Tell Me Not to Go

by Victoria De La O

  “Makes you appreciate the comforts,” Divina says. She reaches across and pats my hand. “So tell us more about this relationship, Sam.”

  “Mom . . .”

  Divina ignores her. “How long have you two been lovers?”

  I swallow, the spicy noodles going down hard, as I try to figure out how to answer this. Do I answer it? I elbow Sam again.

  “Ignore that,” she says to me.

  “I’m trying to make sure my only child is in a sex-positive relationship,” Divina says.

  I cough.

  “So I have some news,” Sam says, setting her glass down too hard. “I got in to UCLA.”

  Divina tears up instantly. “Seriously? I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell us?” She comes around the table to hug Sam.

  “She’s always been a healer,” Joe says. “I always knew.” He hugs Sam, too.

  “Dad, don’t . . .”

  “When she was ten, our dog Bobo got sick. The vet wanted to put it down, but Sam nursed him back to health. She read up on how to care for him and spent the next week—twenty-four seven—with that dog. He lived another two years.”

  “She cried for a whole day when Bobo died.” Divina’s smile is wide and proud, and her love for her daughter is breathtaking. Must be strange being an only child; having all your parents’ affections and attentions heaped on you.

  “And then when Ramos was in the hospital . . .” Joe says.

  Sam told me all about her Uncle Ramos, who was a formative figure in her life.

  “The car accident didn’t take him right away,” Divina says. “He was in a coma for a couple days. Sam was researching the entire time. Asking the doctors questions, challenging them.”

  Sam looks down at her plate.

  “They threatened to make her leave,” Joe says, lost in the memory. “But we were too torn up to focus, and she made sure he was being taken care of properly.”

  Sam sets her napkin down, still not looking at anyone. “They weren’t telling us the truth about how unlikely it was that he would wake up.”

  “You’ll be different, Sammie,” Joe says, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to be the best.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She is blinking hard, trying not to get emotional.

  I put my hand on her knee and give it a squeeze.

  We clear up lunch and head outside for dessert—vegan cookies that are dry as dust. Divina shows me her garden, which is filled with orange, pink, and yellow blooms. There is a patch for vegetables, complete with two fat chickens pecking around in the dirt.

  “The coop is further back,” Joe says, waving in the direction of the garage. “We also have a bee colony.”

  “How do you extract the honey?”

  This gets Joe animated. He takes me to the garage and shows me some empty combs and the electric extractor that spins them.

  “Take a jar. It’s really good for you.” Joe hands me a pint of amber honey.

  “Dad, did Jeff tell you he plays the banjo?” Sam’s tone is too sweet to be anything but mischievous.

  The look I give her is meant to be a promise of retribution, but she ignores me.

  Joe’s eyes light up. “How many strings?”

  “Standard five. But I didn’t bring it with me,” I say.

  “Don’t worry. Daddy has one. He’ll let you play it,” Sam says, smug as a bug.

  Giving her another dirty look will only encourage her.

  “Sure,” I say, as Joe runs off to wherever he keeps his instruments.

  When he comes back, he’s holding a nice-looking banjo and a guitar. Guess this is going to be a duet.

  “You know ‘This Land Is Your Land’?” he asks, handing me the banjo.

  “I sure do.”

  I start picking out the tune, and Joe jumps in on the guitar.

  He points to me. “You sing. I have a terrible voice.”

  “You have other gifts, sweetie,” Divina says, coming in from the kitchen.

  Sam thinks I’ll be embarrassed. Little does she know how often I’ve done this with my family.

  “This land is your land, this land is my land, From California, to the New York island,” I sing in a strong baritone.

  Sam’s eyes go wide, so I really get into it, holding my notes longer, belting out the final words. By the end, she and Divina are clapping.

  Joe is so impressed he makes me play “You Are My Sunshine” with him.

  “Wow, you’re a total nerd,” Sam says afterward, a twinkle in her eye.

  “But a sexy one.”

  “Damn straight.” She slides her hand around my neck and kisses me.

