Samantha darling

by Jennifer Davis

  “Liar. You probably stir it into your cereal every morning.”

  Wes chuckled, then after a moment said, “Really, what’s with the yoga pants?”

  “Maybe I do yoga.”

  “People who practice aren’t as peeved as you. They’re more peaceful.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to find peace.”

  “Is that why you were at The Boothe Center?”

  I became so pale with all the blood draining from my face that I was certain I looked like a nine-hundred-year-old vampire.

  “Your journal,” he said softly. “I saw you outside with it yesterday. I recognized the cover.”

  It fucking figured. The one time I’d taken the damn thing out since leaving Boothe, and he’d seen me holding it.

  “You’ve used their library,” I said, not believing my luck.

  He nodded.

  “You go to Bradford.”

  “Yep.”

  Although it was supposed to have been off limits to clients, Dr. Ming allowed me to access the staff library sometimes. Bradford College students often used their research materials. Part of what was available were past client journals. Boothe stripped them of all identifying information, but every one of them had a faded green hardback. I’d never thought of someone recognizing it, which made me hate the thing even more.

  “That’s why you want to be friends. Since I can no longer be a piece of ass in your collection, I’m now a puzzle for you to solve.”

  Wes grinned as if fascinated. “If you don’t want to tell me why you were there just say so.”

  I set my eyes on his. “Can’t you tell how crazy I am just by looking at me?”

  “I don’t think you’re any crazier than the rest of us.”

  “Did you tell Charlotte?”

  “Nope. Unlike her, I can keep a secret.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It matters because I don’t want to be the subject of some psychology paper you’re writing.”

  Wes smirked. “I’m a business major. I’ve completed the social and science portions of my prerequisites. I’m done writing those papers, and like I said, you don’t have to tell me why you were there if you don’t want to. We could go back to talking about fancy food.”

  I thought he was being cheeky, but Wes appeared more serious than I’d ever seen him. I wasn’t sure I should open up to him. But since he knew I’d been at Boothe and was asking people questions, it might be better for me to tell him why I was there, so he would stop digging, since there was so much more he could find out.

  “Tell me something about you first,” I said.

  Wes turned his body so that he was facing me. My eyes fell to his mouth and I watched as he licked his lips before speaking. I looked up, deciding to focus on his eyes instead. “I wish our parents were home. They only show up when something bad happens and never stay long enough to have a full conversation with either of us.”

  “Did you burn down the pool house on purpose?”

  Wes laughed. “I told you my sister can’t keep a secret.”

  “I didn’t ask. She offered,” I said to make clear that I hadn’t sought information about him like a fifth grade girl with a crush, even though that’s how I felt.

  “Last Christmas break Charlotte and I had plans to go skiing with a group of our friends until our parents called and asked us to come home. When we got here, they were packing for Europe, and we weren’t invited to go. I was pissed. What was the point of making us be here if they were leaving? I wanted to meet up with our friends, but there was no longer any room in the rental house, which pissed me off even further, so I started drinking. I don’t remember most of the night because I was so hammered, but at some point, I guess I decided that burning down the pool house would ruin Ronald and Emily’s trip, and they’d have to fly back home, but it didn’t work. They stayed in Europe.”

  “So, you are an arsonist,” I said matter-of-fact.

  “I exclude that tidbit from my resume, but yes, unfortunately.”

  “Did you get into any trouble?”

  “I never told anyone that the fire was intentional.”

  “Charlotte jokes that it was.”

  “I know. She still wouldn’t believe me if I told her the truth.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “A show of faith, Sam darling.”

  I wanted to smile, but forced myself not to. “Where are your parents now?”

  “Still in Europe. Who knows? They may never come back.”

  “I’m sorry.” His confession made me sad for him.

  “It’s fine. It’s not like we like each other or anything.”

  I placed my hand over his, but pulled away after realizing that I was touching him.

  “Your turn,” Wes said lightly, his eyes laser focused on mine.

  Since he’d told me something personal—something I believed, I reciprocated. I mean, the cat was out of the bag. I couldn’t get away with denying it now. “I was at Boothe because I had a meltdown at school.”

  “Must have been some meltdown.”

  “It was.”

  After a long period of silence, Wes said, “That’s all I get? I spill my guts and you reveal next to nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that you spilled your guts, but I do think you were honest.”

  “This exchange feels awfully one-sided, Samantha darling.”

  “Don’t worry. No one will ever find out that you’re a fire starter who misses his mommy and daddy, because I’m also very good at keeping secrets.”

  Eyes lit, he grinned, staring at me as if determined to unlock every secret I had.

  I was definitely a puzzle for him.

  “I need to smoke. Come with me.”

  I frowned. “You smoke?”

  “Like you should judge,” he countered.

  Outside, Wes pulled two lawn chairs side-by-side, and we sat down. He lit a cigarette and blew out a long stream of white. “How long were you at Boothe?”

