.
"Xanna!" a woman's voice called. "Roxanna! Where are you?"
She turned her back on the voice, the screeching angry sound of it. Creeping away from the house, she crawled on her hands and knees for a goodly way, until she knew she was out of sight. Then she leapt up, and sprinted away, her brown hair snapping in her wake like a pennant. She could see the lake ahead, glinting through the trees, a promise of coolness and freshness . . . and peace. Away from the fighting, the screaming, the arguments. Away. Outside, with the grass, the tall trees and their green shade.
It was no use calling, Rachael knew. Xanna wouldn't answer if she didn't want to be found. Xanna . . . what a silly nickname Jonathan had come up with! Almost as soon as they'd named their child, he was crooning over her, calling her Xanna, and his little pumpkin. And from that moment on, there had been a barrier between her and her own child. For her little cuts and scrapes, most often she'd go to her father. Although it was just the preference of a kid, Rachael was hurt by it. It seemed to her sometimes that any meaningful contact of love she had with her daughter ended once she had stopped nursing. And if he could have, he might have even taken that from me, she thought resentfully. She pulled the curtain and glanced out, hoping to catch a glimpse of her daughter. She had just gotten home, paid the babysitter and was about to start supper when she realized Xanna was gone. She sighed and let the curtain fall. Suddenly, she was very tired of trying to win her daughter's affection. It was a never ending battle she couldn't hope to win. She's cast me as the monster, and her father as her champion, Rachael thought, blinking back an errant tear. It can't be that I'm any more strict than Jonathan . . . Why won't she listen to me? Tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, she pulled out a knife and started peeling onions. At least now I have a reason to cry.
Xanna's mind started to sing, "Mom's calling me and I don't care!" Pretty soon, she was shouting it to the tree tops. "My mom is calling me . . . and I don't care!" Her piping little child's voice didn't carry very far, but it sounded loud in her ears. However, it couldn't drown out her mother's voice in her head. Mother saying over and over, "Roxanna, you're only 6 years old. You might fall into the lake and drown. You don't know how to swim. I don't want you going down there without me or Daddy. Do you hear me? Roxanna are you listening to me?"
"No! I'm not!" She stopped running, looked around herself, panting. The grass grew up to her waist, the color of the fine hay it was. The trees were tall and green and leafy. They grew right up to the shore of the lake on the opposite side. The stand of them curved around from the other side, as the child stood staring past them into the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes, raised her face to let the heat of summer infuse her bones. Scarcely aware of her actions, she plopped down, then lay in the tall, sweet smelling grass, soaking in the golden light.
What brought her back to herself was the scent of clover. It was strong in her nostrils. There was also something tickling her nose. She opened her eyes and waved away the purple clover blossom bobbing in the breeze. Jumping to her feet, she saw that there was still most of the afternoon left to play in. For a moment, she simply stared at the lake, then burst into a joyful smile and a crow of laughter. This was her favorite view of the lake.
The half circle of the lake open to view, without trees surrounding it, was clear pure blue. The water reflected the light strongly back into her eyes. Bright, she thought. The other half, the wooded shore, with the sun slowly making its way behind it, toward the west, cast its dark shadow on the water. The woods there were thick, so no errant ray of sun made it through their branches to lighten the shadow. As the one half was bright, the other was night, and their line of demarcation ran down the center of the lake. The lake wasn't exactly circular, but it was "close enough for gov'ment work," as Daddy said.
The breeze tickled her hair against her face, and teased the surface of the lake into tiny ripples. The line across the water wasn't entirely straight, she noticed; it followed the curves and points of the tree tops across from her. So, the lake wasn't perfect. She shrugged. She had often heard her parents say, "Nobody's perfect." That must apply to the world as well.
Xanna turned around toward the house and stuck her tongue out in its general direction. For good measure, she thumbed her nose as well. Then she exploded out of her sneakers and socks and ran pell-mell toward the damp sandy beach. "I'm a kid, Mom! I'm not s'posed to b'have!" she shouted.