  It’s a heady thing to have someone appreciate what you always thought were flaws.

  As the day winds on, I discover that Sam’s parents are sort of an inverse version of mine, which puts me at ease. Like my parents, Joe and Divina are interested in self-sufficiency, but they use different methods to achieve it. I doubt Joe would approve of my dad’s gun collection, while my dad wouldn’t understand someone who couldn’t physically defend his family, but the principles overlap somewhere. Still, there are stark differences.

  “If you kids want to sleep over in Sam’s room, feel free,” Divina says. “We have some friends coming over for a drum circle soon, but you’re welcome to join.”

  “We can probably stay for that, but not overnight,” Sam says.

  I think my eyebrows are touching my hairline. “We can?”

  She tickles my side. “You said you wanted the full experience. Wanted to get out of your comfort zone.”

  “I guess watching people drumming isn’t the end of the world.”

  Her smile makes the hairs on my arms stand up straight.

  “Sam, come try on the sweater I made for you before everyone gets here,” Divina says. “I can make one for Lizzie, too.”

  I bet Lizzie’s going to love that sweater. She can add it to the Grateful Dead T-shirt that Divina gave her.

  Joe joins me on the couch as we sit and wait for the ladies. He looks at me for a second, his head cocked as if he’s taking my measure. Which means he’s about to give me the talk. The one that good dads give their daughters’ boyfriends—even open-minded dads, apparently. I’m fascinated to see what his version of the talk will be. But it’s not my first rodeo, so I’m not worried.

  “So, Sam will be leaving this summer,” he says. “I hate to see her go, but I’m sure excited for her.”

  “Me too. It’s her dream.”

  “You two have plans to stay together?” He leans back and swings one arm over the back of the couch.

  I don’t think that’s any of Joe’s business, but his tone is friendly, and I know he means well. My dad would be just as direct, if not more so.

  “No. Long distance is hard. We knew going in that she’d only be here awhile.”

  He leans forward with intent. “And how do you feel about that?”

  How do I feel? What the hell does that have to do with anything? I cross my ankle over my knee, but my foot is jiggling so I put it back on the ground.

  “Uh, Sam’s great. Obviously.”

  “But how do you feel about her leaving?” Joe’s smile is gone, and his tiny eyes feel like they’re burning two holes through my forehead, like Superman’s would.

  “Well, I . . . with all due respect, that’s something I’d rather talk to Sam about.” Or, better yet, talk to no one about. Ever.

  Joe takes a sip of his lavender iced tea. I have no idea how he can look daunting doing such a thing, but he does.

  “Fair enough. But I would like to think that any man with my daughter would feel her loss.”

  I place my hands on my knees. “Of course.”

  Joe taps one finger on his top lip, his gaze unwavering. My pulse is hammering in my neck. I wonder if he can tell.

  “I expect Sammie has told you about her childhood.”

  “Some. Sounds like she was a happy kid.”

  Joe smiles, but it might as well
be a frown with the way his eyes dim. “Yes, I guess she would say that. She probably left out the details.”

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I keep quiet.

  “When I was a young, I wanted freedom more than anything—probably because I never had it,” Joe says. “Then I found a woman that wanted that, too. Thing is, freedom can be very selfish. Divina and I figured that out way too late, and Sammie paid the price.”

  “She’s never said as much.”

  Joe holds up a hand, insistent on making his point. “She wouldn’t. See that vase there?” He points to a piece of Asian pottery on the bookshelf. “I got that in China. It was Sammie’s senior year of high school, so she couldn’t go with us. We went anyway and missed her prom. We forgot, and she didn’t remind us. Told us later that she didn’t want us staying home just for her. Sorry to say, things like that happened a lot.”

  I get an ache in my chest picturing Sam getting ready alone on prom night. Except she wouldn’t have. She would have called friends over, found a way to make it fun.

  “And now she’s capable and smart,” I say. “And she’s going to be a doctor.”

  Joe looks up at me. “True. And we try to make it up to her every day. Doesn’t change the fact that we made her feel like a she wasn’t a good enough reason to compromise.”

