by Trish Doller
I miss my mom.
Greg notices my distress. “So, who wants to show Callie her new room?”
“Me, me, me!” Tucker’s T-shirt rides up as he worms his way out of his mother’s grasp. “Pick me, Daddy.”
Without waiting for an answer, he catches my hand as if I’m not a complete stranger and pulls me along the side of the house to the backyard. Against the rear fence is an old-fashioned silver Airstream trailer, the kind you hitch to a car to go camping. Tucker races ahead to open the door, then doubles back to me.
“You get to sleep in here.” He says it with reverence, as if this trailer is the holy grail of sleep spaces.
Inside, it resembles a mini-apartment with a sink, stove, and refrigerator; a dining table; a built-in couch; a bathroom with a shower; and even a tiny bedroom. The bed is covered by a purple cotton spread embroidered with flowers and tiny bits of mirror, and decorated with a cluster of throw pillows. Nestled among the pillows is a patchwork owl that gives me the same déjà vu sensation I had at the sheriff’s office.
“It’s nothing fancy,” Greg says, entering the trailer. “The stove doesn’t work, and I still need to hook up the propane for hot water and heat, but we only have two bedrooms and … I guess I thought you might want a place of your own.”
I pick up the owl. Some of the patches are worn so thin you can almost see through them to the stuffing inside.
“You used to carry him everywhere,” he says. “You called him—”
“Toot.” It’s just a tiny flash of a memory, but I remember making sure he was with me every night before I went to sleep. “I thought that’s what owls said.”
I can see the bitter blurred in the sweet of Greg’s smile. All these years I’ve had very few memories, while he—he’s had nothing but.
“Owls say ‘hoot,’ silly.” Tucker cracks up, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and Phoebe suggests they go in the house to check on dinner. He protests, but she scoops him up and carries him off, leaving Greg and me—and a silent Joe, who regards me with owl-size eyes from the safety of his father’s arms—in the trailer.
“So, um—there will be some rules,” Greg says. “Not sure what yet, because—well, when you left you were a tiny girl who slept with an owl and called me Daddy. But I’m sure they’ll be the typical things. Boys, curfews, and”—he gestures toward a laptop sitting on the small dining table—“stuff about porn.”
I nod, dizzy at the idea of having my own computer. I’ve only ever used the computers at public libraries, usually in moments stolen between card-holding patrons. Most librarians were nice about it, but a few would chase me off, questioning why I wasn’t in school. Whenever that happened, I’d hide in the most secluded corner I could find and read. Once in a while, I’d take home a book without checking it out. And if I couldn’t return it to its home library, I’d return it to the next library.
“This is only meant to be your bedroom, Callie,” Greg says. “The rest of the house is yours, too. Don’t feel as if you have to stay out here all the time, okay?”
I nod again, overwhelmed by suddenly having so much when I’ve gone for so long with so little. Overwhelmed at how my life has been turned upside down.
“We’ll probably eat around six,” he says, as he carries Joe out the screen door. He pauses on the step. “You could come join us now, if—”
“I might sleep.”
His smile falters a little, as if he expects me to be excited about bonding with his family when I’ve just lost mine. I’m not ready. “Sure, um—we’ll see you at dinner, then.”
I lie down on top of the bedspread and rest my head on one of the pillows. The white pillowcase is cool against my cheek and smells faintly of bleach. I feel bad for crying on Phoebe’s clean laundry, but I can’t stop the tears. I cry until my whole body hurts and then cry until I fall asleep.
The door clicks softly as he comes into my room. I pinch my eyes shut so tight I can feel my lashes against the tops of my cheeks and hope that if he thinks I’m asleep, he’ll go away. The edge of the bed sags and the mattress conspires with him, shifting me in his direction. He lifts my Hello Kitty nightgown, his fingers seeking secret places. His breath is tangy from whatever he and Mom were drinking in the kitchen as he whispers, “Doesn’t that feel nice?” My own fingers have curiously touched those places and it made me feel tingly, but his fingers are thick and rough-skinned. It doesn’t feel nice, but I don’t say anything. I hold my breath, taking tiny sips of air, and try not to cry. Because if I cry, he’ll cuddle me against him, the tiny hairs under his lip prickling my skin as he kisses my damp cheek, and tell me I’m his special girl. As if someone other than him has made me cry. This time I wait until he’s gone before I curl up into my smallest self and sob.
