“Yes. Just take me home.”
No one said anything as we drove. When my dad parked in front of Sam’s house, he got out of the car. “I need to talk to your mother.”
“I don’t think she’s home.”
“Her car’s there.”
“Yeah, but Daniel picked her up.”
“Maybe she’s home.” My dad was insistent.
It turned out that Sam was right. No one was home.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea that you stay here alone tonight.”
I could tell that Sam was relieved. She got some things together, and we drove back home. Dad made tea. He sat us both down at the kitchen table. “You want to talk about what happened?”
Sam didn’t say anything.
“I know I’m not your dad, Samantha. But there are certain things you can’t keep from the adults around you—?adults who care about you.”
Sam nodded.
“You don’t have to tell me—?but in the morning, when your mother comes to get you, you’re going to have to tell her what happened. Look at you—?you’re still shaking. How did your blouse get torn?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to tell my mom.”
“I don’t think that’s an option, Sam. I really don’t.” There was so much kindness in my father’s firm voice that I almost wanted to break down and cry. But I was angry, too. Mad as hell. I wanted to get in the car, find Eddie, and beat the holy hell out of him.
Sam looked up at my father. “I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the ass.”
My dad smiled at her. “That’s part of your charm.”
She laughed—?then started crying again.
“Let’s all try to get some rest.”
All the words inside us had gone to sleep—?so we didn’t talk. Sam fell asleep on my bed right next to Maggie. We had an extra bedroom, but she didn’t much feel like being alone. I’d always done the alone thing much better than Sam. I was on the floor in my sleeping bag, unable to sleep. I kept wondering what had happened. It wasn’t like her to be so quiet about things.
And then I started thinking about what Dad was going to tell Sylvia. He’d had chats with her before. Lots of them. That’s what Dad called them. Chats. Yeah. And then, all of a sudden, a river of rage shot right through me. I hated Eddie. I hated that son of a bitch. And I wanted to hurt him. And then I thought, I wish I were more like my dad. My dad wasn’t the kind of guy who’d ever taken out his fists to solve a problem. But I wasn’t like him. And he was an artist. I had no art in me. And then I thought that I must be more like my biological father—?the man who’d slept with my mother one night. And I hated that thought.
God, I wanted to stop all those thoughts that were turning around in my mind like a gerbil running on his little wheel.
Finally I just got up.
3:12 in the morning.
I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. My dad was on the back steps, smoking a cigarette.
I sat next to him. “How many cigarettes is that today, Dad?”
“Too many, Salvie. Too, too many.”
Sam (and Her Mother)
I MANAGED TO PUSH open my eyes when I woke up. Some days you really have to push. I looked at the clock. It was already past ten o’clock in the morning. My bed was empty—?Sam was up. I was carrying this feeling in the pit of my stomach. This much I knew—?it wasn’t going to be a normal day. But I had a feeling that normal days were disappearing. I managed to stumble into the bathroom and wash my face and brush my teeth. I could hear the water running in the guest bathroom, so I knew Sam was taking a shower. Sam and her showers. She’d take three a day if you gave her half a chance. She had this thing about being clean. I wondered if she felt dirty. Not that she was dirty—?but some people felt that way about themselves.
Sometimes I felt that way about myself too. Like when I hit people.
I walked toward the kitchen, but stopped myself. My dad and Mrs. Diaz (a.k.a. Sylvia) were having a chat, Dad coming as close to lecturing someone as he got. I could’ve stood there and listened in on the conversation—?but that wasn’t my style. So I took a breath and walked into the kitchen.
“Morning,” I said. I grabbed a cup and poured myself some coffee. Dad and Mrs. Diaz had stopped talking, and I knew this was one of those uncomfortable silences. I decided to seize the moment. “Sam didn’t tell me anything about what happened—?just for the record.”
“Surely you must have some notion of what must have occurred.” Mrs. Diaz had a deep voice. Sam always said she sounded like the old actress Lauren Bacall.
I shook my head. I wanted to tell her that I had my theories—?but that’s all they were. “No,” I said.
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
“No, she didn’t.” We all turned around and looked at Sam.
She crossed her arms. “I’ll give you the short version and spare you the details. I was at a party with Eddie. He wanted me to go into one of the bedrooms and have sex with him. I think he wanted everyone to know that he could have me. That’s what I think.” She looked at her mother. “And yes, I’d been drinking—?but I wasn’t that drunk.” Last night she’d been scared and lost—?but now she was just angry. “Any questions?”
“You could have been raped, Samantha.” I couldn’t tell if Mrs. Diaz was angry at Sam or angry at Eddie or just angry at the whole situation.
“Yeah, I could’ve been.”
“I didn’t raise you to make stupid choices—”
Sam interrupted her mother. “Mom, you didn’t raise me at all. I raised myself.” She gave her mom a look. I mean, she gave her a look. “I’m going to go dry my hair.”
“I’m taking you home right now.” By the time Mrs. Diaz’s words were up in the air, Samantha was leaving the room. “How dare you walk out on me, young lady!”
Sam swung herself around and looked straight at her mother. I thought she was going to yell at her—?but she didn’t. “Did anybody ever tell you that you talk in clichés?” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “You’re never there, Mom. You’ve never been there.”
I realized that Sam wasn’t angry at all. She was hurt. At that moment I heard all the hurt she’d ever held. And it seemed to me that the whole house had quieted down to listen to her pain.
But I looked at Mrs. Diaz—?and just then I understood that her daughter was a book she didn’t know how to read—?her own daughter. She had an expression on her face that looked almost like hate. “You ungrateful, spoiled child.” She got up from where she was sitting at the kitchen table and looked right at my father. “I’m sure you think that I’m to blame.” Then she pointed her eyes toward Sam. “Do whatever the hell you want—?you always have.” She headed for the front door.
My father followed her out.
Sam and I just stood there, not knowing what to do. Finally I said, “I’m sorry, Sam, I’m really, really sorry.”
“This is all my fault,” she said.
“What’s all your fault?” I said.