Truths I Learned from Sam

by Kristin Butcher

  Kristin Butcher

  Truths

  I Learned from

  Sam

  For my mother,

  with much love

  Chapter One

  I stand behind the silk drapes and peer down at my mother’s black Beamer in the parking lot. As I watch, a bird craps right in the middle of the roof. Being pooped on is supposed to be good luck, but I’m pretty sure my mother will want that bit of luck hosed away the second she discovers it.

  She can’t see me. Except for her long, slender fingers on the steering wheel, I can’t see her either. I watch anyway. I think I’m hoping she’ll change her mind, turn off the engine, and come back to the condo. But she won’t. She’s on a mission, and nothing short of Armageddon will deter her.

  She’s on her way to Marjorie’s Bridal Boutique for the final fitting of her wedding gown. She invited me to tag along, but I begged off. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen her in a wedding dress before. I just haven’t seen her in this one. Personally, I don’t even get why she’s buying a new dress. She already has four hanging in her closet. Come Saturday, she’ll have five. It seems to me she should open her own bridal boutique.

  I watch the Beamer slide out the Oak Street exit and merge into traffic. Then I sigh and look around my mother’s room. It’s huge — as big as two bedrooms. That’s because it is two bedrooms. When Mom and I moved into the condo — right after she split from husband number two — there were three normal-sized bedrooms and a den. Now there’s one regular bedroom and one giant bedroom. The den morphed into Mom’s closet.

  After the wedding, Mom and I will move in with Reed — aka husband number five — but Mom will still hang onto the condo. It’s the one constant in her life — besides me. It’s like she already knows the marriage won’t last, and sooner or later we’ll need to move back.

  I flop into a chair. This whole wedding thing is so pointless. I wish my mother would give it a rest, but she says she can’t help herself. She’s just a crazy romantic. Ha! Crazy like a fox, maybe. My mom is thirty-eight years old, but she looks more like twenty-five, so I sort of understand why she gets a rush out of the courtship deal. Flowers and presents and having some guy drool over you like you were Aphrodite reincarnated would give any female’s ego a boost. Even so, my mother has her eyes on the prize. She’s working her way up the social and financial ladder one husband at a time. “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, Dani,” she always says with a laugh. But it’s really not a joke. It’s the motto she lives by. Husband number one — my father — was a high-school teacher. Number two was an architect. Number three was an investment banker. Number four owned a chain of hardware stores, and number five inherited the family brewery and the fortune attached to it. I have no idea how number six will top that. At the very least, he’ll have to be a prince and own a small country.

  Don’t get me wrong. My mother isn’t a bimbo or a man-eater or anything like that. She doesn’t need to marry these guys. In fact, she’s perfectly independent. She owns an interior design business, and between marriages she even works at it. That’s how she meets her husbands. They hire her to decorate their homes.

  Except for my dad. Mom met him while they were both in university. One thing led to another, and the next thing they knew, Mom was pregnant. So they got married. Gary — that’s my dad — lasted longer than any of Mom’s other husbands, and for five whole years the three of us were a family. We shared the same toothpaste, carved Hallowe’en pumpkins, read bedtime stories, and traded Christmas presents. Then one day, it was over. I don’t even remember any yelling or fighting. Gary just left, and Mom jumped onto the wedding merry-go-round.

  The crazy thing is that all my mother’s husbands are nice guys, and even after she divorces them, they keep in touch. Two of them are even coming to her wedding.

  I look around the room some more. It’s very glamorous: an elegant, vintage boudoir with silk drapes, satin bedding, a lush carpet, and expensive antiques. In the corner, I spy the lacquered armoire that holds my mother’s jewellery. I frown. Something isn’t right. I push myself out of the chair and pad across the room for a closer look.

  Just as I thought — the little gold key is still in the keyhole and one of the doors is slightly open. Mom has forgotten to lock the cabinet. She must be more stressed about this wedding than I thought.

