Sleepwalking in Daylight

  Fast-forward and I’m rifling through the bottom drawer on his side of the bathroom sink to find the pills I’ve always suspected are placebos. The bottle’s tucked behind Pepto-Bismol and a box of Band-Aids. I run to the kitchen for a glass of water and hurry back out to him.

  “Here.” I give him two and hand over the water. He’s braced himself on the top step like he’s afraid he’ll fall off. He takes the pills while I sit down next to him.

  “Is this the first one since those ones before?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says between gasps, clutching his left side.

  “I’m not thinking anything,” I say. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

  I don’t know how long we sit like this. Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? I should be stroking his back, calming him down, murmuring things like everything’s going to be okay, don’t worry, but I don’t. We sit in silence.

  Craig would know exactly what to do right now. Forward motion. I bet he’s never had an anxiety attack. Which is mean of me because I guess they’re real. I just wish they didn’t mean I’m left doing the heavy lifting with the kids when they hit Bob. I can’t stop comparing them. Craig would stay out here with me on the front porch, brainstorming how to manage an unmanageable situation instead of shuffling into the house like Bob just did. Craig would go right up to Cammy’s room instead of hanging up his jacket, carefully slipping off his work shoes like Mr. Rogers, like Bob’s doing right now in the front hall. Maybe Craig would call her down to the bottom of the stairs. He’d even yell and say that’s it. Game over. He’d tell her we’re in charge, we’re calling the shots, instead of slipping on his ugly Birkenstocks that make him look like a German tourist, like Bob is doing.

  Cammy

  I don’t know why they’re freaking out like they didn’t see this coming. I was a fucking crack baby for God’s sake. I was born with this shit in me. It was only a matter of time. Like mother like daughter. I don’t know who wrote that on my locker but I do know I’ll never trust Ricky again ever. He denies he told anyone about the letter but he’s the only one who knows about her so what the fuck? Does he really think I’m that stupid? I skipped biology to wash it all off. I couldn’t go to the office to get cleaner so I had to use water and paper towels from the bathroom. I don’t know what the hell they used to write it with but it took like a half an hour to get my locker clean. You can still see the waxy outline of the words where they used to be—I don’t think I’ll ever get that out but I keep reminding myself to bring in 409 from home to try erasing the ghost of it.

  I walked by Ricky after I got to my locker in the morning and he looked so guilty. He knew exactly why I didn’t say anything to him. He ran alongside me like we were in The O. C. and he’s all, “I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t say anything, I swear to God.”

  I kept walking. He’s such a liar.

  “You know what I think? I think it’s ‘cause you’ve got tits now and your mom’s hot.”

  “My mom’s not hot, first of all, and get the fuck away from me, second of all.”

  “Your mom’s a total MILF and I swear to God I didn’t tell anyone about anything so it’s got to be that. It’s the tits, I swear to God.”

  I didn’t mean to push him that hard, but when he slammed into the lockers Mrs. Scutter rushed up and said, “You just earned yourself a detention, young lady,” so I was basically screwed out of my afternoon smoke in the park. Goddamn Ricky.

  My mom’s—God! Samantha, I mean—she’s pretty but I would never call her a MILF. Doesn’t everyone see I look nothing like her? Idiots.

  Detention is so Breakfast Club. You sit at long tables in the library and write an essay about why you did whatever you did to wind up in detention. Mrs. Richardson the librarian monitors us and at the end she gathers up the papers and we all know they go nowhere. No one checks them, they don’t get graded, and whatever you write never gets commented on. Except once when this kid Bradley wrote that he wanted to blow the whole school up he was sent right to the principal and he ended up expelled. Zero tolerance. He was probably pissed his name was Bradley. I would have wanted to blow something up if my parents named me Bradley, too.

  Ricky waited for me outside the library. First words out of his mouth:

  “Don’t go all RC on me.” Like our little inside joke is supposed to make it all go away.

  “Swear to God I never want to talk to you again. You’re such a scumbag,” I said.

  He kept going like I hadn’t just called him a scumbag. “I found out who did it.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, and I’m supposed to believe whatever you say.”

  I’m trying to walk fast since I’m grounded for life and the office secretary wouldn’t let me call home to tell Samantha I was going to be late so now I’m in even deeper shit. When I tell her I was late because of detention I’ll be screwed anyway.

  “It was Will,” he says. “Missy told me he borrowed her lipstick to write it.”

  “Oh, so now I’m supposed to believe Missy Delaney? This is such a joke. Why would Will even say that? He doesn’t know my mom. Such a lie. Go to hell.”

  I rifle through my bag and find them on the bottom. Of course. I’m on my last two Vicodin. They get chalky even if I swallow them fast, so I’ve started that grape-flavor vitamin-water shit. I’m buzzing by the time I get home.

