The Tear Collector

by Patrick Jones

  “This isn’t easy for me,” Scott says. “I have certain beliefs, but around you—”

  A kiss cuts him off. He doesn’t know it’s not my faith, but my nature, being challenged.

  “You’ll call Samantha, right?” he says as we move inside the car. He finds a scrap of paper on the Cobalt’s messy floor, then writes down her cell number.

  “As soon as I get home,” I say, which is only a minor lie. The bigger lie when I get home will be explaining where I’ve been to my family, who can’t know about Scott.

  Scott kisses me one last time before we drive back toward my house. Along the way, we listen to Beatles songs from Robyn’s iPod as I rest my head on Scott’s shoulder. As the epic, almost symphonic, sounds of John Lennon singing “Across the Universe” wash over us, something else is washing over me. And if I’m not careful, it might just wash me away.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I tell Samantha. We’re sitting at the Tim Hortons donut shop down the street from me. It’s mostly old guys who don’t quite know what to make of Goth Girl and Swimmer Chick. Their tired midnight-hour eyes examine us like rubberneckers passing a car accident.

  “Any excuse to get out of my house.” She sips her coffee. Bitter black, nothing sweet. Like herself, like her outfit. Dressed as always in black, Samantha’s a daily funeral procession.

  “I feel bad that we’ve had trouble between us,” I confess. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for dating my ex?” she asks. “Or sorry for making fun of me?”

  “Samantha, listen, I’ve never made fun of you. But let me say, I’m sorry if you think I did. Other than Scott, I think we have a lot in common. I’d really like us to be friends.”

  “Really?” she asks. Her eyes pierce me through her thick black eyeliner.

  “I thought about being a writer,” I say, trying not to lock eyes. “But I don’t know now.”

  She sips some more coffee; she bites some more bait. “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re already so good, compared to me.”

  “Bullshit,” is her unexpected response. Her defenses are layered like her clothes, with one shirt piled atop another. “Just knock that shit off and tell me what you really want.”

  “Why do you assume that—?”

  “Cassandra, everybody wants something,” she says. Her MySpace profile lists her as bi, so I’m wondering what she wants from me, and how far I’ll go to get what I need from her.

  “What do you want then, other than to be a writer?” I ask, then sip from a bottle of water.

  “I want you to talk to me like a person, and stop asking me all these questions,” she says. “I’m not some guy you’re trying to make out with. Just be a normal person, okay?”

  “Just like you,” I say with the best smile I can summon at midnight in a Tim Hortons.

  “You got me,” she says, then laughs. When she laughs, her facade momentarily fades.

  “Okay, I’ll make you a deal,” I say, then flash quickly to my family. The only way to “deal” with the world is to make deals. “No more probing peer counseling questions from me.”

  “Good, thank you,” she says.

  “In return, you need to stop saying strange things like what you said to me the other day,” I say, tapping the table for emphasis. “I’m like any other person. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  She laughs, smiles, then says, “You doth protest too much.”

  My fake smile vanishes as I say, “I’m serious.”

  There’s silence at the table as we stare each other down again. I suspect her motive for knowing me better is to fulfill her vampire fantasies; my motive is darker—keep your enemies closer than your friends. I’ll let her into my world just enough to keep her from the truth.

  I break my stare and frown. She laughs, then says, “I guess we can’t fight our natures.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, unable to break my question-asking addiction.

  “I mean however or whoever you are, I guess you can’t change all that much,” she says. She’s staring at the old donut eaters who are staring at me. “I’ll always be this way. I can change my clothes, my hair, all of that stuff on the outside, but I can’t change my basic nature.”

  “Maybe,” I say, thinking that mainly what I want to change is the conversation, so I add, “You have a great sense of humor, and … “It’s pitch-black outside, but I stop speaking with a blinding-light revelation. I don’t know how to talk to people. I can flirt with boys, ask questions of strangers, and help other girls with their problems. But I don’t know how to have a simple, genuine conversation like a normal human being. She’s right; my nature is that I’m abnormal.

