The dream I had last night is still floating in my head this morning. In it, I'm packing all my belongings. I go to dad and tell him I’m leaving forever. He gets so angry he tells me he never wants to see me again, that I’m a traitor and a liar. He calls me irresponsible and immature. I leave without looking back. In my dream, I board a train that puffs pink smoke in its wake. I arrive on the train in front of Mom’s apartment building, which is hazy, floating this way and that. When I ring the intercom to get in the building, her voice floats out from speakers somewhere overhead.
“Who is that?” the dream mom says.
“It’s Sam,” I say. “I’ve come to live with you forever.”
Mom laughs. “Live with me forever? You can’t live with me forever. Only for two days, and then I’m going to Istanbul! I hear it’s nice this time of year.”
“But you can’t be going - I came to stay.”
“No,” she says. “You can’t stay. Sorry, but you can live in the gallery across the street if you like.”
When I turn around Benji is waving from the gallery. I cross the road, putting my luggage down in front of the large windows. The glass has all turned black. When I look back across the road, the lines of my mom's apartment building are blurry. The building is wobbling, as if I’m staring at a desert mirage. And as I watch it blows away like smoke in the wind.
I shake my head, like I’m trying to dislodge the strange dream from my brain and out my ears. After a bowl of cereal and a half hour attempt at writing that results in nothing, I throw a few books and my customary notepad in my messenger bag and make the short trek to the bus stop. The library is actually kind of nice. I look around, realizing I’ve missed the familiar surroundings. The quiet murmur of people talking, the smell of old books, the row upon row of wooden shelves.
I know where I'll find Jacob. The library section doesn't have a huge comic section, but it did what it could. There’s a little corner beside Science Fiction that houses their modest selection of graphic novels.
Jacob greets me with a wave and a huge grin, and I feel a smile on my face for the first time in a couple days.
“Hey.” It's a relief to be around someone friendly.
“Hey yourself!! Do you know I haven’t been to a library in a year?”
“I know me too. I fake going to the library all the time...” I falter. “Or I used to.”
Jacob frowns. “Yeah, what happened? Everything okay?”
“Long story.”
Jacob gestures to the circle of cozy-looking, worn out armchairs.
“We have all day and some cushy arm chairs over there.”
“Yeah, we have all day until my dad gets back from work at six.”
Jacob makes a face,.“That bad, huh?”
I flop down onto the nearest armchair. “He found out that I was seeing my mom.”
“Oh, crap.” Jacob sits down in the chair next to mine. “What did he do?”
“Basically reacted the way I knew he would. He freaked out and forbid me to even talk to her again.”
He frowns. “Geez, I’m sorry. What are you going to do now?”
I shrug miserably. “I don’t know. What can I do? He basically forbid me to see her. I’m grounded, can’t go to the art gallery, can’t go to her house. He’s going to check my phone every night now, if I know him.”
“That doesn’t seem right. I mean, I know you’re still living in his house and everything, but she is your mom. You should be able to see her. I’m pretty sure it’s not legal to keep you from seeing her if you want to. It just seems wrong.”
“It is wrong,” I say grimly. “But you have no idea what he’s like. He’s pretty much unreasonable about it. He says she’s irresponsible and immature and that I’m only going to get attached to her and she’ll leave and break my heart...” I stutter to a halt and then mumble, “And I’m afraid he might be right.”
Jacob actually leans forward and puts a hand on my arm, which makes things a little better suddenly.
“You think she might leave again?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I don’t want to think that. I want to believe she means what she says. It’s hard to trust her though. She probably has changed. I mean, that was nearly fifteen years ago.”
“But it’s still hard to keep yourself from being bitter about the fact that she left this reconciliation for so long.”
“Exactly.” I shrug. “She did try to write to me and she called...I don’t know who I’m mad at, my dad for blocking all of her efforts, or Mom for not trying harder.”
“I guess she must have thought you didn’t want to see her. I mean, did your dad maybe tell her you weren’t interested to make her stop trying?”
“She did think I hated her. She thought that Dad had ‘poisoned’ me against her.” I frown, resting my chin on my hand. “I wonder what he did tell her when she kept trying to call.”
“Nothing good I bet.”
“I can’t imagine what he must be like when he’s actually talking to her. He can’t even handle me mentioning her.”