I wake, slick with sweat and tears, wondering where I am. There’s no sticky vinyl couch beneath me, no incessant tick-tick-tick of the broken clock, and the dust swirling in the fading light coming through the window beside me is not my dust. Not my window.
“Mom?” My voice cracks.
She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t answer. I’m alone.
Greg said there is no hot water, but I take a cold shower anyway, trying to scrub off the phantom feel of Frank’s fingers. He was one of Mom’s boyfriends, the one we lived with for almost a year in Oregon. The one who said our special time together needed to be a secret because she would be jealous. She would hate me, he said. The terror of losing her love made the promise for me. And even though I was eight—old enough to understand that special shouldn’t feel bad—I let him keep putting his hands on me. Even now I can feel them. And no amount of scrubbing can wash away the shame.
When I finish my shower, I put my clothes back on and cross the small lawn. The sun is fading and light shines out through the windows, making the house appear warm and safe. My nightmare recedes as I let myself in through the back door. The kitchen is fragrant with meat and spices I can’t identify. Mom isn’t big on cooking, and my skills haven’t evolved much beyond macaroni and cheese from a box. Sometimes I’ll add a can of tuna and she calls it gourmet.
Tucker and Joe are building with LEGO bricks on the living-room floor, while Greg’s laptop is propped open on the coffee table. Curled in the corner of the couch, Phoebe watches the evening news.
I’m not sure what to do. Should I go join them? Announce myself? Make a noise?
Before I have the chance to decide, Greg looks up from his computer screen, his smile as wide as I think a smile can be. “Hey, Callie. Hungry?”
The nightmare has left my stomach queasy. “A little.”
“Phoebe made pastitsio,” he says. “Have you tried it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It resembles lasagna, but it’s far superior because it’s Greek.”
Phoebe shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips. “Not this again.”
“What?” Greg pivots to look at her. “It’s true. Not only is Greece the birthplace of philosophy and political science and—”
“Democracy,” I offer.
“Exactly.” He points at me. “See? Callie understands.”
Phoebe laughs, then turns her smile toward me. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”
Greg winks as he unfolds himself from the floor. “Anyway, pastitsio”—he picks up Joe, who squawks at being parted from his LEGOs, and plops him in a high chair beside the dining-room table—“you’re going to love it.”
I take the empty seat beside Joe as Phoebe brings a steaming casserole dish from the kitchen. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten something that hasn’t come from a can, box, or drive-up window.
“So, I have a friend,” Greg says, as I scoop a small portion of pastitsio onto my plate. “He’s one of the guidance counselors at the high school, and he says that in order for you to attend, you’ll have to take some proficiency tests to determine your grade level.”
When I was about nine or ten, I was obsessed with school. I sought
out books in which the characters attended school, I practiced cursive writing, I memorized the planets, and when Mom was at work, I’d spend hours playing school with imaginary students. I saw girls my age at the library and I would hover close, listening to the way they talked and wishing they were my friends. One girl, who had the palest eyelashes I’d ever seen and carried a sparkling unicorn notebook, called me “freak” for standing too close to her. Freak. Like she could see right inside me and knew about Frank. After that, I stopped wanting to go to school, because if the girl at the library could see my secret, everyone else would see it, too.
“I think you’ll enjoy Tarpon Springs High,” Greg continues. “I’m biased because I went there, but it’s a good school. Plus, it’s an easy way to make some friends and get involved in activities. Sports or music or whatever.”