The lake wasn't much more than a glorified pond. It was only about 100 yards across at its widest point and probably no more than 7 or 8 feet at its deepest. A small brook gurgled in on its far side, amid the trees. The continual wind moved the water just enough so it wasn't too much of a mosquito breeding ground. There was a half moon of sandy beach along the sunny half, while the far side got rocky and slimy. She'd only been over there with her father to help her or carry her over the treacherous footing.
She skidded to a stop just shy of the water. Boy, wouldn't Mom get so mad if I went into the water and got my overalls wet! She'd yell and scream and my ears would hurt. She'd probably spank me, too. I'd better pull them up. She grabbed hold of the legs of her Osh Kosh and drew them up. But they had a tendency to fall back down when she let go, which she often did, to fish pretty stones out of the sand just beneath the water. After a minute, she forgot all about the certainty of her mother's wrath and was scooping the sand with both hands, sifting it through her fingers.
She didn't wade out far above her ankles, though. The way Mom had described that drowning stuff made it sound really scary. She supposed it had something to do with swimming, but she didn't see how, because Daddy was teaching her how to swim; so she wouldn't drown, he said. Anyway, the idea of drowning made her shiver. Cold, wet, dark, not being able to breathe, scummy water filling her mouth and eyes and nose . . . and the evil tone of voice her mother had used. It had upset Daddy. She'd heard them yelling about it after she went to bed. Actually, the yelling had seemed to be part of the dream - cold, wet, dark - that had shocked her out of sleep. She had opened her eyes, poised to cry out (because, after all, to a child, warm, dry and dark isn't much of an improvement; dark is dark) when she heard the angry voices. She had sat up in bed shivering - cold, wet, dark - and listened to the voices until they stopped. She had wanted a cup of cocoa, but didn't call out. She'd wanted her father's comforting presence more than the cocoa he would bring, but dreaded that her mother would open the door and frighten her more, yell at her, something.
"You know, Xanna," a deep voice said, jerking her back to the present. "Mommy's going to have an absolute fit when she sees your overalls." Her head snapped around toward the shore. A tall man was staring at her; slim, with fine, almost aristocratic features. His light brown hair was cut short, his hazel eyes sparkled behind his wire-framed glasses. Oblivious to the sand creeping into his shoes, he stood there, suit jacket flung casually over one shoulder, tie loosened, briefcase abandoned on the grass, smiling at her. Jonathan DeCourt was a fine figure of a man.
"Daddy!" she shrieked, and splashed out of the water toward him. He scooped her up into his arms, not caring that her wet feet and legs were soaking his suit, and gave her a bear hug, growling as he did so. She let loose a short scream in response, and squirmed in his arms. "Daddy, not a bear!" she protested, giggling.
He laughed in return. It was a pleasant sound, rich and satisfying. "All right, pumpkin, not a bear." He hugged her again, then set her down on the strand. Hunkering down beside her, he put a hand on her shoulder and asked, "Xanna, does Mommy know you're here?" Suddenly he was serious; Father, no longer Daddy.
Not able to lie, she looked away, at the sand, at the grass, at anything but her father. She heard him sigh, but didn't glance at him. "She doesn't know, does she?" Mutely, Xanna shook her head. "What's that? I can't hear your head rattle, you know." In spite of herself, she smiled and looked up. He was smiling gently at her. She almost forgot for a moment how much trouble she was going to be in.
"No. Mom doesn't know." She hesitated, then blurted out, "Daddy, are you really mad at me?"
His smile was crooked. It seemed to Xanna like it didn't fit his face. "No, pumpkin, I'm not really mad at you. Mommy will be, though. In fact, she probably already is." His eyes were stern behind his glasses.. "You know what this means, don't you?"
She gulped. Nodding, she whispered, "I'm gonna be punished."
Gravely, Daddy nodded his head. "Yes. Mommy will put you to bed early, without any dessert. And I'm going to spank you as well."
She gasped. "But . . . Daddy! You said you ain't mad at me! Why are you gonna spank me if you're not mad at me?" Her bottom lip quivered.
He sighed again. "I'm not spanking you because I'm mad at you, sweetie. I'm spanking you because you disobeyed your mother and me. We told you not to come down here without one of us. We told you you'd be punished if you did."