  So this is what she was doing when she was pregnant. She was high like a kite. She had me inside her and all she cared about was her itchy skin. Did my real father itch her back for her? I bet he wasn’t around for all that. I’m sure he took off when she told him she was pregnant. She was my age I bet. She didn’t want to have a baby, didn’t want to think about it even, so she blew out her brains with mushrooms like the letter says. I wonder if she kept at it even after I was born. She probably sold me to the adoption agency to buy crack. Two years to bond with me and she gives me up to score. I can totally picture it. I can see her holding me out to some weirdo in a suit, a duffel bag full of unmarked bills on the ground next to her. She kicks it behind her in case he dives for it. I probably started to cry. Babies always know when something terrible’s happening. The guy says shut that kid up and she shakes me a little and says she’s your problem now and she’s gone the second he takes me and hands me back to the bodyguard, holding me away from his body like I’m a piece of smelly fish. I want to ask her how the fuck could she do something like that? How could she throw out her two-year-old daughter just for a fix … it drives me insane thinking about that. I play the scene over and over again and sometimes the guy has a gun, sometimes she’s crying and changing her mind but mostly it ends with me traded for drugs.

  It comes back to me in fragments. Like flashbacks. I remember now that I talked to Will about her. I was totally fucked up but I think I told him. It’s not like he gives a shit though, which is totally fine. I remember him going, “You were adopted? No wonder.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked him. Now it’s coming back to me. It was a few days ago and he was totally stoned so it took him twenty minutes to climb up the tree to my room. I thought for sure he woke everyone up because he fell from not too high up and started laughing his ass off. When he started up again I tiptoed to the hallway to listen for sounds of awake. No sign of life.

  The time to talk to Will is right before he unzips his pants. That’s when he’s all nice. Lately he’s always in a hurry so there’s been no time to finish a sentence even, but a few days ago, when I told him about the letter, since it was one in the morning and he had nowhere to be (he doesn’t have a curfew), he sat down on the bed next to me. First time he’s ever done that. I know he was wasted and all but it was still sweet when he rubbed my knee and told me my pajama bottoms were soft. It almost felt like we were going out.

  “No wonder what?” I asked him.

  “What?”

  “You said no wonder, like is it so obvious I’m adopted or something?” I asked him. He pissed me off so I pulled my legs awa
y from him into cross-legged Indian-style sitting. Oh. Native American.

  “I saw your mom at the Jewel and she’s hot too but different so I just figured maybe you took after your dad,” he said.

  I watched him lean back with his arms behind his head like he belonged on my bed. He knows who my mom is! He thought about me and who I looked like in my family! He’s totally into me! I’m hot!

  I really tried to act casual, like he stretches out on my bed all the time, but when I lay down alongside him he went, “Wanna get busy?” and then I felt his hand on my head. While I’m doing it he says my name a couple of times and I know I can ask him for anything I want. Right after he says, “Oh, God,” I stop and look up at him and ask him for the pills Paul said he gave him the other day.

  “Keep going, Jesus, keep going,” he says. His hands go to both sides of my head but I know he can’t jam himself into my mouth if I’m not ready so I ask him again.

  “Seriously, split them with me and I’ll keep going.”

  “Split what?” His eyes have been closed but now he’s looking down his chest at me. His T-shirt is pulled up.

  “The OxyContin? From Paul? Give them to me and you can have all the blow jobs you want,” I say.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” he says. It looks like he’s going to pull away, like he’s almost scared of me. “You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?”

  “Are you going to give them to me or what?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Paul said you were a trip.”

  “O-kaay, if you don’t want me to …”

  “All right all right, fuck. I’ll give them to you. I don’t have that many but you can have half of what I have. Just keep going and I’ll give them to you …”

  “Now. Just give them to me now. You always take off after so …”

  He reaches into his jeans pocket and even in the half dark of the half moon I can see the lump of his hand fishing around for the pills. My head’s still right there, his dick is still hard, pretty much poking me in the cheek but I’m used to that. It doesn’t weird me out anymore like it used to.

  “Here,” he says, dropping them on the floor like they’re trash. “Now keep going.” He’s talking now like he’s ordering me. I finish up, he zips up without wiping and climbs back out the window without saying anything. I wait until he leaves to feel around for the pills, rolling them into a pile into my fist. There are six and I know it’s not quite half of what he has but whatever.

  All I want is to be blank.

  Samantha

  I forgot my cell in the car when I went grocery shopping. I’ve missed two calls, both from Cammy. I try her back but her cell goes straight to voice mail. She never leaves messages. So frustrating. I make all the lights and pull in front of the house.

  “Hi, guys, I’m home,” I call up. The keys miss the bowl on the front hall table. I go through the mail on the way to the bottom of the staircase … mostly junk. Flyers.

  “Hel-lo? Where is everybody?”

  “Up here,” Andrew says.

  “Hi, Mom,” Jamie calls.

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “I don’t know. Up in her room.”

  Since I’ve got the kitchen to myself I have a second to e-mail Craig.

  Hi. All’s quiet here. What’s up with you? Just checking in to say hi. Oh, and I heard that song you were talking about … it’s great. You’re right. What else is new?

  Bob comes in the front door. There’s lots of street parking today for some reason. His keys jangle into the bowl on the front hall table. He always hits the bowl bull’s-eye. I log off quickly and pretend to be looking for a cookbook.

  “Hey,” he says. He’s smiling and I realize it’s been a while since I’ve seen him smile. It looks weird almost. It’s been that long. “Great news about Cammy.”