  “Are you concerned that I’m not mentally stable?”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. “No. I just feel gypped. I think you owe me a truth.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “True, but it would be fair if you offered.”

  I looked at Wes and exhaled the words, “three months.”

  “Why did you have the meltdown that landed you there?”

  “I’m not sure I want to go down this road with you, Wes. People here don’t know a lot about me. I like it that way.”

  “I’m only trying to get to know you. I have no agenda.”

  “Can’t we be the kind of friends who don’t talk about the past?”

  Wes chuckled and almost sang the words, “You said the F word. You want to be friends with me.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head while Wes took another draw off of his cigarette.

  “To answer your question, no, we can’t not talk about the past because great friends talk about everything, Samantha darling.”

  I looked soulfully at him. “I’ve spent a lot of time avoiding talking about why I was at Boothe, even while I was there.”

  “The best way to get over something is to go through it. If you avoid it now, you’ll always be avoiding it. Believe it or not, I’m a good listener. I’ve had lots of practice listening to Charlotte blab about almost every subject known to man.”

  I started to respond, but couldn’t make myself speak.

  “Let’s say the Boothe thing was a front because you’re in WITSEC,” Wes said.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Witness protection?”

  I laughed. “I’m not in WITSEC.”

  “Ok. This is good. You’re talking.”

  “Now it’s your turn to talk,” I said. “Why do you smoke?”

  “Old habit. I don’t do it as much as I used to. Why don’t you drink?”

  “I bet you could guess if you thought ab
out it for a second.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Meds. The shrinks at Boothe put you on something you can’t mix with alcohol.”

  “That wasn’t so hard to figure out, was it?”

  “What are you taking?”

  “Why? Do you want some?”

  Wes’s eyes brightened. “Did she just make a joke?”

  I smiled at his amusement.

  “I don’t do pills. They scare me. The last thing I want is to become addicted to something else.”

  “What are you addicted to?”

  “A number of things. What drug are you taking?”

  “It’s a mood stabilizer.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it works, why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “What are you addicted to?”

  “You’re a persistent little minx,” Wes said. “I’m not so much addicted, I just tend to overuse certain substances.”

  I looked expectantly at him.

  “Weed. Alcohol,” he admitted.

  “Girls?” I asked.

  He grinned, not answering, but he didn’t have to. “What are you pissed about?”

  “Being here—having my life constantly disrupted.”

  “I know you can’t tell me if you are in WITSEC, so I shouldn’t have asked, but I’m thinking that you’re in WITSEC. Did you witness a mob hit or something?”

  “No, but I did watch someone die,” I said, before I could stop the words from slipping out.

  Wes studied me, I guess to see if I was serious. I knew he wanted to ask questions, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Wes—Sam—Dinner!” Mrs. Cohen called. I stood and began walking toward the house.

  “Sam, wait. You can’t drop a bomb like that and just leave.”

  “Sure I can.”

  He got up and met me, his olive green eyes scanning my face. “Who did you watch die?”

  “My mother,” I said softly, then left him standing alone.

  During dinner, the adults chatted feverishly while Wes and I didn’t utter a word until afterward, when Mrs. Cohen began serving coffee. I thanked her for the meal and Wes followed suit, then he invited me to go back outside with him, where we sat down in the lounge chairs. He lit another cigarette and waited for me to speak.

  He’d been so different with me, more genuine than before. In the moment I felt I could trust him.

  “She was schizophrenic.” I kept my eyes on Wes to see how he’d react to the word. It seemed to send most people on an out-of-body experience, but he didn’t flinch. “Her meds were failing. It sometimes happens with antipsychotic drugs. They just stop working.”

  “And that’s what killed her?”

  “No. She killed herself.”

  “Are you schizophrenic?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, surprised the news that my mother had killed herself hadn’t made Wes balk. “It usually doesn’t appear in women until their mid-twenties, so we’ll see.”

  “Are you afraid you will be?”

  “Yes. But I keep hearing that the odds of it happening are very low.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Horrible. There are a lot of symptoms. Not everyone experiences the same ones, but they can change over the course of the illness. My mom’s progressed. She heard voices, became paranoid, and sometimes made no sense when she spoke. In the end, I’m not certain she could tell what was real and what wasn’t. It was terrifying.”

  “What’d they diagnose you with at Boothe?”

  “Depression, anxiety.”

  “You’re not suicidal?”

  “Homicidal, either,” I joked.

  Wes cracked a grin, and then his expression returned to serious. “How’d she do it?”

  “She ran in front of a car.”

  Wes leaned forward in his seat. “You saw that?”

  “It was kind of my fault,” I said, my voice low.

  “How is something she did your fault?”