"But Mom doesn't ever wanna come down here! You do, but you're gone all day! You don't get home till supper time! After supper, I gotta go to bed. It's not fair." She pouted, appealing to his pity.
He swatted her behind with his hand. Gently--it was no where near hard enough to sting, but it brought tears to her eyes just the same. "Roxanna, you will not get out of a spanking by looking cute. I'm not angry with you now, but if you keep this up, I might be," he told her firmly.
"Yes, Daddy." She sniffled back her tears. With the back of one sandy hand, she wiped her cheeks.
"All right then. Let's have no more crying." He stood up, and collected his briefcase. He held out his hand to Xanna. "You got your shoes?" Quickly, she picked up her strewn footwear, and put her hand in his. Slowly, they started back to the house, wading through the tall grass.
Well before the house's striking white exterior could be seen against the golden hay, she dared a question. "Daddy?" her small voice piped.
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Why ain't you mad at me?"
She was looking earnestly up at him, so she saw the smile that spread across his features and crinkled the corners of his eyes. He glanced down at her. "Because I know why you did it."
"You do?" She was surprised by his answer. "Why?"
He nodded. "Yes, I do. You do it because you love being outdoors. You love the feel of the dirt and grass, the sand and mud, between your toes. You love letting the sun soak your bones, making you warm inside and out. You love listening to the wind, carrying the conversations of the leaves and the birds, or the water of the lake as it laps softly at the shore." His eyes became a bit glassy as he spoke, as if he were gazing into a far off land. "The stars twinkling in the night sky, the moon above your head . . . these fill your heart with wonder and beauty. The scent of the night is the sweetest perfume, and evening country air is all you ever want to breathe. You may love the day, but the dark has its own loveliness, too." He blinked, and was reluctantly pulled back to himself. They had stopped as he spoke. He looked down at Xanna, who was staring at him in puzzlement. He smiled sadly. "Did I confuse you, pumpkin?" She nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting that you're only about to go into kindergarten. You seem so much older."
"Daddy . . .what did you mean?" She wanted to understand, because it felt so important suddenly.
"You love playing outdoors, pumpkin." He started walking again. "Someday, it will mean more. It will mean you love Nature. Eventually, you'll know what I tried to tell you. But that's all it means right now."
They walked back up to the house in silence. Just before they reached the graveled drive, Xanna said, "Daddy?"
"Yes?" Their feet crunched on the small stones.
"How did you know I was there? Did Mom tell you?"
"No, she didn't."
"Then how did you know where I was? You can't see the lake from here."
"I knew you were there because I know you, sweetie. I know you because I know myself. And I knew that if I could have, I would have been down there. I'd take you every chance I got."
"Daddy?"
"Yes, my little Inquisitor?"
"Do you like your job?"
He didn't say anything as they neared the house. A breeze, more chill than the others of the afternoon, skipped across the field. Xanna's hair tangled in its fingers, waved in her eyes. "Daddy?"
He shook his head. "No, Xanna, I don't. I don't like being in the city, and sitting behind a desk all day. 'Druther be here, outside, given my 'druthers. 'Course, 'druther be a Balkan general . . . . Anyway, we need to pay off the car, and the mortgage, so I need to keep my job."
"Oh." She questioned no more.
They climbed the creaky stairs to the kitchen door. Rachael DeCourt was in the kitchen, cooking supper. The various smells wafted through the screen door. Rachael glanced up as the steps groaned. As she saw them, father and daughter standing there, so much alike, she stood up from the oven. A storm clouded her face, and her hands balled on her hips.
"Roxanna. You are in a lot of trouble," she said in a voice quavering in the heat of her anger.
Xanna crowed in delight as Jonathan revved the engine. "Again, Daddy! Again!" Laughing, he obliged, taking the aging motorcycle for another spin down the drive. Xanna was wearing her bicycle helmet, because he hadn't yet found a motorcycle helmet small enough for her to wear. He was wearing his helmet as well. As the cycle accelerated, Xanna clutched her father's waist tightly, and buried her face in the back of his leather jacket.
As they soared down the slight hill, she raised her face to the wind, hearing it whistle in her ears, feeling it on her face. It was just twilight, and the warmth of the sun still lingered in the summer air. She was shivering from the thrill of the ride, rather than any chill in the air.