“He sounds like a barrel of laughs,” offers Jacob.
I give him a weak smile. “You have no idea.”
“What are you going to do? You can’t just never see your mother again. Can you?”
I think about that - what would it feel like to know I'd never see her again? I couldn’t stand that, I practically ached just thinking about it.
“You know what’s funny? Dad wants me never to speak to her again, in case I get attached to her and then she leaves. But isn’t that the same thing? I can either cut off all contact with her now, just to avoid maybe getting hurt, but then I inflict that same hurt on myself by not allowing myself to see her. What’s the difference, except that one of those hurts may never happen!”
Jacob blinks at me. “That was slightly confusing, but I think I get what you’re saying. You can either hurt now, by not seeing her, or risk being hurt later, which may not even happen. But what about your dad? Won’t he blow sky high if you keep seeing her? I mean, he is your dad...sooner or later he’ll find out.”
I stare at the floor, unwilling to admit that Jacob's right. Dad will find out, he'll continue to check my cell phone, and unless mom and I start sending smoke signals to one another, or taking out personals ads in the newspapers with coded messages in them, the proverbial cat will come hissing and spitting out of the bag at some point.
“Do you know what she said to me last time I visited her? It was only the second time I'd seen her, and she asked me to come live with her.”
Jacob appears to think about that one for a minute. “Wow, that’s some pretty serious stuff. Are you thinking about doing it?”
No, of course I'm not. Are you kidding me? Samantha Da’Silva is not Anastasia. Samantha is a coward, she does what she’s told. She would never blatantly disobey her dad and risk being kicked out of the house. She would never move into her mother’s house and take a risk like that.
“I don’t think so,” I groan and run my fingers through my limp hair, unconsciously mirroring the gesture that usually belong to Jacob.“I don’t think it’s smart, considering my dad would probably never speak to me again, and I don’t know that Mom won’t decide she's moving to France or something. Then what do I do? “
Go live in the art gallery. What a weird dream.
My phone suddenly buzzes in my jacket pocket, making me jump. There's a text from Mom asking me to meet her at the art gallery tomorrow while Dad is at work. She tells me to delete the message after I read it.
“I think dad must have phoned her,” I say, worried. “I hope he wasn’t too horrible.”
“What did she say? If you don’t mind me asking,” Jacob asks.
“She wants me to meet her at the art gallery tomorrow while he’s at work. And to delete the message. Sheesh...I feel like a spy or something.”
Jacob adopts a mechanical sounding voice, “This message will self destruct in T minus ten seconds.”
I laugh at him. “I hope not. I'd rather my phone not go up in smoke.” I notice the time on the clock and heave a sigh. “I should probably get back. Dad’s home in under an hour.”
“You want a ride?” Jacob grins widely.
“What? You suddenly have a car?”
“Yeah, just bought it yesterday,” He says proudly. “It’s pretty much held together with duct tape and prayers, but it'll get us to your house easily enough. I’ll drop you off.”
“Why the heck didn’t you say you got a car?” I follow him down the carpeted hall of the library.
“You didn’t ask.”
“You mean I blabbed non-stop the entire time and you didn’t get a word in edge-wise.”
“Yeah, that too...but you also didn’t ask.” Jacob grins. “Hey don’t worry; I don’t blame you for venting. Here she is!”
His description of the car is surprisingly accurate; I try not to laugh too much while I climb in the passenger seat.
The car is small and grey, with rust stains on all sides. One of the back doors has no handle on the inside, and the knob to roll the window down on my side is gone.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Jacob says.
“She has character, you know, like Herbie.”
“I doubt Herbie had this much character,” Jacob says.
We spend the ride chatting about books we’ve both read and comic books that I apparently should read. I'm happy the conversation is light. It distracts me from what I know is lurking in the back of my mind. Is it worth the risk of sneaking out of the house tomorrow to see mom? It’s not like Dad would ever know, right?
“Here’s my house, the big grey one on the corner.”
The car lurches to a stop and it makes a “putt putt putt” sound as it idles.
“Sounds a bit like flubber,” I observe.
Jacob laughs. “You’re lucky I got that reference.”
“Who hasn’t watched Flubber?” I protest. “I mean the old one, not the new crappy one.”
“A lot of uncultured people.” Jacob puts on a mock-serious face.