  I rub my hands together, my palms moist.

  “So, what I’m hoping is that you’ll do everything you can to make this breakup easy for her. For yourself, too,” he says. “Because I think you’re going to miss her more than you realize.”

  “Of course.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Yes. Well, I can tell you’ve got a lot of positive energy, Jeff. I’m sorry that we won’t be seeing more of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Joe laughs, creating folds around his eyes that practically swallow them. “Man, I don’t get called that very often. But I appreciate the gesture.”

  I’m saved by Sam’s return, her arms full of what looks like a dead sheep. She glances back and forth between me and her father.

  “Let’s go put this in the car so I don’t leave it here,” she says to me.

  “Obvious ploy to get me outside, but I’ll take it,” I say as I unlock the car, my jaw still clenched from my conversation with Joe. “I thought you said your dad worked at a university?”

  “He does, why?”

  “Doing what?”

  She smacks her gum a couple of times. “He’s a therapist, so he counsels students.”

  “You might have wanted to mention that I was going to end up on his couch.”

  She blows a bubble. “What’s the fun in that?”

  I pop her bubble with my finger.

  We walk back into the house together, hand and hand. She’s got a soft but firm grip on me. I squeeze her fingers, reassuring her that I’m here, Joe’s words still nagging at me.

  A little while later, Joe and Divina’s friends begin to file in. I’m greeted with lots of namastes and hugs. An older guy named Skip stares at me for a minute and tells me my aura is green. He’s wearing a hat that looks like it’s made out of beaver fur.

  “This isn’t so bad,” I whisper to Sam as the sun begins to fall. It’s mostly a bunch of older people chatting and drinking wine. Except for the flowy hemp outfits, they seem okay.

  “Hasn’t started yet,” she says.

  A few minutes later, Divina and Joe bring out two large drums. They look rustic—not like anything you’d buy in a music shop.

  “Made them myself,” Joe confirms. “A friend gave me the deer skin for it.”

  Chairs are cleared, a space is formed, and people throw red and yellow cushions onto the ground. One by one they take their seats, until Skip motions for me and Sam to sit next to him. His drum is smaller, but makes a crisp, low sound when he hits it. Soon, everyone picks up on his rhythm, and the drum circle is in full effect.

  It’s only music, I tell myself. And since I play a couple of instruments, I can appreciate the effect the drumming has on everyone. The mood turns calmer, the bass lines of the drums soothing.

  But then the chanting begins.

  “Ommm,” Skip groans out in a low growl. Others follow suit, the women’s voices higher, but still guttural.

  No way am I going to chant. Sam nudges me in the ribs.

  “It’s relaxing. Studies show it’s therapeutic. Try it.” She closes her eyes and turns her hands up, like in a yoga pose.

  I stay silent.

  “Ommmmm.” She peeks one eye open. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  I take a deep breath and let out a rusty, groaning sort of hum. It’s obvious I don’t know what I’m doing. Then again, I can’t believe I’m sitting cross-legged, moaning like a crazy person.

  Thank God no one from home is watching me. Are my thighs supposed to ache this bad? I wonder if Sam is wearing a bra. Pretty sure I smell pot.

  “I can hear you thinking from here,” Sam whispers, her eyes closed.

  I refocus and let the drum beats roll through me. I guess this is like meditation. I’ve been hit by guys wearing two hundred pounds of muscle and football gear. I can handle this. After a minute, my neck relaxes, my shoulders sink.

  I sense motion in front of me, and my eyes fly open. I wasn’t aware I’d closed them. A woman is standing in the circle, swaying back and forth, her arms over her head. A few more people join her, and they start to writhe and twist like teenagers on Molly.

  Skip passes me a joint. That explains it. I hand it back to him.

  “You sure?” Sam asks.

  “Don’t see you doing any.”

  “Just sayin’, you might need it before this night is over.”

  My laugh is smug. “I’m good.”

  “Sure thing, tough guy.”

