Samantha darling

by Jennifer Davis

  4

  B etty woke me again, then asked if I was sleeping. I refrained from calling her stupid.

  “No,” I sighed. Not anymore.

  “You should get dressed. The Cohen’s will be here in half an hour.”

  “Who?”

  “The Cohen’s, our dinner guests. Would you like for me to help you find something to wear?”

  In the short time that I’d known her, Betty had been exceptionally nice to me and seemed to genuinely care about my well-being, but I would never think of her in the same capacity as my mother, which wasn’t her fault. I just wished she’d stop trying so hard to fill that void.

  I sat up in bed. “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, well, wear whatever you’d like. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  She may have truly meant it, but I doubted Betty had hoped to introduce me to her fancy neighbors wearing yoga pants and a wrinkled to hell t-shirt.

  After raking through the clothes in my closet and cursing repeatedly under my breath, I chose to wear the only dress I owned in an attempt to please Betty and show Dad that I was making an effort to get along with her.

  The dress was a few years old and more than juvenile looking. I’d gotten it when Mom decided that we should start going to church. It was a whim. She’d had lots of those. She obsessed over what everyone would wear for almost a month, then once we were dressed the way she’d pictured, she smiled and nodded, then went to the kitchen and made sandwiches. We didn’t go to church that day and Mom never mentioned it again.

  When I used to care how I looked, I wore makeup that covered the light dusting of freckles on my face and braided my auburn hair, but I hadn’t done either of those things since the day I lost my mind at school. Before going downstairs, I washed my face and ran a brush through my hair. It was the best I was willing to do.

  Betty complimented me, and I her. She was done up nicely. Her tousled blonde pixie cut set off her smoky eye makeup and matte red lipstick. She wore a gold silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, and matching high heels.

  I knew Betty had money the moment I laid eyes on her. She was so well put together. The polar opposite of my mother, who never cut her hair and always picked at the polish on her nails minutes after applying it. She hardly ever wore makeup or clothing not considered comfortable, while Betty dressed stylishly in designer labels, had a professional manicure, and a precision haircut.

  The doorbell rang and I wanted to disappear. Being social wasn’t my thing, and I was dreading having to sit through dinner with strangers. Dad followed Betty to help greet their guests while I stood to the side and watched as they entered.

  “Samantha, this is Robert and Babs Cohen,” Betty said.

  “Oh, look at you. You’re just darling,” Mrs. Cohen gushed as a girl and boy who looked slightly older than me stepped out from behind her.

  “That’s what we’ll call her then,” the girl said. “Samantha darling.”

  Mrs. Cohen giggled, then made a face that proved she was in awe of the idea. Darling is the last word that I would use to describe myself, but I had a feeling the name would stick.

  “Samantha, these are our niece and nephew, Charlotte and Wes,” Mrs. Cohen said proudly.

  Charlotte half-heartedly waved. She wore a navy cotton dress. Her frame was super thin, and her white blonde hair was cut in an angular bob that rested at her jawline. Her large green eyes matched Wes’s and were heavily contoured with black liquid liner. She was beautiful. And so was Wes. His dark hair was starting to curl at the ends from not having been cut in a while. His piercing green eyes were spectacular and focused solely on me, making my heart hum in a way that completely embarrassed me.

  “I’ve got a bottle of Merlot decanting in the kitchen,” Betty said, before turning to me. “Sam, why don’t you take Wes and Charlotte downstairs?”

  “What’s downstairs?”

  “The game room,” Dad answered.

  I didn’t want to go downstairs, but knew noncompliance would embarrass him, so I agreed through slightly clenched teeth.

  Betty’s smile brightened. “I’ve had some work done down there. I think you’ll like it.”

  The game room smelled of fresh paint—yellow paint to be exact. I was certain the color had been chosen to remind me that being in the sun is good for my brain.

  “You play?” Wes nodded toward the pool table.

  “No.” I’d never even been in the same room as a pool table before.

  “What do you do for fun, Samantha darling?” Charlotte asked.

  “I have a feeling your idea of fun isn’t the same as mine.”

  “I’d have to agree.” She carefully studied me, then scanned the room. “I’m going to need a drink. I’m sure this is a long shot, but do you have any booze down here?”

  “My dad might have a bottle stashed.” At home, he’d kept one he didn’t think I knew about.

  Charlotte pulled open the entertainment cabinet doors and looked inside.

  “He wouldn’t keep it in there—too obvious,” I scolded her.

  “Would you like to share what places are less obvious?”

  “It’s my first time in this room, so I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Judging your tone, I’d say you’re here under duress.”

  I didn’t want to get into that subject, so I joined Charlotte in her search for hidden booze. I crossed the room and opened a closet door. It was full of moving boxes that I wouldn’t have given a second look if I hadn’t noticed the word Patricia scrawled on a few of them. My stomach tightened and for a moment I thought I would burst into tears. Or vomit. I wasn’t sure which.