  “And?” she asks. She’s not asking for flattery, just for me to finish my thought.

  “And nothing,” I say. “Just that I think you have a sense of humor, that’s all.”

  “Scott was funny too,” she says, then sips her coffee. “Let’s get this out in the open.”

  I nod, then sit up in my seat. She leans in closer; her clothes smell of stale smoke.

  “Scott and I broke up for lots of reasons, none of which I want to talk about,” she says, struggling with words. This conversation resembles a baby’s awkward yet excited first steps.

  “I don’t need to know, that’s okay,” I reassure her.

  “I need to say this. I was mad at you. I’m sorry for that day in the library.” I give her a sympathetic “it’s all good” nod, so she continues. “Then it hit me. I liked Scott. If you like somebody, you want them happy. If being with you makes him happy, then that’s what’s best.”

  “That’s mature.” I don’t say that it’s because Scott feels the same that I’m sitting here.

  “That’s real life,” she says, then takes her final sip of coffee.

  “You want some more coffee?” I ask.

  “Sure, where else do I have to go?” she cracks.

  “I avoid my house all I can too.” I take the cup from her. It’s smudged with auburn lipstick. “You see, we do have a lot in common.”

  As I get up to get more coffee for her, and another bottle of water for myself, I sneak a peek at my phone. There are several messages from Mom, but even more from Scott.

  When I get back to the table, Samantha says, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” I say as I sit back down.

  “Did you ever find out for me who chopped down the Goth tree last fall?”

  I pause, take a sip from my water bottle, then say, “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You act like you know everything about everybody,” she says.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, except you don’t know shit about me, but that’s for another day,” she says.

  “Is that a promise or a threat?” I ask, then laugh.

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she says in a nervous, almost flirting, voice.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Once you find out, would you mind if I use it?” she asks in an embarrassed tone.

  “Use what?”

  “The thing about the Goth tree,” she says, hiding a smile. “It’s for a book I’m writing.”

  “You’re writing a book? Tell me about it,” I say. She smiles as she swallows the hook.

  Samantha drops me at home an hour later. We’re breaking the law, as well as the rules of both our houses, but we don’t care. I give her a simple good-bye wave, then walk as quietly as possible into the house. Samantha doesn’t help my stealth entrance by blasting death metal from her beat-up Honda as soon as she pulls out of my driveway. I learned a lot about Samantha tonight, and even more about her epic vampire fantasy. But mostly, I think how out of place she is at school and how awkward our conversation was. No wonder she wants to believe in vampires; like her, they don’t fit in with the human race. No wonder we’re becoming friends.

  I check my cell as I climb the stairs up to my bedroom. There’s another message from Scott, and one from my cousin
Lillith, whom I’ll see at the reunion on Friday. She’s calling to make plans; she must be forgetting that plans have already been made for me. I get online and check the weather for the weekend. The forecast is for mostly clear blue skies. But I check my news alerts and know, for me, there is nothing in store except heavy black clouds.

  NEWS REPORT #5

  Police have now confirmed that the series of child abductions in mid-Michigan is the work of the same person. While police are holding back many details due to the age of the victims, it is clear that one person—the gender is still unknown—has abducted eight male children in the area over the past six months. In each case, the young person was walking home alone. They were attacked and then dragged into a van. Inside the van, the young people were blindfolded and gagged. The police have yet to release more information other than that they allude to the “bizarre” details of the case. One police source said that the young people were not only “terrorized” by their abductor, but in several cases, they were also physically injured.

  CHAPTER 14

  THURSDAY, APRIL 9

  Scott, I’ll see you at school, okay?”

  Scott’s just asked if he could drive me to school, but I gently refused him. Unlike Cody, who couldn’t handle the smallest rejection, Scott takes it in stride.

