how much I hate being off schedule. He rushed through Goodnight Moon. I noticed when he held the book, his hands were shaking.
“You okay, Daddy?” I asked.
He nodded, but he didn’t look at me. “I’m fine, Ruby. Just fine.”
But he wasn’t. I could tell.
He tucked me in, and I tried really hard to fall asleep. To not worry. I was feeling okay—until it started to storm. Really storm. Crashes boomed through the house and lightening blinked in the sky. I’m terrified of lightening. I hate it. Even more than that, though, I hate the loud booms of the thunder. It startles me every time and it makes my head spin and hurt.
I snuck out of my room and down the stairs to find Daddy. He always rubs my back when it’s storming. Why didn’t he come up to sit with me? When I tiptoed into his room, he wasn’t there. Empty. I looked out the window. His truck was gone. How did I miss it? The thunder was loud, the rain crashing into the house. It pinged like popcorn on the roof. When I realized it, I was panicked. It was terrifying, the storm booming and banging and hurting my head. I dashed back to my room and flicked on the lamp. Then I rocked back and forth on my bed. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The storm passed, the lightening stopped. But I was still scared. Where did Daddy go? Why did he leave? Tears fell. After a long time, I heard the truck pull up. I peeked out my window. Daddy was home. He was getting out of the truck parked by the garage. He was rushing, frantic. I thought about going down, my tears drying now. I wanted to see if he brought another lady to play with in the garage. But I was mad. I was still so angry that he left. As if he could sense me, he turned and saw the light on in my room. I froze. Now Daddy would be mad. But I was mad too.
Daddy ran in the house. I heard the door slam. Up the stairs he came, his feet pounding on each step. I sat on my bed rocking. Rocking.
“Ruby? Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His voice was calm, but I could tell he was nervous.
I rocked. I didn’t answer. Tears fell. I wanted to explain, but the words got all tripped up and I just cried harder and louder.
“Ruby, dammit, answer me. Are you okay?”
I rocked and rocked, my head hitting against the wall and rattling the picture above it.
“Storm.” I choked out the single word.
Daddy knelt down in front of me. I looked down. His hands were dirty. Why were they so dirty?
“I’m sorry, Honey. I am.” He softened now, sighing. I felt the anger melt a little bit as I looked at his boots, staring at the floor. “I had to go out. I tried to get home as soon as the storm started. I did.”
“Why?” I wanted to ask why he left, but only that one word came out. Daddy knew me, though. He knew what I meant.
He cleared his throat. There was a long moment. “There was an emergency. The storm knocked down a tree, and one of the guys from work needed some help. I didn’t want to wake you.”
I rocked. That didn’t make sense. Daddy didn’t leave when the storm started. He was already gone when it started storming. Still, I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to make Daddy upset. I could tell he felt bad enough.
“Ruby?”
He sat beside me but didn’t touch me.
“Okay.” I replied. It was better now. Daddy was back. Nothing else mattered.
“I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep,” he said. “I promise I’m not leaving.”
I lay back down, thinking about the storm that had passed and about Daddy leaving and about how I was glad he was home. I lay for a long time as Daddy sat beside me. He seemed calmer now. More peaceful. I didn’t understand. I closed my eyes and pretended to drift off, feeling much more at ease. After a long while, I heard him turn out my lamp and walk out of my room and down the thirteen creaky steps.
But he didn’t go to his room. I counted his footsteps. There weren’t enough. He was in the kitchen. I heard the back-door crack open, the opening of it alerting me to the truth. He didn’t keep his promise. It was still raining but softer now. I didn’t get up and look out the window, though. I didn’t want Daddy to be mad. I didn’t want him to know that I knew the truth. He was going to the garage. He must have to clean, I had thought, as I drifted to sleep.
When I woke up this morning, Daddy was already in the kitchen. His eyes were dark, and his face stubbly. But he was smiling, making breakfast for us. He was happier. I don’t know what it is, but the garage makes him smile more. Maybe he should go in there more often. Why does he wait so long? Maybe last night fixed Daddy. I’m still mad he left during the storm. It scares me to be alone. Maybe some time he’ll let me go with him. I wish he would.
I don’t think so. I don’t think Daddy wants me knowing what goes on out there.
It’ll be our secret, Diary. Our little secret that we know what Daddy does out there. Secrets. Secrets. Secrets. We all have secrets. My teacher says not to keep secrets. Grandma says secrets don’t make friends. Either way you look at it, it seems like secrets are bad.
