Sammy Righton, who arrived in the United States only a few days ago, seemed overwhelmed by the fact that she was the only minority at a father-daughter dance in Orange County last night. “I’ll have to talk that over with my father,” she answered, when asked how she felt about standing out in the crowd. Perhaps the Rightons have been hiding the truth from their daughter, just as they’d previously been trying to hide Sammy herself from the public eye: “You’re Pakistani, Sammy,” they need to inform their daughter. “And we’re not.”
“THAT’S A PERSONAL QUESTION!” Elizabeth Campbell Righton said, refusing to answer questions about how the Rightons ended up adopting a baby from Pakistan. “Why not an American baby?” our reporter asked. “No comment,” said Campbell Righton, who seemed overwhelmed and exhausted by her husband’s overextended campaign schedule.
Poor Mom! Sparrow thought. She’d stayed up till 3.AM. the night before, working on the freakin’ report.
The worst was a photo of Dad smiling down into Sparrow’s face as they waltzed on the dance floor. “Righton: Soft on Muslims?” read the caption.
As he clutched his Pakistani daughter in his arms, observers wondered if James Righton’s foreigner-friendly approach during these frightening times might not be tough enough to fight the war on terror. We interviewed ...
Sameera stopped reading. This was lousy journalism, and they were trying to tarnish the beautiful dance she’d shared with Dad. Well, she wouldn’t let them. She was going to treasure that memory until they were able to be together again. “I’m sure there was a lot of positive coverage, too,” she said. “Why didn’t you bring any of that up to show me?”
Confirming her suspicions, Tara didn’t meet her eye. “I wanted you to understand how rough it might get in the weeks ahead. And why it’s so important for the three of you to stick together. There’s still time to change your flight if you decide to come with us to D.C.”
“No thanks,” Sameera said, forcing herself to sound polite. “I promised my cousin I was going to help out on the farm this summer. You take care of Mom and Dad; I’ll be fine.”
Tara shrugged. “Okay. The good news is that SammySez. com has already gotten a decent number of hits, and Marcus did some damage control on the site. Check out his post when you get a chance. Now, where are your parents?”
Sameera gathered the clippings together and shoved them back into the folder. “Don’t show them these just yet, Tara. Especially not Mom. It’s going to be much harder than usual for them to say good-bye; let’s not make it worse.”
Tara shrugged and tucked the folder back into her briefcase just as Mom came out. “The reporters are going to head straight for Maryfield as soon as they find out you’re there. You’re the human-interest angle. Reporting on you brings in the younger viewers. They’re not going to let you escape.”
“You don’t know my family,” Mom said. “My father won’t let the media get anywhere near Sparrow. I’ll be so relieved once she gets there.”
“You don’t know the press,” Tara said. “James’s enemies are looking for an ‘issue’ to focus on, and Sammy’s the perfect target.”
“I really hate it when you call her that,” Mom snarled. “Can’t that Marcus fellow come up with something better?”
“What could be better than ‘Sammy’ ?” Tara asked. “Besides, it creates a shield for your daughter. You gave us carte blanche to keep her safe, remember?”
“I don’t mind it anymore, Mom,” Sameera added quickly—and truthfully, she realized. I’ve never liked Sparrow much either, but who cares? It doesn’t really matter what other people call you.
“What I’m worried about is what the American people are going to think if you send your daughter away,” Tara said, aiming this last verbal punch at Mom with just the right amount of doubt in her voice.
Mom’s face fell. Sameera frowned at Tara; obviously the woman hadn’t gotten her point about not making this parting hard. “Get Wilder to spin something about me getting in touch with my mother’s country roots or something,” she said. “You’re probably paying that guy a bundle; let him do his job.”
“That’s an idea, Sammy,” Tara said slowly. “A good idea, actually. I’ll tell him. But remember—call me if you change your mind. I’ll fly to Toledo and bring you back myself.”
Mom was still looking troubled. “A decent mother would go with her daughter to Maryfield, wouldn’t she, Sparrow?”