  “My mom had had a daytime nurse since I was about twelve. The one with her that day had gotten a call that her kid was sick. She wasn’t supposed to leave until my dad got home, but I told her to go ahead. I’d gone to the kitchen to make her some tea… my heart dropped when I heard the screen door slam shut. We lived in a rural area, off of a highway. By the time I got there, she was almost to the road. I ran out screaming for her to come back. But she didn’t.” I looked at Wes. “She was wearing a white gown and held her arms out the moment before impact. With the headlights beaming at her, she looked like an angel. And then she was gone.” I closed my eyes so the image of my mother’s death would disappear from my brain. Luckily, I’d been screaming and hadn’t heard anything other than the brakes of the car squealing as it tried to stop. I’d once read that the sounds of death could be more haunting than the sight.

  “Wow. That’s… I’m so sorry. When did this happen?”

  “Nine months ago.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

  That was a topic I wanted to avoid, so I straightened myself up. “I shouldn’t have dumped something so serious on you.”

  “I asked for it.”

  I cut my eyes to the ground. “In Melton, people were overly unkind to me because of my mother and didn’t let up after she died. Once they’d learned she was ill, they treated me differently, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. I don’t want you—”

  “I won’t,” Wes interrupted me, and placed a hand on my arm. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Please don’t tell Charlotte. I don’t want anyone else to know.”

  “I told you, Samantha darling, I’m great at keeping secrets.”

  14

  D r. Ming had practically begged me to just let go and talk about my mother during our sessions. I’d revealed the basics in my journal writing, but it had taken several weeks for me to come around to that, and I’d only done it after being promised more time in the staff library. I’d said more to Wes last night about my mom than I’d ever said to anyone. At first, I felt panicked over it, then imagined he’d be just like everyone else after finding out, and would avoid me like the plague. The thought of that happening kind of hurt my heart.

  On my way downstairs, I spotted Ellen lugging groceries into the house. “Isn’t there a store around here that delivers?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I like to examine the produce myself. No one wants skinned up squash, child.”

  “No, because that would be a total travesty,” I complained.

  Ellen smirked. “Go get the last bag out of the car, smarty-pants. There’s glass in it, so don’t drop it.”

  Ellen reminded me of someone’s sassy grandma. She wore her graying hair in a bun at the base of her neck, along with black cotton pants and a matching shirt. Her hands showed her age more than her rosy cheeked face.

  I carefully removed the bag from Ellen’s Volvo and took it inside. When I went back out to close the trunk, Wes was parked in the driveway. He lowered his window and winked. “Hey girl.”

  I smiled, so happy to see him that I felt my insides brightening. “Now you’re a Ryan Gosling meme dressed like a weekend in The Hamptons.”

  “Too much sexiness? I would tone it down, but I don’t think it’s possible.”

  My smile grew wider. Wes turned off his Range Rover, got out, and stood facing me. His eyes were clear and prettier than ever. He touched my bare arm. “Sun looks good on you.”

  I’d never cared about having a tanned body, but had heard more than once that a little sun on the skin made a person appear healthier. Sometimes I felt I could use all the help I could get in that department.

  “You’re dressed like you have plans, what are you doing here with me?” I asked, trying not to let on how nervous his touch made me.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay after our talk last night.”

  “Obviously the world didn’t end because I c
onfided in you, but I shouldn’t have.”

  His eyes were soft, honest. “I told you I wouldn’t tell anyone, Samantha darling.”

  “That’s not why. You want to know more now.”

  “Naturally, but don’t you want to know more about me? A fair exchange of information is the only way to go. Tell me about the meltdown you had at school, and I’ll tell you something else about me.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “You said it was why you were at Boothe.”

  “I take my meds every day so you don’t have to worry about me flipping out on you.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m just curious.”

  “You know what they say about curiosity,” I teased.

  “Good thing I’m not a pussy.” He leaned toward me and bumped our shoulders, nudging me to start talking.

  “It was my birthday—my first without my mother. Dad tried to do everything the way she would have, only he included his new wife. He used to wake me before school and we’d go to the kitchen where my mom would be holding the cake she’d made for me. She always said that birthdays were meant to begin with cake. So when I got to the kitchen that morning and Betty was there…” I exhaled. “Anyway, as the day went on, I got madder and madder, until I snapped, I guess. During lecture in my life sciences class I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin if I didn’t get out of there. Instead of leaving, I released twenty-four chickens from their cages before running from the room. The teacher chased me. My classmates followed. I ran into the road, caused a three car crash, and bit my teacher for trying to pull me out of the way.”

  Wes gasped, surprised, I guess. “You bit a teacher?”

  “Pretty hard, too, from what I understand.” I’d felt bad about it and had written Mr. Ferguson an apology letter while at Boothe. In his reply, he thanked me, said he’d forgiven me, and wished me well.

  “Why did you run into the street?”

  I knew why he’d asked. It was for the same reason everyone asked. But it wasn’t because my mother had done it. “Once I started running I didn’t want to stop. I was overwhelmed. Graduation was coming up. I was being pressured to choose a college. I was pissed about my dad’s quick marriage to Betty and how he’d dealt with my mother’s death. He acted as if she’d never existed. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t do anything to remember her—to make peace.”