But I don’t like my teacher, and Grandma is horrible, too. I think secrets can be fun, and I don’t have any friends except Daddy. Daddy and I both have secrets . . . and no one knows them but me. I just giggled a little bit at the thought. It feels good to know something others don’t. I like knowing more than they do. I like the secrets I get to keep.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 28, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I finally did it. I finally got to see it all.
Well, not all. I got to see the ending part. I got to see how he cleans. And it was so pretty. I loved it. I wished I could help. I have it memorized so I could tell you, Diary. I wish you could have seen it.
I knew Daddy was going to go out when he tucked me in. He had on his boots, the ones he had on the other night when it stormed. He was also shaking when he read to me. I know when his hands shake when he reads, it’s a garage night—or at least close to one. I almost asked him to go along. I asked if I had to go to bed.
“Stick to the schedule, Ruby. You don’t want to be off schedule,” he said. He looked surprised I was asking. I nodded. I wanted to go with him, but he was right. Schedules are important. And I could tell he had a schedule of his own, one he didn’t want me to know about. But I know all about the schedules he keeps, don’t I, Diary?
I waited and waited. I almost fell asleep. I let my mind dance over memories of me and Daddy to keep myself from falling asleep. Finally, I heard his truck pull in. I heard him click open the truck, but I stayed quiet. I didn’t want Daddy getting mad that I wasn’t sleeping. I heard him moving around the garage. Good thing no one is around to hear it. I don’t think Daddy wants anyone to see him working. It’s private. Good thing we live far away from everyone and Grandma doesn’t like to drive at night. We are alone, just the way Daddy needs it. That makes me glad.
After a while, I couldn’t wait anymore. I needed to see him clean. I imagined the red, swirling puddles of it all about. I imagined how clean it would be when he was done, everything in its place. I wanted to be a part of that, to know how he did it. I couldn’t wait anymore.
I was very quiet like a mouse when I snuck out. Not like the stupid one in the book we’re reading in school, but an actual, quiet mouse. Except I didn’t even squeak, not at all. I was silent, silent, silent like a sneaky shadow or a gentle breeze that barely moves the flowers. I needed to make sure I didn’t get caught. I didn’t know what Daddy would do if he saw me. So slowly, quietly, I crept downstairs. I edged out the door and around the house, the back side. I counted my steps, careful and calm. The hard part would be getting to the back of the garage. I had to sneak. I snuck along the ground, low and quiet, fast fast fast. I made it to the back, clinking of metal telling me Daddy wasn’t done yet.
I got to my spot behind the garage, to my little hole that lets me peek. Daddy’s back was to me, but when he moved to put stuff away, I got to see the lady.
Black hair. Short. She laid on the table Daddy had, quiet quiet quiet. I wondered if she was trying to not make Daddy mad, too. It looked like part of her was on the floor. But once my eyes saw the red, all the red, I didn’t notice anything else.
I watched Daddy for a long time, the way he worked so carefully. The way he soaked up the red as the smell of bleach spread. Bleach everywhere. He worked for so long, bagging things up.
After a long long time, when my eyes were heavy, he took the black bags outside. I heard the wheelbarrow move that is beside the garage. I looked at my watch. It was 3:45 a.m. So late. I crept along the side of the garage. He was driving, but not down the driveway towards the road. He was pushing the red wheelbarrow into the woods on the dirt path we sometimes walk on. Where was he going? I wanted to follow him. I wanted to see how he finished the cleaning. But I knew I had to get back to my room. He would maybe be done soon, and I couldn’t have him finding me. I looked one more time at the spotless floor, at the clean, clean, clean. Not a spot to be seen. That rhymed. My teacher would be proud.
No one would know that lady was here, I suspected. The red was only in my memory now, like a treasure of my very own. I thought of this lady’s splotches, how they were oddly shaped and swirled compared to last time. I loved how you never knew what the puddles would look like. It was like a painting on the floor, different every single time. And I felt like Daddy wanted it that way. I smiled. I could keep a secret. I was good at sneaking and at keeping secrets. I barely talked to anyone except Daddy, and if he didn’t want to talk about his garage game, then neither would I.
I dashed back in the house, thinking about all of the red going away, about how good Daddy was with that rag and that bucket and those bags. His garage was perfect, beautiful. All the tools were lined right back up. It’s like that lady was never there. Clean and pure and perfect.
Last night, after I tucked myself in and fell asleep, I had dreams, Diary. I don’t remember much about them, but I know they were of red. I could smell and taste and hear all the red.
This morning, Daddy was in a good mood.
His garage game went well. I’m happy for him.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
Little cat
With soft white hair
With no care
Do you dare
You are rare
Your ear has a tear
Red everywhere.
~Ruby