  A shiver of excitement shoots up my spine. When I was a little kid, I loved to root through my mother’s jewellery. That was before she got the lacquered armoire. In those days, her jewellery box was exactly that — a box. It was covered in a shiny pink fabric, and when you lifted the lid, a ballerina inside twirled to a tinkly interpretation of Strauss’s The Blue Danube. Back then, the jewellery was paste, plastic, and gold plate, and Mom didn’t care if I swathed myself in every necklace and bracelet she owned.

  I pull open one door of the armoire and then the other. Necklaces hanging from hooks sway from side to side. I run my fingers over a turquoise pendant dangling from a silver chain, a leftover from the old jewellery box. Mom has had that necklace forever, though I can’t say I’ve ever seen her wear it.

  The interior of the armoire is a tower of drawers. The bottom one contains elegant jewellery rolls. The next one up has brooches. Sparkly bracelets fill the one after that. But it’s the drawer above that one that makes me stop.

  Like the others, it’s lined with velvet, but this time it’s divided into long trenches stuffed with rings. Mom’s engagement rings and wedding bands take up one row all by themselves. What a waste. I mean, here are all these gorgeous rings, and my mother can’t even wear them. She should probably get the stones reset and make an all-the-men-I’ve-ever-loved bracelet or necklace. But she won’t.

  I wonder if she ever looks at her rings and thinks about the husbands that came with them. Even if I didn’t know which guy had given her which rings, I could tell just by looking. The ones from my dad are the least flashy: a small solitaire diamond and a plain gold band. Brian — he’s the architect — didn’t give Mom an engagement ring, just a wedding band, but he designed it himself. So it’s one of a kind with about twenty diamonds. Being an investment banker, Stephen wanted the biggest bang for his buck. The diamond he chose was enormous and pure. Wyatt, the hardware store mogul and Mom’s most recent husband, believed more is more, so he made sure there were lots of diamonds in the engagement ring and the wedding band. Of course, Mom’s current engagement ring is on her finger. It’s a pricey family heirloom that goes back a couple of hundred years. It’s not what I would want, but Mom seems to like it. I wonder if Reed will want it back afterward.

  As I go to shut the drawer, I notice a small, square box tucked into the back corner. It’s black like the velvet, so I almost don’t see it. I pull it out. It weighs practically nothing, but it’s not empty. Something rattles inside when I shake it. Curious, I remove the lid and dump out the contents. It’s another ring but definitely not my mother’s usual style. This one is the kind you get out of a gum-ball machine or a package of Cracker Jack — cheap plastic painted silver with a piece of coloured glass glued on top to look like a gemstone.

  I don’t get it. What is a kid’s toy doing in my mother’s jewellery cabinet?

  The doorbell rings, and I jump. I shove the ring into its box, push it back into the corner, and shut the drawer. Then I close the armoire doors, being careful to leave them just as I found them.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “I’m coming!” I yell as I sprint from my mother’s room and down the stairs.

  Chapter Two

  I jump the last two steps and haul open the front door.

  “Delivery for Joanna Malcolm,” drones the pimple-faced c
ourier standing on the step. He looks about thirteen. I glance over his shoulder, expecting to see his bicycle in my mother’s parking spot. Instead, there’s a blue compact with its motor running.

  “She’s not here,” I tell the guy, “but I can take it.” I put out my hand for the envelope he’s holding.

  He pulls back as if I’d just tried to light him on fire.

  That tickles my funny bone, but I don’t laugh. “Do you need a signature?” I ask with a straight face. “Because I’m happy to sign for it. Heck, I’ll even sign Joanna Malcolm if you like. She’s my mother. I’ve forged her signature lots of times. I’m really good at it.”

  The guy actually takes a step backwards.

  This time I do laugh. “I’m just kidding,” I say. “My mother is out right now. If you want to leave whatever it is you’re delivering, I’ll see that she gets it. If that doesn’t work for you, come back in about an hour.”

  The guy frowns. He’s obviously weighing his options. Finally, he mumbles, “I guess it’s all right.”