  “It’s complicated,” I explain slowly. “But you can’t meet my family; not yet.”

  “I guess I understand,” he says.

  “Good, because I sure don’t!” I crack back and he laughs. “That’s just the way it is.”

  “Are you the black sheep or something?” he asks.

  “That’s not me,” I reply, jokingly, but my thoughts turn serious. There is a black sheep in our family, and with the reunion tomorrow, I’ve thought for days about calling Siobhan again. She’s of my generation, but she won’t be at the reunion this year, or ever again. To me she’s a curiosity, but to the family she’s an outcast.

  “You there?” Scott asks. He’s not used to my awkward pauses and mind ramblings. Our edges are still rough, no matter how much we rub our mostly clothed bodies together.

  “Sorry, I got lost,” I confess.

  “Then it’s a good thing I found you,” he says and I feel my body sway.

  “Well, I’ve just been waiting for you,” I snap back.

  “That’s life, you know?” he asks, then sighs. “It is all one big waiting room.”

  “Really?”

  “You sit and wait for something to happen,” he continues. “Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. And then, like you, sometimes it’s great.”

  “So you don’t need to spend your time in a waiting room anymore!”

  “Right, but because of you,” he says, then laughs, “I spend more time in confession.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, although I’m not.

  “Well, I don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or swear,” he says. “Nobody’s perfect... well, nobody except you, Cass.”

  I pretend to purr before I hang up and start walking to school.

  It is a beautiful morning, thick with fog. It’s a long, lonely walk to school, but it feels so good to soak up all the damp, dewy air. The dry winter air damages my skin. I didn’t think there was enough moisturizer in the world, and even a humidifier in every room of our house hasn’t helped much. School is even worse, with old-time heaters drying out my skin like an oven.

  On this morning, none of that matters. Just as I spoke in Bio about the space between faith and fact, this morning I’m thinking about the space between family and friends, between loyalty and love. These are tightropes I thought I knew how to walk. I thought wrong. These are not questions I can ask Mom, Grandma Maggie, and especially not Veronica. There’s only one person who could understand. Just outside of school, I sit on a curb and make the call.

  “Siobhan?” I ask the female voice who answers.

  “Hello?” She sounds confused. Or maybe just asleep. It’s still predawn in California.

  “It’s Cassandra,” I say.

  “Cassy, I told you not to call me again,” she says. “I’m out of the family.”

  “I need to talk to you,” I whisper.

  “I can’t talk,” she says. “It’s for your own good.”

  “I don’t care.” The outside fog soothes me; my inner fear drives me. “We used to be close, you can’t turn me down. That wouldn’t be the human thing to do, would it?”

  She coughs and considers, then says, “Okay, one last time. What’s wrong?”

  “You know what weekend it is, don’t you?” I ask. For most people in Lapeer, this weekend is an excuse to send Easter cards, eat chocolate, and paint eggs. For my family, it’s a chance to come together to remember and reenact our family’s history and heritage.

  “Yes. I know you and Alexei are of age,” she says. She’s always been my favorite cousin; no wonder Veronica frets over me. She’s afraid I’ll be like Siobhan and abandon my ancestors.

  “I can’t live like this anymore,” I say.

  “I felt exactly the same way,” she says, and the word shocks me. In my family, speaking of feelings is forbidden. Instead, we talk about loyalty, honor, and duty. It is more like the Mafia than a family. And Siobhan learned what happens when you go against the family.

  “I’ve met this boy, Scott,” I say. “He’s like nobody else.”

  “So is Alden,” she says. Alden is her boyfriend; Alden is the cause of her exile.

  I pause and look around me. I see buses, cars, and SUVs turn into the school parking lot. I see people walking or biking. Everybody, it seems, is with someone. They’re connected. Like Siobhan, I’m in exile. But my exile is from emotion, normality, and most of all, from humanity. Until Scott. Now there’s a tingling, like a body part that’s fallen asleep but is coming awake.