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Sameera said. “I’ve flown alone dozens of times, and when I get there, Gran will take good care of me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “How could I forget?” Mom asked, looking even more despondent. “You’ll be with the Ultimate Good Mother. Why can’t every woman run a farm, a church, and an entire town, still manage to cook everything from scratch, knit, and garden?”
“Gran’s stopped doing most of that stuff now, Mom.”
Mom sighed. “I know. A decent daughter would visit her recuperating mother, wouldn’t she? After she had the heart attack, did I take the time to visit her? No.”
“You had to campaign with Dad, Mom, and you used every spare minute to come back to Brussels and see me. Gran understands. Beside, you’re going there in August.”
“She might go there in August,” Tara said. “Otherwise, you can definitely visit at Thanksgiving, Liz, after the election.”
The limo transported the unusually silent family to the airport and took Sameera to her airline first. After saying good-bye to her parents, who held her much closer and tighter and longer than normal, Sameera made her way through security. She was wearing her old jeans and her sweatshirt again, and no makeup; she wanted to feel like herself as she traveled to the farm. It was a relief not to draw attention as she walked through the busy airport to her gate; the past few days had been an intense dive into the deep end of celebrity life. She was ready for a break before wading back in again.
The plane wasn’t boarding yet, so she logged onto the Internet to check out Wilder’s “damage control” post. Now that Tara had shown her some of the coverage, she wanted to check things out for herself.
i went to the rodeo drive salon again for my hair and nails ... they do a fantastic job ... last night’s party was a total blast, but i was so tired i couldn’t think straight ... i thought how lucky i am to be growing up in America instead of someplace where kids can’t dance or laugh or sing ... we’re so free here, it’s awesome ... speaking of freedom, i’m thinking of getting another piercing somewhere on my body, probably ears again ... my parents are really cool, but they might not let me get SOME parts pierced ... vote in this survey for YOUR favorite body part to pierce.
Sameera clicked on the survey to discover that people were able to vote on six choices: lip, belly, chin, elbow, throat, or nose. Well, she certainly wasn’t about to put holes in any part of her body, no matter how the readers of SammySez.com voted. The virtual manga girl would have to do it on her behalf.
She checked in to her real site, where her buddies had poured out words of support, praise, and encouragement, along with their congratulations to Dad for securing the Republican nomination. “Sparrow, you looked exhausted in the news coverage,” Mrs. Graves wrote. “Make sure you take care of yourself and rest when you get to the farm.”
Sameera closed her eyes for a minute, and a picture of the farm shimmered in her mind. The rolling hills and pastureland. The familiar paths and trees and people who loved her. No strangers anywhere in sight. She wrote back in a comment:I’m bound to get some rest in Maryfield. But I might not be able to blog as much. Poppa cut off Internet access on the farm as part of the huge family effort to de-stress Gran. So talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll tune in when I can.
Chapter 16
Sameera was looking forward to visiting the small brick Presbyterian Church in Maryfield; the service was predictable and down-to-earth, and people didn’t give you dirty looks if you sang off-key, didn’t know the liturgy by heart, or worst of all, weren’t even
sure what you believed. Nobody in the Campbell family settled for just warming a pew, even though a break had been enforced on Gran. Miranda taught the third-grade Sunday school class, Aunt Bev played the piano, Poppa was an elder, and Uncle Jake sang baritone in the choir.
As soon as Sameera got off the plane, she dialed her cousin to see which Campbell was giong to skip out on churchly duties to make the three-hour drive to the airport.
“I’m here already,” Miranda said, sounding extremely proud of herself. “I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my Jeep at the curb. Didja get that, Sparrow? My Jeep.”
After passing her driving test two months ago Miranda spent all her savings to buy a secondhand fire-red Jeep that Sameera hadn’t seen yet.
“Isn’t this your first time driving to Toledo?” Sparrow asked doubtfully, keeping an eye out for her suitcase.
“It is! And I only got one ticket!” Miranda said. “Now get out here and hug me right now. I’m tired of watching you on a screen; I need to see your sweet cheeks with my own eyes.”