  “Okay, then.” I grin and take the envelope. “Have a nice day.”

  He doesn’t hear me, or else he ignores me. At any rate, he heads back to his car without answering. I watch him reverse out of Mom’s parking spot and boot it from the complex like a race-car driver.

  I start to shut the door, but stop when a van wheels into the spot the courier has just vacated. The logo on the side panel is a jungle of crimson letters twined with vines. BLOOMIN’ GOOD it says. I sigh. More flowers.

  “Afternoon.” The delivery guy smiles and waves. He’s been here before.

  I return his wave and wait while he opens the back of his van. I’m thinking I should start charging my mother for all the personal assistant stuff I do. As the guy heads up the walk, I realize he has two bunches of flowers. I’m going to need both hands. I stick the envelope under my arm.

  “Jeez,” I complain as he stacks the flower boxes into my arms. “You’d think somebody died.”

  He chuckles and trots back to his van.

  I shut the door with my foot and head for the kitchen. Depositing my load onto the counter, I dig through the cupboard for vases. The tall, square one? The short, round one? The leaded crystal? Roses demand an elegant touch. Daisies are more playful. Clearly, I need to scope out the flowers before I choose.

  I lift the lid of the longest box first. Red roses — sans the thorns. Exactly what I expected. I grab the crystal vase, fill it with cold water and plant food, and start arranging the sprigs of greenery and baby’s breath. Then the roses. I strip the leaves below the waterline and re-cut the stems. One by one, I slide them into the vase. I’ve arranged my mother’s flowers so many times I could do it in my sleep. When I’m done, I step back to assess my work. Not bad. After a couple of minor adjustments, the arrangement is good to go. It just needs the gift card. I poke through the tissue in the box until I find the tiny envelope bearing my mother’s name. I prop it behind one of the roses.

  I turn to the second box. Talk about overkill. Every girl likes to get flowers, but Reed really needs to pace himself.

  I take off the lid and look inside. Daisies. I grin and high-five the air. I’m two for two. Either my mother’s fiancé is very predictable, or I’m clairvoyant.

  No vase for this one. In the cupboard over the stove, there’s an old brown teapot that belonged to my grandmother. It’ll be perfect. I hum as I arrange the flowers. Shabby chic at its best. I’m not sure if Mom will like it, but I do.

  I scoop up the gift card, but then stop. My name is on the envelope. It takes a few seconds for the fact to sink in, but when it does, I can’t read the card fast enough. Of course, it’s from Reed. “For my best girl’s best girl,” it says.

  Simple, but sweet — and so Reed. My mother definitely knows how to pick ’em. And why not? She’s had enough practice.

  The phone rings. I lift it from its cradle and glance at the call display screen. It’s Reed.

  “Hello, Mr. Atwater.” I can hear the smile in my voice.

  “Hey, Dani,” he replies. “You sound like you’re in a good mood.”

  “I am. Getting flowers can do that to a girl. But then, you’re the king of flower sending, so I guess that’s no surprise. Anyway, thank you. Daisies are my favourite. How did you know?”

  “Just a lucky guess. You look like a daisy girl. I’m glad you like them.”

  “I definitely do.”

  “That’s great.” There’s a pause before he says, “Is your mom around?”

  “No. She’s at the bridal salon getting her dress fitted.” I look up at the kitchen clock. “She should be back soon though. You could always call her on her cell.”

  “Right. I’ll do that. Are you going to be around for a while?”

  “Unless Beyoncé cruises by and asks me to go shopping. Why?”

  “Because the travel agency is sending out the itinerary for our honeymoon, and I would hate —”

  “The delivery guy has already been,” I say as I lift the envelope off the counter and check out the return address. “Time Travel Vacations?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Time Travel. Where are you and Mom going? Jurassic Park? Ancient Egypt? Or are you planning to test drive your retirement home?”

  Reed chuckles. “Cute. I think I’ll let your mother answer that. Anyway, I have to go. Enjoy your flowers.”