I’ve gotten over wanting to be someone’s best friend, and I’ve managed to survive eleven years on a kindergarten education. I don’t want to go, but his face radiates such hope I can’t say it. I take a bite of food so I don’t have to answer.
He grins. “Good stuff, huh?”
I nod, because it’s every bit as delicious as he claimed, but swallowing it is all but impossible with a knot in my throat.
I can’t do this.
I can’t sit here and pretend I’m a normal girl when my whole life has been so fucked up. Greg and Phoebe haven’t slept in the backseat of their car, or eaten all their meals from a vending machine because their mothers forgot to buy groceries. And the only monsters Tucker and Joe will ever have to contend with are the imaginary kind that are banished in the light. These people are so clean, and I feel so—
—tainted.
The need to flee overtakes me. I push away from the table and beat a retreat through the kitchen, out to the trailer, where I dive beneath the comforter and hug Toot close to my chest. The owl smells dusty, as if it’s been waiting for me all this time. It’s comforting and heartbreaking at the same time.
“Callie?” Greg says my name softly through the screen but doesn’t come in. “You okay?”
I don’t answer, hoping he’ll go away.
“I’ve been warning myself that the real Callie might not be the same as the one I’ve been imagining all these years,” he says. “But that didn’t stop me from assuming you’d be excited about high school. Or that you’d automatically love Greek food. Or that you’d even want to be here. Anyway … I’m sorry.”
I wait a long time—well after I hear the back door slap shut—before I get out of bed and slip on my sneakers. My unpacked suitcase is sitting beside the door, my guitar still in its case. I think about taking them and leaving, but the little bit of money I have will get me exactly nowhere.
The neighborhood is still, and the way the trees drip with Spanish moss is a little eerie. I move from patch of streetlight to patch of streetlight, unsure of where I’m headed—and try not to think about my mom. At the corner, Ada Street becomes Hope Street and continues on. It seems a good omen—hope—so I keep walking. The residential neighborhood gives way to businesses, and Hope makes its perpendicular end at Dodecanese, a boulevard lined with shops. The gift-shop windows are filled with sponges, soaps, shells, and Greek-themed tourist wear; the bakeries scented of yeast and honey; and the restaurants called Mykonos and Hellas.
Almost everything is closed, but the plucky mandolin music from a couple of open restaurants follows me, the melodies melting one into the next. My skin is stained blue in the neon glow of the gift shops, and I feel as if I’m an alien in yet another new world. I pause on the sidewalk and close my eyes. Maybe if I stand here long enough I will remember how to be Greek and I’ll feel as if I belong in Tarpon Springs. Except none of this is familiar and it is not my home. I look around as if my surroundings might have changed while my eyes were shut, but it’s still the same, still strange. So I cross the street.
On the opposite side of Dodecanese there is a riverfront esplanade lined with rows of fishing boats, their decks heaped with dark mounds of something I can’t identify. It isn’t until I reach a boat illuminated by a caged utility light hanging from the deck roof that I realize they’re sponges.
Standing beneath the light, a guy around my age—no, probably a little older—strings the dark-yellow tufts on a cord like an oversize version of the popcorn garlands Mom and I used to make at Christmas. He has a blue bandanna tied around his dirty-blond curls, and when he bends down for another sponge, there’s a sweat-stained spot on his gray shirt where it sticks between his shoulder blades. He glances up, and his face is something so fine and beautiful, it makes my chest ache the way it does when I hear a sad song or finish a favorite book.
If he sees me standing beyond the reach of his light, he gives nothing away. I watch, curiously, as he threads one last sponge, then secures the entire string to the underside of the roof.
“You know”—his voice is low as he knots off the second end of the cord. The muscles in his tanned arms flex—“you’re kind of creeping me out, standing in the dark.”
I move into the light.
His dark eyes rest on my face long enough to bring heat to my cheeks, and he gives me a little half smile that makes my heart grow wings. They beat against my rib cage as I take a bolder step closer.
“Better,” he says.
“What, um—what were you doing just now? With the—” I gesture toward the garlands of sponges.