Ever since they’d met thirteen years ago, the cousins’ friendship had stayed strong, and they were always inseparable during the summers. An outsider might think that it would be easy for Sameera to envy her tall, lovely cousin, but she’d never struggled with jealousy when it came to Miranda. What she did battle was a bit of the overprotection she’d glimpsed recently in her own parents. Miranda was so ... unsullied. She was popular and beloved in Maryfield, but that was a safe place where everybody had known one another from the cradle.
After their usual rapturous reunion, Sameera gushed sufficiently over the Jeep, and they headed home.
“Why don’t you get your license this summer?” Miranda asked her. “I’ll let you drive this baby any time you want.”
“I’d love to,” Sameera said. “Do you think Poppa has time to teach me?”
“He’s already talking about it. Sorry, Sparrow, I can’t drive and talk at the same time,” Miranda told her as they pulled out of the airport exit. All the way to Maryfield, she concentrated fiercely, clenching her jaw and furrowing her brow as she steered the Jeep around the curves.
Sameera didn’t mind the silence. She gazed out the window, feasting her eyes on the familiar scenery. They reached the first stoplight in town, just before the big brick court-house building and statue of the town’s founder, and drove past a train station, bar, the combo grocery-hardware-variety store, diner, library, and beauty shop before turning left at the high school. If they’d kept going, Sameera knew exactly what they’d find before reaching the hayfields that stretched away on the other side of town—two churches, two restaurants, a few offices, the school building that housed grades K—8, and one more stoplight.
With a sigh of relief, Miranda turned off the paved road at the entrance to the farm, and Sameera jumped out to open and close the gate. “Are Poppa and Gran still debating what to name the farm?” she asked her cousin, climbing back in.
“Yeah. We’re stuck with ‘The Campbell Farm’ because either one or both of them nixes every suggestion. Maybe you can come up with something, Sparrow.”
The narrow, plowed lane curved for five miles into “The Campbell Farm,” cutting through the thousand acres of fenced-in, rolling pastureland. It was a small farm, with only two hundred Holsteins, and Poppa liked to let the stock graze freely during the spring, summer, and fall instead of keeping them inside year-round and buying feed. Every Campbell could tell which cow was which by the pattern of their spots; Sameera relied on the numbered tags in the cows’ ears. After they crossed a wooden bridge, the road took one last turn, and Sameera caught sight of the familiar three-story yellow clapboard house set behind a wide expanse of summer-green lawn.
She jumped out before Miranda had a chance to turn off the engine, and the first Campbell to race up to her was Jingle, the family’s grizzled-but-still-yellow Labrador retriever. During Sameera’s first summer on the farm, the puppy version of Jingle had started dogging the three-year-old version of herself, and every summer since then he had claimed her as his own. It always took her a few weeks to get over missing him when she left. Now he lavished her with wet kisses and a wildly wagging tail and she kissed him right back on the nose, a joyous refrain singing through her heart: Safe, safe, I’m finally safe. Home, home, I’m finally home.
Then Poppa was there, hugging her, and Gran, pushing Poppa aside to hold Sameera tightly. Everybody had already changed out of their fancy church clothes. Sameera scrutinized her grandmother’s face; she did look more tired and pale than she had last summer. Uncle Jake and Aunt Bev kissed Sameera and unloaded her suitcase and laptop case from the truck, and Miranda escorted her arm in arm into the house that had been built by their great-grandfather over a hundred years ago.
The atmosphere on the farm always felt different on Sundays, beginning with mandatory church attendance and followed by afternoon coffee, a rest, and a lavish supper. After that, the family played board games by the fire—thanks to Poppa’s “no-screens-on-the-Sabbath” rule, a practice that Sameera secretly liked. Now it was coffee time, so they gathered in the big kitchen, which had been designed as a place where a large family could cook, eat, and commune.
Aunt Bev poured cups of coffee and passed around the plate of still-warm oatmeal scotchies. Dad’s campaign team might be positioning him as a “crunchy conservative,” Sameera thought, restraining herself to three cookies, but Aunt Bev’s the real thing. Her stocky, curly-haired aunt was a passionate advocate of smaller government bureaucracies and greater individual and community responsibility. Clothed in flannel shirts tucked into high-waisted jeans that she’d probably bought at a yard sale in the 1980s, she grew most of the produce for the family in her organic garden, composted fervently, and wrote articles about the waste and excesses of consumer culture.