  As I hang up the phone and lay the envelope back on the counter, I realize that, even though the wedding is just five days away, I haven’t once thought about Mom’s and Reed’s honeymoon plans. I’m fairly certain they aren’t going anywhere tropical. I mean, what’s the point? It’s the beginning of July in beautiful B.C. Why fork out thousands of dollars to jet off to some sunny beach when they can hop in the car and go to one in Vancouver? I am also pretty sure they aren’t going somewhere Mom has been with one of her other husbands, which means Kelowna, Singapore, Rio, and Melbourne are out too. That takes care of four continents — just Antarctica, Africa, and Europe left.

  I don’t know of any resorts in Antarctica, so they’re probably not going there. But Africa? Maybe Mom and Reed are planning a trip to Egypt. If I was a betting person though, I’d put my money on Europe. Mom has never been. And there are so many fabulous cities — London, Vienna, Madrid, Monte Carlo, Paris. Yes, Paris. I get all dreamy just thinking about it.

  ———

  Turns out I’m right. Mom and Reed are going to Paris — and London, Vienna, Madrid, Monte Carlo, and a whole travel brochure of other European hotspots.

  “Six weeks!” I barely squeak out the words when Mom finishes reading me the itinerary. “That’s practically the whole summer! You’re going to be gone the entire summer?”

  Mom’s face goes all apologetic. “I know it seems like a long time, Dani, but the time is just going to fly by.”

  “For you, maybe. You’re going to be jetting around Europe. But what about me? What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  My mother suddenly becomes a study in guilt. She blinks rapidly and looks away. Her cheeks bloom with colour. She bites her lip. There is no doubt in my mind — I am not going to like her answer.

  “Please, don’t tell me that I’m going with you.” The stiffness that has me standing ramrod straight finds its way into my voice. As much as I would like to see Europe one day, I have no desire to tag along on my mother’s honeymoon.

  She shakes her head. I relax a little, but not much. Mom still isn’t looking at me. She isn’t talking either, and it’s what she’s not saying that I need to know.

  I try to take control of the situation, to shape my own destiny. “Okay then. So I guess you’re going to leave me some money and the keys to the BMW, and I’ll hang out here at the condo until you get back.”

  Finally, she looks up from her hands and shakes her head. “No.”

  Clearly, my mother plans to farm me off somewhere. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s what she’s done for all of her other
honeymoons, which was fine when I was a kid, but I’m not a kid anymore. I dig my heels into the slate floor so hard I swear it cracks.

  My defences are up. “Why not? I’m seventeen years old. In six months I’ll be eighteen — an adult. You know darn well I can take care of myself. Or are you afraid I’m going to throw wild parties and trash the place?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not. You are the most responsible, reliable seventeen-year-old I’ve ever met — including myself when I was your age. It’s just that six weeks is a long time, and —”

  “You just said it wasn’t! You said the time was going to fly by.”

  For the next few seconds, we stare each other down. I’m daring my mother to make me see things her way, and she’s trying to figure out how to do that.

  She gives in first. Her shoulders sag, and the fight leaves her eyes. I sense defeat. But I’m wrong.

  “Look, Dani,” she says, reaching out a hand to me. I shift my body away, and her arm drops to her side. “I was thinking about letting you stay on your own while Reed and I are away. I know you would be fine, and I’m sure I could find someone to check on you from time to time.”

  I sense a but coming on, so I jump in to avoid it. “I’m good with that. I don’t mind if —”

  She raises a hand to cut me off. “I’m not finished. Yesterday, I got a phone call from family, asking to see you. It was serendipity. Though I know you would be fine on your own, I think this option is better.”

  I feel my eyebrows dive together. “Family? What family? Granddad died when I was eight, and Gran passed away six months ago. What other family is there?”

  The tendons in Mom’s neck tighten as she swallows. “You have an uncle.”

  “Get real. How could I? You’re an only child — like me.” And then the penny drops. “Whoa. If you’re talking about a brother to one of my many stepdads, forget it. It’s not going to happen. Uh-uh. No way.”