  “What?” I ask. I push back from the desk and stand. This could be huge. “Did she talk to you about her birth mother?”

  “Even better,” he says.

  “Oh, my God, she agreed to go to drug counseling! How’d you pull that off? You’re a genius.”

  “That’s not it either.”

  “Okay,” I say it slowly, suspicious now that Bob’s idea of great news is not my idea of great news. “What is it then?”

  “I talked to the soccer coach and he’s agreed to let her onto the team even though they’re halfway through the season. Can you believe it?” He opens his arms like I’m going to rush into a hug of thanks. “She’ll have to work her way off the bench but he’s willing to give her a shot.

  “What?” he says. “Say something.”

  “I honestly don’t know what to say,” I tell him.

  “Isn’t it great? When was the last time she exercised? She needs to be a part of something bigger than herself. A team is the best way to crawl out of your head. I brought her these cross trainers and cleats. She’s an eight and a half, right? I took the nines in case her socks are thick. Plus, I think it’ll do a lot for her self-esteem right now.”

  “Cammy’s self-esteem isn’t the problem, Bob. Cammy using drugs is the problem.” I am trying to keep my cool. Bob doesn’t react well to emotional outbursts. “Cammy struggling with whether or not to approach her birth mother is the problem. Cammy hanging out with delinquent losers from God knows where … that’s the problem.”

  “She’ll get so busy with practices and games she won’t have time to hang out with them. That’s the beauty of it.”

  “That’s the beauty of it?”

  “Why don’t you just say what you’re wanting to say? What’re you thinking? I’m not a mind reader, Sam.”

  “You want to hear what I’m thinking? I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.” I move closer to him so I don’t have to raise my voice. “I’m thinking you’re so clueless it’d be funny if this wasn’t about our daughter. Our daughter, Bob. Not mine—ours. You know, the one in black? The Goth girl holed up in her room right now? She’s our daughter.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I know she’s our daughter,” he says. “When have I ever called her anything else?”

  I hold up my hand to silence him. “Let’s not even get into that right now. You’re more concerned with soccer than what she’s going through. Do you even hear her crying in her room at night when she thinks everyone’s gone to bed? Or are you oblivious to that, too?”

  “What about you, Sam? You’ve been out to lunch for I don’t know how long. I don’t see you coming up with anything for her. Plus, you’re the one that asked me to handle it!” He matches my volume. “‘Can you take this one?’ you asked on the front steps that first night, remember? You asked me to take it over and that’s exactly what I’m doing. If you have a problem with how I’m doing it then be my guest—it’s all yours. But if you want me to do it then back off and stop micromanaging everything I do. What do you want, Sam? Tell me what you want.”

  I don’t say it loud. Of course I don’t say it out loud. But I think it.

  I want Craig. I wish Craig were here.

  “I want to see the look on your face when the coach tells you she hasn’t come to soccer,” I say. “We both know she won’t go.”

  “Great. Just great. Now you’re hoping for failure so you can say I told you so. That’s really nice, Sam.” He throws up his hands.

  “I give up,” he says. “I’m done. Just … just do what you’re going to do. I’m done.” “I noticed.”

  It’s a staring contest. A mean one. He leans in and in a low voice he says, “Yeah, well, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re done, too. You just won’t admit it.”

  Cammy

  Holy shit my life sucks. It’s beyond sucking. I’m completely fucked. I just came from getting frigging nylon soccer clothes at Sportmart on Clark. Samantha and Bob wanted to punish me, mission accomplished. I HAVE TO PLAY ON THE FUCKING SOCCER TEAM.

  So here’s what happens: I get home from school right on time because now I have to ride in the carpool home with all the babies since
I’m a prisoner. Mrs. O’Donnell’s minivan is totally quiet even though it’s packed with kids because all the good little girls and boys are busy doing their homework so they can have time to watch TV and IM when they get home. Mrs. O’Donnell doesn’t want to disturb them so the radio’s turned so far down it’s like a dog whistle. I can’t even tell what song’s playing and I’m in the front seat. It’s that low. Why even have it on? The only thing that keeps it from being a total nightmare is Mrs. O’Donnell not being so bad. She doesn’t talk down to me like I’m in preschool. She asks me if I have a boyfriend and she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m looking out the window when I answer no because I can feel my cheeks getting red. She just goes on with the next question like I’m being polite back. I don’t know why I do this. I really don’t mean to be rude but it feels like everyone’s staring at me disgusted or analyzing me. Everyone except Mrs. O’Donnell. I’m only around her on Tuesdays and Thursdays when she drives carpool. She always seems happy to see me. And today she’s asking me what kind of music I like and that’s always easy to talk about so I know that’s why she’s asking and that’s pretty nice when you think about it. Safe topic. I’m talking about The All-American Rejects and the Weepies and Arcade Fire and she’s laughing at the band names and we’re actually having a normal conversation. My parents haven’t asked me about music like ever and they know how much I listen. I couldn’t live without music. I seriously think I’d shrivel up and die if there was no music. Then Mrs. O’Donnell’s saying, “By the way I saw you at the library the other day.”