“How’s your mother doing with the campaigning, Sparrow?” she asked now. Aunt Bev was a huge fan of her sister-in-law and a champion of all of Elizabeth Campbell’s causes. But her own daughter’s life goal to become a pop culture icon was driving her nuts.
“I don’t know,” Sameera answered truthfully. “Mom didn’t meet her deadline on the—the report she was working on, which always stresses her out. Plus she’s worried about Dad.”
Gran sighed. “I know. I get nervous every time they mention your father in the news. My heart starts racing.”
“That’s why you’ve got to turn off the television,” Miranda said. “You’re addicted to the coverage. I’m sure Poppa’s going to get rid of our satellite dish next. I’ll be the only girl in America who has to check her e-mail at the town library and miss my favorite shows.”
That pushed Aunt Bev’s buttons. “Miranda Campbell! There are plenty of girls your age on this planet who don’t have any computers or televisions—”
“I know, I know, Mom,” Miranda interrupted. “My point was that Gran needs to stop tuning in to the news every day for hours on end. It’s making her crazy.”
“Are you starting to ... feel like yourself again, Gran?” Sameera asked hesitantly.
Until last fall, Sarah Campbell had been an elder and a member of the Ladies’ Aid at church, a well-known leader and advocate in Ohio’s community of small dairy graziers, and a founding member of Celebrate Country, a movement that aimed to “eliminate stereotypes about country living and promote awareness of the rich intellectual and cultural traditions of the Heartland.” After her hospital stay, she’d agreed to resign from her umpteen committees at church and in town. But that wasn’t as hard as giving up the care and feeding of her family and her home, which is what she was being asked to do this summer.
“I’m fine,” she said now. “Bored out of my mind, though. Everyone’s treating me like I’m made of porcelain, and that doctor told me to take a break from coffee and drink green tea. Can you believe it?” She grimaced at the pale, grassy-smelling liquid in her cup.
Poppa and Uncle Jake came in. “Well, Sparrow, when can we go pick up your permit?”
Poppa asked. “I’d like to start logging in some of those hours you’ll need to get your license.”
“ASAP, Poppa,” said Sameera, who’d been longing to get behind a wheel ever since her birthday. She’d taken a driver’s ed courses in Brussels and passed with flying colors—but that hadn’t been the real thing.
Her grandfather looked pleased. “We’ll pick up a permit for you in the next couple of days, Sparrow.”
“I think my daughter needs a few more lessons, Dad,” Uncle Jake said, frowning at the ticket Miranda had received on the way to the airport. “I still feel like fasting and praying every time she’s on the road.”
Miranda threatened to smack him with a rubber spatula, and the family talked and laughed together until the coffee was gone. Glancing at her watch, Gran sent Miranda off to practice piano and Sameera to shower and unpack.
Sameera climbed the stairs to the third floor with Jingle at her heels. Their great-grandfather had purposely built this house to hold an extended family. Gran and Poppa had a bedroom on the first floor; Uncle Jake, their oldest son, lived with Aunt Bev and Miranda in a spacious, newly renovated second-floor apartment; the guest quarters were up on the third floor, where two bedrooms and a bathroom were always reserved for Sameera and her parents during their visits.
She always stayed in the smaller room, which had once belonged to her mother. It was an alcove that overlooked the maple grove and was furnished simply, with a rag rug and white cottage furniture. Uncle Jake had put her suitcases, makeup case, and laptop bag in one corner. Tara had packed an extra suitcase for her Vanessa outfits, and Sameera left that unopened, along with the makeup case that Constance had stocked for her. She might need to access them down the road, but for now, she was going back to the comfy “before” version, so she only unpacked the stuff she’d brought with her from Brussels.
After unpacking and taking a shower, Sameera stretched out with a sigh on the four-poster bed. Since the farm wasn’t connected to the Internet, she’d have to blog or surf the Web at the library. She didn’t mind; it was going to be good to take a break for a while. Gran’s not the only one who needs a bit of de-stressing, she thought. Jingle jumped up on the bed, too, and Sameera rested her head against his stomach. Perfect. Fur therapy.
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