  “Cassy, are you okay?” she asks.

  I pause again, take in the world I know, compare it with the world I want, and say, “No.”

  We talk for another ten minutes as I pour out these growing human feelings of love, and even sadness. We keep talking but Siobhan never reveals—despite my best efforts—how she left the family. As I’m about to hang up, I ask one last question. “Siobhan, are you happy?”

  “Cassy, I’m very happy,” she says without pause or hesitation.

  “What does that feel like to be happy, to be in love?” I ask.

  “I can’t describe it,” she says. “You have to experience it for yourself.”

  “How will I know I’m really in love?” I ask.

  “Love exists between natural and supernatural,” she says, speaking words Mom should have spoken to me. “It is a mystery you take on faith.”

  “But Siobhan, I need to know how you become fully human once you feel love. How—”

  “In the family, we don’t use the word, but all the sacrifices you make for the family is what love looks like,” she says. “When you’re willing to lose everything for someone else, that’s what love looks like.” Her soft words scream in my ears, almost drowning out the school bell. As I say good-bye, I wonder when my faith will be rewarded and the mysteries solved.

  “Mr. Abraham, can I say something?”

  “Cassandra, what would you like to add?” Mr. A asks as Honors Biology winds up. It’s the first class in the last day before my personal spring break starts. Although I know he tries to avoid it, his tone makes me sound like the teacher’s pet.

  “Maybe both evolution and creation are right. Why does it have to be one or the other?” I ask the class, earning a frown from Mr. A and serious sighs from other students. For most of the class, I’ve been my silent self, but Siobhan’s words stir inside me like a boiling cauldron.

  “What do you mean?” some girl behind me asks.

  “Maybe Adam and Eve are just names for the first fully evolved humans,” I say.

  “Not Koko and Lucy, those talking apes,” somebody says.

  “No, the talking apes are all in gym class,” Scott cracks. He gets mostly laughs, b
ut he’s playing to a friendly house. I’m the only athlete in the room; nobody else in this class has the anatomy, coordination, or ambition.

  I laugh, even if the joke is at my expense, although I’m not sure Scott realizes that. For all the rules of science I’ve studied, there’s one sure rule for maintaining chemistry in a relationship: laugh at your boyfriend’s jokes. With Tyler and Cody, that took better acting skills than the finest actors in our school, but with Scott, it’s easy. When he’s not feeling down about his grandmother, he’s full of life, and I overflow with appreciative and genuine laughter.

  Mr. A lets the class go off into discussion, sometimes playing devil’s advocate. I drop out of the conversation again to think about Siobhan’s words and gaze upon Scott’s face.

  “Well, if God invented everything, why did he invent diseases like AIDS and cancer?” Michael asks, and I stir in my seat. Though I spent so much time with Becca right after Robyn’s death, it’s been weeks since I’ve visited. It’s not just Scott, but it’s my family—in particular, Veronica—driving us all crazy with details about the reunion. For me, spring break starts a day early, since our school doesn’t let us out for Good Friday, the holiest of holy days in our family.

  I tune back in to the discussion every now and then, but my mind is far away until I hear somebody make a crack about monsters. It’s a comment meant to bait Samantha and it works.

  “Don’t call something you don’t understand a monster,” Samantha says.

  “Freak,” Clark Rogers mutters.

  “Shut up!” I say, defending Samantha to Clark, but also offering her a smart suggestion.

  I sink into my seat as Samantha ignores my advice. “You use the word ‘monster’ for any creature, any nonhuman being, that you don’t understand or accept. I accept them all,” she says.

  Lots of hands go up, which is no surprise. It’s one thing to fill your MySpace page with vampire lore; it’s another thing to talk about it in class in front of skeptical science students.

  Samantha stands her unholy ground as others attack. She’s all alone, until Scott raises his hand. “Samantha, you said you didn’t believe in God.”