  I stepped inside of the closet and opened the box on top. My mother’s scent, whether actually present or not, filled my head. When I was a kid, she’d lie in bed with me and read stories. I’d rest my face in the crook of her neck to feel the vibration of her voice against my cheek, and breathe her in. Her scent had been the most comforting thing to me in the world then. Behind me, I heard the crack of pool balls being broken. I didn’t look back even though I felt Wes watching me. I closed that box and opened another.

  “Any luck?” Charlotte asked.

  I exited the closet and shut the door behind me. “Vodka okay?”

  “Vodka’s perfect. No smell.” Charlotte took the bottle from my hands and sucked down a long drink. “Wes?” she asked, holding it up. He shook his head no, and leaned over the pool table to take another shot. “What about you, Sam darling?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Figures.” Charlotte looked critically at me. “Where did you move from?”

  “Melton.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “It’s an hour and a half from here.”

  “Does everyone in Melton dress like a prairie person, or just you?”

  “I think I’m dressed appropriately for having to babysit the two of you.” I snatched the vodka bottle from Charlotte’s hand.

  “Feisty bitch, are we?” she snapped.

  “Just plain bitch, are we?” I retorted.

  Her face full of surprise, Charlotte laughed. “I think I’m going to like you, Samantha darling.”

  “Do you expect me to say the same about you?”

  Charlotte flashed an amused grin. “You’ll get used to me.”

  I rolled my eyes and put the booze back in the closet where I’d found it. Wes was standing behind me when I turned around.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I saw things.”

  “It’s nothing to you,” I said harshly.

  He caught my arm as I tried to pass him. “You okay? You seem rattled.”

  “Well, your sister is a bit jarring,” I said, to cover the real reason I was upset.

  “She has a hard time making friends with girls. Like she said, you’ll get used to her.”

  “You say that as if I don’t have a choice.” I didn’t care if Betty was ready for us or not. I was done
entertaining her company. “I’m going back upstairs.”

  The adults were on their second glass of wine, embroiled in what I was certain was a meaningless conversation about area rugs or table lamps when I entered the kitchen.

  “Everything alright?” Dad asked, concern in his dark blue eyes. My mother had once told me that Dad’s eyes were what had made her fall for him. I couldn’t imagine eyeballs being so compelling until tonight when Wes’s olive green gaze penetrated the muddy brown of mine.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Dad could tell by my tone that everything was not fine and suggested that everyone move to the dining room.

  While Betty served the pot roast she made, Dad passed a basket of rolls around the table. The Cohen’s complemented the dish before ever tasting it. Even Charlotte and Wes were polite. I, however, was not. I ate quickly, finishing before everyone, and then excused myself.

  Dad followed me to the staircase where he chided me for being rude to our guests, which boiled my blood.

  “Seriously?” I whisper yelled. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do. I went to a mental hospital for you. I moved into this ridiculous house for you. I put on a dress tonight because you asked me to try harder to get along with the woman you married almost immediately after my mother died. I made nice with the neighbors for you, and ate everything on my plate. I did my part, and now I’m done for today. If you’re so worried about the Cohen’s feelings, tell them about my dead mother, whose things I found boxed up in the game room closet of your new wife’s house. Tell that story, Dad. It brings a flood of sympathy and instant forgiveness from any creature containing even a trace amount of human DNA. Enjoy the rest of your pot roast.”

  Even though it hurt my feet I stomped up the stone stairs to my new room where I stripped off my old dress, threw it into the trash, and went back to bed.

  5

  W hen I was a kid, my mother was a fixture at my elementary school. She volunteered for everything. She baked cookies, chaperoned field trips, handed out ribbons on field day, and whatever else my teachers needed.

  I’d felt sorry for the kids whose moms couldn’t be there. Especially at the end of my fourth grade year when mine stopped showing up, and made me ride the bus instead of driving me. She was often still in her robe when I would get home in the afternoons. Sometimes I would find her moving frantically through the house, but not accomplishing anything. I’d once seen her rearrange the dirty dishes in the sink several times without ever washing them. At the time, I didn’t realize what was happening, but looking back, Dad must have known something was wrong because he sent me to camp that summer. I didn’t want to go, but much like the day he’d asked me to stay at The Boothe Center, I made the choice to do it because I knew he needed me to. He’d said that staying and giving the place an honest chance would bring him some peace of mind. I wanted to tell him that everything was okay and I could go home and be fine, and I was going to, until I looked into his worried eyes and was certain that the moment reminded him of all the times he’d been in that position with my mother, and it fractured my heart, so I sacrificed my peace of mind for his. Something I’d often done the past few years.

  6

  N ot looking away from the cooktop, Ellen informed me that I had a package.

  “Is it a bomb?” I asked gleefully.

  She stopped messing with whatever was in the skillet she was tending to, turned toward me, and smirked.

  I smiled and lazily dragged the package across the countertop of the kitchen island and sat down in front of it. The sender was Lancaster High School.

  I groaned. “Are you sure it’s not a bomb?”

  “It’s not ticking, so I’d say no.”

  “Not all bombs tick, you know.”

  “Just open it, child.”