A quiet laugh rumbles up from his chest. “You must not be from around here, huh?”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, I can give you the tourist brochure version,” he says. “Or, we could grab a beer and I’ll give you the behind-the-scenes version.”
I know how this works: flirt, drink, sex. A familiar road on a brand-new map.
“What time is it?” I ask, wondering if Greg knows I’m gone.
“Eight thirty, maybe? Early.”
“I really—” I look at him and he’s standing on the side rail of his boat, poised to step down to the pavement if I say the word. The air between us is thick with want. Mine. His. It doesn’t make sense because I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name. He’s only the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I’m so, so tempted. But I also know how this ends. And after everything that’s happened in the past two days, I’m not sure I want to add feeling like a slut to my to-do list. “I need to go.”
“Wait,” he says, as I turn away. “Can I drive you … somewhere?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “But thanks for the offer.”
I don’t look at him again, because if I do, I will change my mind.
Greg’s house is dark when I get back, only one light still shining. I picture him and Phoebe tucking the boys in bed, reading stories and kissing them good night. I remember bedtime stories, but more than that, I remember when they stopped. After we left Frank, we lived in the empty model home in Washington State. It was at the head of a cul-de-sac with no other houses. No grass. No trees. There were only depressions along the side of the street where driveways would go. Mom would tuck me into my sleeping bag on the floor of the room with mermaid wallpaper border and tell me to pretend it was my island.
“Stay on the island so the sharks won’t get you,” she’d say, kissing my forehead.
Then she would go to work, leaving me alone in the dark to worry about imaginary sharks and real live men who prey on little girls.
Pushing the thoughts away, I cross the backyard. I jolt at the dark shape of a person sitting on the step of the trailer and for a heart-rattling second I’m convinced it’s Frank.
It’s Greg.
“Sorry if I scared you.” He stands. “But—the first place my mind went—well, I thought you took off.”
“I just—I went for a walk.”
“You know how we talked about rules earlier?” He runs his hand over the top of his head. “Well, one of them will be that you need to tell me where you’re going and when you’ll be home.”
“Okay.�
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“And tomorrow we’ll get you a cell phone so you can text me or something when you decide to go wandering, okay?”
“Okay.”
He exhales slowly. “You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again.”
“I won’t.” The words don’t mean anything. I might not be here tomorrow, and I don’t owe him anything. He steps toward me, as if he’s going to give me a hug. Reflexively I take a half step back, and he stops himself. The whole thing is awkward, and I just want to go inside and sleep.
“I went down to the sponge docks,” I offer.
“Really?” I can’t see his face light up, but his tone shines and I can tell this makes him happy. “What did you think?”
My mind beats a path directly to the guy on the boat and how easy it would have been to sleep with him. “It was … interesting.”
Chapter 4
The sky is still streaked with tangerine-colored sunrise clouds as I tape a note to the door of the Airstream:
Went for a walk. I’ll be back.
I’m not sure how I feel about being accountable, but leaving the note seems easier than getting another ambush lecture about it later. Mom usually had no idea where I was, especially as I got older and she took more night jobs. I haunted the library by day and wandered the streets in the evening until I got tired or the town curfew—whichever came first. That’s how I met Danny.
The last place we lived—God, it was only days ago I left there, but it already seems like some different lifetime—was a cornfield town with a handful of stoplights and a slaughterhouse at its edge. Every Saturday night—and never on Friday because Fridays were for football—kids from all over the county would make their way downtown, cruising up and down Union in their farm pickups and hand-me-down sedans, before gathering in the parking lot of the Big Chief to make plans.
The night I wandered in, Mom was working. We were a payday away from being able to fill the refrigerator, and I had just about enough cash for a small order of chili-cheese tater tots. Danny was there with his summer-sky eyes and get-in-your-pants grin. He left his friends and slid into the bench beside me. He smelled like flannel shirt and boy deodorant, and I smacked his hand when he reached for one of my tater tots.