The bike slowed as they reached the end of the driveway. Xanna leaned into the turn, just as her father had taught her on her first ride. Then they were racing back up the rise, toward the house. As they gained the yard, Jonathan sped up and then pulled the front wheel off the ground. She held on even tighter, and squeaked in surprise.
He made an unexpected turn, but Xanna corrected her balance automatically. When they were facing the way they had just come, he stopped the bike and idled it for a moment before killing the ignition. He pulled off his helmet, and ran a hand through his hair. Then he glanced at the house just in time to see a curtain in the kitchen twitch back into place. He shrugged, then pushed down the kick stand and let the motorcycle rest on it.
Xanna felt him shrug, and had also seen the curtain move. "Daddy, are we in trouble again?" she asked, undoing her helmet.
Jonathan sighed. "I would say that I am, pumpkin. Your mom doesn't like me taking you for rides, you know."
"But I like you taking me for rides!"
He smiled. "Yes, I know you do. But your mother doesn't think you're old enough. She doesn't think it's safe enough for you. Which I think is pretty strange, because she and I used to ride all the time."
Xanna's eyes grew round. "Really? All the time?"
He laughed. "Within reason, pumpkin, within reason! We rode quite a bit. It wasn't all the time."
"Oh." She clambered carefully off the bike. She was taller than the handlebars, but only by a few inches. "When will I be old enough for Mom not to be mad at you? Does it have to do with being taller?"
Jonathan squatted down in front of her. "Well, maybe a little bit." He put a hand on her shoulder. "You just turned eight years old. Maybe we should give your mother a break, and wait a couple years, at least until you're a few inches taller." Xanna's face turned stubborn and sullen as he spoke. He caught it, and shook her slightly. "Please, pumpkin? It will make your mother happy . . . and that will make me happy. All right?"
"All right, Daddy. But only until I'm 10. Don't you forget, 'cause I won't!"
"I won't forget if you don't," he replied, completing their ritual. "Come here, and give your old dad a hug."
Xanna immediately threw her arms around her father's shoulders, and hugged him as hard as she could. "Oh, Daddy, you're not old!"
"Oh, really? Well, tell that to the ribs you crushed!" He tickled her, and she shrieked with laughter, squirming to get away.
Rachael clutched at the curtain and her chest as she saw Jonathan pop the wheelie. She let go of neither until the motorcycle had come to a complete halt. When she saw Jonathan reach up to remove his helmet, she noticed what her hands were doing, and forced them to relax. The curtain fell back into place against the window, and she turned away. She knew that there would be an argument tonight, even if she didn't intend to start one. She entered the living room, and dropped onto the sofa. The television was off, as were the lights. With the curtains drawn, the room was pleasantly dark. She stared at nothing for several minutes, eyes glazed. Her thoughts were running in infinite loops.
She had sat there for only a few minutes when she heard the kitchen door open. She heard two sets of footsteps, the clomp of Jonathan's riding boots, and the patter of Xanna's sneakers. She closed her eyes. Jonathan said, "Pumpkin, would you leave your mother and me alone for a bit?"
"Okay, Daddy." The patter of her steps faded upstairs.
The sofa sagged under Jonathan's weight. She felt his arm encircle her shoulders. Almost involuntarily, her hand reached to clasp his.
Eyes still closed, she asked softly, "Why do you take such chances with her? You know we can't have another baby."
He hugged her close. "I'm sorry, love," he said gently. "I keep forgetting. But I want her to love being alive, and to start young, so that she can pack as much living into her life as possible. I want her to want to be alive even when she's in her seventies." His arms tightened around her again. "But I've decided to wait a little on the motorcycle. I'll wait until she's 10 or maybe a little older, depending on how fast she grows. Will that be all right?"
Rachael felt tears wetting her eyes. This was why she'd fallen in love with him; he would put aside his own desires to help her accomplish her goals. "I'm sorry, mon cheri," she whispered. "I don't mean to be too over- protective. But I would really like for you to wait. Just . . . until she's a little older. Whenever you feel she's old enough, then . . . just make sure she always wears a helmet."