  I snorted a laugh and cracked open the box. Inside, I found my high school diploma. The rest of my class had received theirs last week at graduation. I wouldn’t have gone even if I hadn’t been a guest at The Boothe Center. Knowing I’d never have to set foot in that horrible high school again had been the best part about being at Boothe.

  People at Lancaster became aware of my mother’s illness when I was a freshman. She’d slipped past her home nurse and walked five miles to the school and accused the principal of trying to take me away from her. She was disheveled in appearance and I could tell from the looks on their faces that she’d scared the hell out of the office staff. Mom had had episodes like that at home before, and I’d dealt with a few of them on my own, but that time it had taken longer than usual to convince her that I was okay and no one was out to hurt or take me from her. Tabby Bilson was office aid that period and told everything with a heartbeat what had happened. Then the bitch gave me a super catchy nickname: Psycho Sam.

  Because I was hospitalized, the school board deemed me eligible for the independent study program which allowed me to complete the remainder of my classwork and receive my degree from Lancaster High.

  I finished second in my class with a 4.3 GPA. I’d been tied for first with another student, whom I was informed via email had beaten me by one tenth of a point. I called bullshit on that, certain the win had been fudged in his favor because the school staff didn’t want Psycho Sam delivering the valedictorian’s speech. Probably because they knew it would have gone something like this: Hello fellow graduates. I hope you all get chlamydia. Fuck off and good night.

  “I guess it wasn’t a bomb,” Ellen said, placing a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “My diploma.”

  She gave me a hearty grin. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was waiting for her to ask about my college plan, but was glad when she didn’t. I would have hated having to tell her that I didn’t have one yet.

  “How was dinner Saturday night?”

  “Good,” I answered simply.

  “I hoped you’d say the roast was dry. Job security,” Ellen whispered and winked.

  I smiled, realizing that she’d meant the food and not the evening in general.

  Dad and Betty had apologized the next day for having put too much on me so soon after I’d left the hospital. Then Dad gave me a speech about starting fresh and encouraged me to get out and make friends. But I didn’t have to go anywhere because, shockingly, Charlotte Cohen came to me.

  “Ellen! What’s up, lady?” Charlotte high-fived, and then hugged her. “Oh yummy, you’re making French toast.”

  “I’ll fix you a plate,” Ellen said, letting go of Charlotte to flip the egg coated bread slices browning in the skillet.

  “Have you had Ellen’s French toast yet?” Charlotte asked, sitting down beside me at the island.

  “No. How did you get in here?” I asked without thought.

  Gentle laughter pushed through Charlotte’s smile. “Jonathan let me in. Opened the door before I could ring the bell. He’s stealthy like that.”

  I had to agree. He’d hung up my clothes while I slept and I hadn’t heard a sound.

  “How do you know Ellen?” I imagined that Betty hadn’t invited the Cohen’s over for breakfast, because that would be super weird, even for rich people.

  “Ellen was mine before Betty stole her.”

  “Betty didn’t steal me,” Ellen deadpanned.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I tell myself. It sounds better than the truth. Wes and I drove her nuts—though it’s more his fault than mine that she left.”

  “My leaving had nothing to do with either of you kids.”

  “If you say so,” Charlotte said out of the side of her mouth. “But I’d love to pack you in my suitcase this fall and take you to school with me.”

  “I appreciate the love, child, but I’m quite happy where I am.”

  Ellen served the French toast drenched in buttery syrup. My antidepressant was perched on the side of my plate where only I could see it, prompting me to ask where my dad was.

  “He and Betty are out,” Ellen said. “He left tending to you u
p to me.”

  I appreciated Ellen’s discretion, and quickly swallowed the pill, so she could tell Dad she’d seen me do it.

  “You girls should get out and do something fun together today,” Ellen said, shocking me.

  I stopped chewing. My eyes darted around wondering what the hell she was doing. I imagined it would be impossible for me to have any kind of fun with Charlotte Cohen.

  Charlotte shrugged. “I could show you around town.”

  “That sounds great,” Ellen said, her eyes brightening.

  “Seriously?” I asked, and slowly resumed chewing.

  “Why not?” Charlotte appeared puzzled.

  “I don’t know. I…” thought you didn’t like me.

  “Good, it’s settled then.” Ellen nodded at us. “You girls have a good time.”

  She obviously knew Charlotte in a way that I didn’t, and since I trusted her judgement and Charlotte wasn’t opposed to it, I agreed to go.

  After cleaning up after ourselves Charlotte and I went out the back door, through our gate, and into her backyard. Wes was spread across a lounge chair by their swimming pool wearing khaki shorts and a short sleeved button-down that was open, showing his chest and stomach. His skin clung to his ribs, but not in a gross, emaciated way. In a way that proved he was naturally lean.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Charlotte asked him.

  “Recuperating.” His voice sounded scratchy and tired.

  “Just don’t fall into the pool and drown.”

  “Because you’d miss your favorite twin?”

  “Because I don’t want Mom and Dad to come home.”

  “I doubt that even my death would coerce those two to make an appearance.”

  Charlotte laughed. “You’re probably right, and I would miss you, so don’t do it. I’m going to show Sam around town. I’ll be back later.”