I laugh. “Thanks for the ride. Good luck getting home.”
“Hey! She’s not so bad. She got you here, didn’t she?”
I pat the hood as I get out, “Thanks, Flubber.”
“Hey! Who says I’m calling her Flubber?”
I grin.“You don’t have to, but I’m calling her that. Call me soon, okay?”
“I promise.”
I walk backwards up the driveway, watching Jacob back the car out, he waves, giving me one last crooked grin before driving away.
Dad’s car is in the garage, and I sigh, squaring my shoulders before I walk in.
It's sad that the kitchen and the living room are so close to the front hallway; he can always hear me when I come home.
“Where were you?”
Hi to you too, I feel like saying. “The library,” I answer instead, but I'm feeling rebellious, so I add, “The only place I’m apparently allowed to go.”
“Who was that who dropped you off?”
“A classmate,” I lie easily and without remorse. “We have a project together over the summer.”
“What’s it on?” His tone is accusatory.
“We have to pick a famous literary figure and do a report on him or her.”
“Maybe tomorrow you can look for another job, instead of wasting your time on that fantasy rubbish all day. Do you have work tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow is Tuesday.”
The day I sneak out and see Mom.
There’s no question about that now. His tone has made me just angry enough to silently defy him.
“I talked to your mom yesterday.”
“Oh?” I try to sound surprised. “Why?”
“Told her she can't go around spreading grief like she always does, just because she’s back in town. I told her she can stay away from us, especially from you.” He’s studying my expression, trying to gauge my reaction. Probably trying to decide if I knew already.
“That’s it?”
“I made it clear that you were not to see one another and that she was not to contact you.” He seems to be waiting for something.
“Okay.”
“Did she call you?”
“No.” My heart skips a beat and my mind does frantic circles. I deleted the message, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did. How come I can’t remember the precise act of deleting it? Did I forget?
“Your phone, Samantha.”
“Dad...”
“Phone, Samantha.” His voice rises sharply, and I shove my hand into my pocket and thrust the cell phone at him.
I watch as he flips it open and hits a few buttons.“Good - she appears to have gotten the hint.”
Relief floods through me and my stomach unknots itself.
He doesn’t think I have the guts to just delete it?
“I told you she didn’t.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Dad says sternly. “You lied about the library. How am I to know what else you might lie about?”
I want to tell him he can't keep this up. You can’t have total control over other people’s actions, even if they are your own teenage daughter.
You can’t keep my mother from me. Maybe she is irresponsible and immature. I don’t care.
What am I going to do? Go to the police? What would they do? Would they go up to Dad and say, “Excuse me sir, the law says you must let your child see her mother.”
That's laughable. It is up to me, really. The law can't help me, but it can't stop me from seeing my mom either. What can Dad do if I go and saw her? Ground me again? Then I just sneak out again. Maybe he’d eventually get over it.
He could kick you out.
Would he really do that? I shouldn’t underestimate dad. My stomach is still clenching a little as I retreat to my bedroom. Before bed I stare at the blank pages of the journal I usually write Anastasia in. It's frustrating that I still can't think what comes next.
I feel nervous the entire bus ride downtown, like I'm a fugitive escaping from jail. That's silly of course - Dad is downtown, it's true, but he's in an entirely different part of it, stuck all day in an office building. There’s no way he can see where I'm going. And there’s nothing on my phone to indicate I've done anything wrong. So the one thing I do have to make sure of is that I get home before he does. Simple as that.
I step off the bus, making my way down the sidewalk and into the art gallery.
“Sam!” Benji is waving enthusiastically from down the hall where he is dusting a picture.
“Hey, Benji.” I give him a wave back.
“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you around in forever!”
I shrug, walking down the hall to stand beside him, watching him swat at the painting with his Swiffer.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Hanging out with your mom?”
“Yeah, sort of. And I met this cool guy.”
“Oh yeah?”
It may be my imagination, but Benji looks a little crestfallen all of a sudden.
“What’s his name?”
“Um...Jacob.”
“Where did you meet him? Here in town?”
I hadn’t been expecting twenty questions. “At the bookstore just down the street actually.”
“Oh...cool.” Benji turns and slouches back down the aisle, his tight jeans and shaggy hair making him look a little like a skinny and awkwardly built girl from the back.
