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is hair. "For what it's worth, I'm not sorry for Mum cutting me off like that from everything. It gave me freedom. But I think you've heard enough for one night. Don't want to scare you away. No more confessions. From me," he adds in a measured tone.
Though he hasn't brought it up again, I know he's still waiting for me to explain my tattoo. He won't push me if I don't say anything, but I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to speak. I've never talked about it before. I never even wrote in a diary about it, because I knew diaries weren't infallible. I read Serena's for almost year before she realized what I was doing, in an effort to understand my tongue-tied friend better. So no diaries for me. A secret is only a secret when you don't tell anyone. But Parker laid himself bare before me. Why shouldn't I do the same?
"Ready for the next course?" I ask.
"Full already, but I have the feeling you'll chop off my head if I say no."
"Excellent preservation skills, I see." I serve us a few crêpes each, with cinnamon, honey, and vanilla ice cream.
Between bites, I find myself blurting out the words, "Remember when you said the tattoo guy botched my tattoo?"
Parker stops in the act of cutting the crêpe, nodding. I hesitate, but then go over to him leaning on the edge of the table, lifting my dress a little so the butterfly tattoo on my hip is visible. He leans forward, tracing his finger over the main body of the butterfly, the suspicious part where the skin is rough and deformed in a slight cavity.
"This part doesn't look like it's part of the tattoo. I mean there is ink on it, but—"
I take a deep breath. "I got this tattoo right before I started at Stanford. I did it to mask a scar—that ridge where the body of the butterfly is."
"How did you get the scar?"
"From the lash of a belt buckle. My father's belt."
Parker stiffens.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Why not?" I ask nervously, letting my dress fall, covering me. But I don't go back to my seat. Somehow, being so near to him gives me strength to talk.
"My father's lifelong dream had been to become a doctor. No one in his family had gone to college, and he was very proud that he was the first one with such aspirations. He did his best to get a scholarship, but it didn't work out. His family encouraged him to settle down and enjoy the simple life, like they did. I don't know why he chose to settle. Maybe his family pressured him to. But he never enjoyed it. He was frustrated. Nothing was ever good enough for him. Not his job, not my mom. When she became pregnant, he wanted a boy. He got me instead. And I . . . I wasn't the best daughter. Certainly not the studious and responsible daughter he wanted."
I take another deep breath and look at Parker, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. Maybe it's better though. If he interrupts me now, I don't know if I can continue.
"He was never violent, though. I mean, he did slap me now and again, but mostly he just said horrible things to me—”
Parker's jaw tightens. "There are many kinds of abuse, Jessica. Verbal and emotional abuse can do just as much damage." He frowns. "What did your mother say?"
"Not much. Though I did hear them fight from time to time. Mostly my mom telling him that he was too harsh on me. But she rarely intervened when my dad was lecturing me on the pitfalls of becoming a loser." I wink, trying to lighten things up a bit, but Parker's frown doesn't dissipate. "Whatever I did was never good enough. Not once. We weren't doing very well financially, so I began to babysit the neighborhood children on weekends. He wanted me to do it on weekdays, too, in the evenings, saying since I couldn’t be bothered learning, then I should at least bring some money home. As I said, whatever I did was not good enough. So eventually I stopped trying to please him altogether. I should cut him some slack, though. I wasn't a very good daughter. I started wearing lipstick and dating guys when I was thirteen and a half. I—”
"Don't you dare blame yourself for this," Parker says in a warning tone. His hand shoots forward to mine, but now I'm the one who avoids his touch, just like he did before. Funny how giving affection comes easier to me than receiving it. I guess it's the same for him.
"Don't you dare pity me, Parker." I abruptly leave the table, turning my back to him, staring at the double-door fridge as if I'm particularly fascinated by it.
"I'm not. I . . . just go on," he says.
"After Serena moved in with us, things got better. But also worse. It was better because he wasn't as hot-tempered when he lectured me. Less shouting. It was worse because Serena was everything he ever wanted his child to be. And he made sure to let me know this as often as he could. The last time he lost it, he lost it badly and he gave me this." I point to my hip, shuddering at the memory. "It was right before I went to college. I don't even remember what it was about. I showed up late from a party, and he . . . Well, the point is, the wound left a scar."
"What did your mother say?"
I gulp, indignant that he might think my mother just stood by, silently agreeing with him. "She never knew. My mom is a very kind woman. She always sees the best in people."
"You didn't tell anyone? Not even Serena?"
"I was ashamed. And my mom would have been devastated. And Serena was so fragile during high school. I never shared bad things with her. She was barely recovering after her sister's death. I didn't want to burden her with something like that. I always kept everything related to my father secret from Serena. She knew we weren’t getting along very well. But nothing more detailed. Absolutely nothing. She thinks of my father as somewhat strict and a bit ill-tempered, but I never told her more.”
"Always thinking about others and not yourself, eh?" Parker asks in such a kind tone that I melt on the spot.
I turn to him.
"How do you know your dad didn't do the same thing to your mother?" he asks.