  Skip has abandoned his drum. Unfortunately, this leaves his hand free to grab mine. His fingers are like dry bark, and I try to pull away. But he’s got a good grip for such a skinny guy, and he’s using me as an anchor as he sways side to side.

  The sky darkens, but the outside porch lights illuminate the woman in the circle whipping her top off. Soon, everyone in the circle is stripping down.

  “Close your mouth,” Sam whispers.

  There is so much sagging flesh. I know it’s normal. I know I’m supposed to think it’s beautiful—to appreciate nature. All I’m thinking about is that I better get my ass to the gym more often, because my clock is ticking and nature is cruel.

  “Ouch,” Sam says, when I grip her hand.

  The drumming gets louder, and it’s messing with my head. Or maybe that’s the scent of Skip’s joint. Everything’s getting a little fuzzy around the edges, which makes the geriatric gyrating a little easier to take. The dancers are turning into pale shadows—like ghosts howling at the moon.

  “It’s time,” Skip says to me. “Release all that energy, man.” He gestures to the circle.

  I manage to pull my hand out of his and Sam’s, and I hold them up like I’m being robbed at gunpoint. “No, I’m good.”

  “Give it a try,” Sam says, her eyes fiery. She looks like an evil, mythical goddess—maybe Medusa. No, too ugly. One of those Sirens, then.

  The weird thing is, I’m going to do it. I’m going to get in that freaky circle and dance like there’s no tomorrow—because I think I’m stoned, because why the hell not, and because Sam is daring me to.

  “Give me that,” I say, swiping Skip’s joint and taking a couple of healthy hits.

  I pull my shirt off and jump in, and the dancers swallow me. At first, it’s overwhelming. But as we start to move as one, energy pulses through me, and it’s coming from the people surrounding me. They are warm and alive, and I do see their beauty—their freedom. They don’t care about the rules, or how they look to everyone else. Just the beating of the drums, which is like the beating of their hearts.

  Then again, the moon is so big it’s swallowing the sky. So, I might be hallucinating.

  Soon, the drums die d
own, I am inexplicably lying on a recliner, and Sam is hugging her parents good-bye.

  Sam grabs my hands and pulls me up.

  “Time to go home, Dances with Wolves.”

  Divina and Joe walk us to the door, shoving a container of leftovers into our hands.

  “You’re beautiful, Divina,” I say, pulling her into a hug and holding her five seconds longer than I need to.

  Sam loads me into the passenger side of the car and I throw my head back on the headrest. I breathe out so hard my cheeks puff up.

  Sam puts her hand on my knee. “How did it feel expanding those horizons?”

  Something is pinching my forehead. I reach up, my fingers meeting thick, soft, fur. “Why am I wearing Skip’s hat?”

  She tries not to laugh. Fails. “Because you didn’t just leave your comfort zone, you left the universe.”

  Chapter 21: Sam

  30 Days Left

  “I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

  Jeff is smoothing a slow hand down my back. He’s lazy and sleepy and sweet after we have sex.

  “It’s only for a few days. And it’ll be fun.”

  Since my parents’ house, all my nights have been filled with Jeff. We didn’t talk about it or agree on anything; he just handed me a key to his place, and I use it. No matter how late he gets home, I’m there. Sometimes I’m studying, sometimes I’m making dinner. Or sometimes, I’m in bed waiting and impatient. But his eyes light up when he sees me. Every time.

  Not this weekend, though. I’ll be in LA getting welcomed by the med school and meeting my future classmates.

  I shrug. “Probably going to be a lot of uptight perfectionists.”

  Sometimes I feel like a puzzle piece that fell on the floor and doesn’t know where it fits anymore. I’m surrounded by smart, competitive people in my program, and that’s going to get worse when I go to med school. I can keep up with them mentally, but I don’t know where I fit in with them socially. I’m not a natural competitor. True, I like to kick the crap out of the bag in my kickboxing class, but I’m only competing with myself. And the status and influence that doctors strive for is such a far cry from the way I was raised.

  Jeff twines my hair around his finger. “No. They are going to be smart and interesting and accomplished. What are you doing while you’re there?”