I trail after him, rolling my eyes. He must be in one of his moods. Benji seems to have more ups and downs then the Tilt and Twirl ride at the County Fair. I guess he’s what some kids at school would call “emo”, which is just a stupid way of saying someone dresses in black, writes a lot of emotionally-retarded poetry and takes three hours to squish themselves into their jeans each morning.
“So what brings you here then?” Benji says with an over-exaggerated pout. “You finally decided to come see little-ol-me?”
I feel like asking him if he’s sure he isn’t gay. When I first met Benji I was certain that he pitched for the other team, but he insists he’s only attracted to the ladies. Sometimes I'm not so sure.
“Mom is meeting me here,” I tell him, then add, knowing it will intrigue him, “This is quite forbidden you know.”
“What do you mean?” Benji seems to be drawn in by the mystery whether he likes it or not.
“My dad pretty much told her to never speak to me again - she’s not allowed to call or even text me, never mind coming to see me here.”
“What?” Benji looks surprised. “Can your dad even do that? How can you forbid someone to see their own daughter?”
“Technically he can’t, I suppose,” I admit, “But I'm under his roof, so he can take my cell phone away, and he can ground me. Other than that he can’t do much, so I can still sneak out to meet her.”
“Oooh! Your dad sounds like a piece of work.” Benji thumps his fist on the desk. “You should tell him off.”
“Hah, please, Benji. I’ve never told anyone off in my life.”
“You need to be more aggressive,” Benji narrows his eyes at me. “Take charge, girl! It’s your life! You have to go get what you want! You’re the boss of your life, not your dad!”
I shrug. “Actually, I’m still living with him, and I’m still going through high school...”
Benji waves me off. “Please! Do you know how many successful people didn’t even finish high school? Most of them didn’t. Some of them couldn’t even do the most basic stuff...”
“C.S Lewis couldn’t drive a car,” I can't resist sticking my bit in.
“Who?”
“Sheesh, Benji. Never mind.”
Benji waves at me again. “Oh, one of your writer types. I don’t’ know - I speak artist, not writer.”
“So sorry,” I mock him. “I should be talking about people eating paints and cutting their ears off.”
“Van Gough only cut off part of his ear. Nobody can get it right...”
The bell over the door rings and we both turn to see my mother walk into the gallery. She has another long dress on; this one is divided into free-floating strips at the bottom and looks like it's made of a dark green silk or satin.
“Sam!”
“Hi-oh.” I am almost knocked backwards as she flies at me and traps me in a hug. She smells like cinnamon and her dress feels cool against my bare arms as she hugs me.
“I’m so sorry!” She is saying. “I didn’t know he would find out! I hate that you got in trouble over me! I’m sorry...”
“ It’s okay.”
She peels herself off of me, still holding my arms as she looks me in the face.
“Did he yell at you?” she asks.
“No. He was mad but...“I halt suddenly, feeling really angry all of a sudden. “He yelled at you didn’t he? Is that why you’re asking?”
Mom looks upset, two spots of red brighten high on her cheekbones and she looks like she hasn’t slept the night before.
“He was really angry.”
“He has no right to yell at you!” I can feel my face start to heat up as I imagine Dad yelling at her.
Mom quickly changes the subject. “Sam, I came here to tell you that my offer still stands. I can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again.”
“That won’t happen - I’ll sneak out and see you. We’ll set up a day that I always go to the library. I’ll...”
“Keep lying to your dad?” Mom smiles at me, but her eyes are watering. “Sam, this is your choice. It’s your life and I’ll do whatever you want me to do. But I want you to know my home is open for you. I would love you to come live with me.”
My breath catches in my throat. How easy would it be to just say yes? To just drop everything, go home, pack my bags and tell Dad I'm leaving. To move in with my mom. To watch her paint and...
To be left behind again when she leaves and then have to beg Dad to let me come back.
“I can’t,” I hear myself say. “I’m sorry.”
Mom’s smile is sad, but she nods. “I understand the hesitation, Sam. Truly I do, but I’m going to keep telling you every time I see you. The offer still stands; I still want you to come live with me. It’s up to you though. You are in charge of your own life.”
Why does everyone keep saying that today? In what way has that ever been true? When am I in charge? Not at work, not at school and most certainly not at home