He kissed her cheek. "Thank you, love. And Xanna will thank you for not forbidding it completely."
She laughed. "As if she would listen to me, anyway."
"Roxanna!" The voice had grown more shrill and piercing with the years.
She sighed in exasperation, and closed her book. Clambering off the mussed bed, she padded across to the door and opened it. "What, Ma?"
Her query echoed up and down the stairwell. "Are you finished with your homework?"
Xanna sighed again. "Yes, Ma." She knew the whole routine by rote now. "I've done my chores, I've done my homework, and I'm studying hard. Now, would you please let me concentrate?" She almost, not quite, slammed the door.
Daddy's been dead for three years, and she still treats me like I'm fourteen! she thought viciously. I didn't mind it then, but Jesus! You've gotta let go sometime, Ma! I'm going off to college next fall. It'll be a rude awakening then, won't it? She stared at her desk without seeing it.
The desk was covered with her schoolbooks and notebooks, all neatly stacked, waiting to be packed again into her bag. She'd done her homework, as she'd truthfully told her mother, and had finished her studying, though she said she hadn't. There were only so many times you could read the same page in a history text or an English assignment, or stare at the same biological diagram of anatomy. She had finished all that in an hour after supper. It was now only 8 o'clock, and she'd successfully avoided her mother all day, except for breakfast and dinner. Thus it had been every night for the last three years. The fact that she'd been at school and her mother at work had nothing to do with it, in Xanna's mind. Not seeing was not seeing, and not seeing in this case was pleasant, if a bit lonely sometimes.
Old habits are hard to break, she thought, surveying the desk. Books were neatly arranged around the room, overflowing the bookcase that sagged under its load, straying into piles on the floor. The bed was neatly made-- except where she had disturbed it by laying on it reading. Other than the towers of books, the floor was clean. Only the walls of the room reflected the changes of its occupant. They were still a pale blue beneath the plethora of posters. Over the bed, they were of unicorns and other fantastical creatures. These were interspersed with landscape pictures she'd cut out of calendars. Sometime about 13, she'd started to notice boys and men. Posters of well muscled and shirtless men started to predominate. Then her father had died. Almost immediately, black appeared, in her mind, her feelings, her sight. Black posters appeared, highlighted with red. The crowning achievement was a giant-size poster with The Phantom of the Opera logo; a silvery white mask in one corner and a scarlet red rose over the entire length. It was right across from her bed, and she often gazed at it in the faint moonlight before drifting off to sleep.
On the desk next to her books was a motorcycle helmet, jet black and glossy. True to her words, she remembered her father's promise about her tenth birthday and riding the motorcycle. And, keeping to his promise, Jonathan had given her lessons on the cycle practically every day. Her mother disapproved, but her father had told Xanna that she had promised him as well. The lessons continued up until just past her thirteenth birthday. Her father had then pronounced that she needed no further tutoring, that she was ready to go it alone. She had been so proud of her achievement, and her father's words, that she hadn't even noticed his reason for halting the lessons. Just a few months ago, she took her driving test and gotten her license . . . on that same old motorcycle. She even wore her father's leather jacket. All that was new was the helmet, because Jonathan's didn't fit her.
But her prize possession was a framed photo of herself and her father, taken before his death, when he still looked hale and healthy. Before the cancer had eaten him from the inside out, and made him pale and wraithlike. This final remembrance stood on her nightstand.
Some part of me has died and been buried with you, she thought, as she had so many times. I don't feel whole without you. She laid back on the bed, covering her eyes with one arm. I miss you, Daddy.
One hand swirled a goblet of red wine. The other covered the older woman's eyes. Some nights it was scotch, others, nothing at all, but tonight it had to be red wine. And not just any red wine, but one from a tiny vineyard in the south of France. They'd visited it on their short honeymoon, she and Jonathan.
Mon vin rouge, the old man had said with such pride in his frail old voice. Seul mien.Only mine.Voici. Buvez du vin rouge de Clomiel.Here. Drink the red wine of Clomiel. And they had, and been enthralled. The taste of it! A wonderful blend of fruity and sweet that made the tongue ache for more. Rachael stifled a sob with her hand. The name of the vineyard she would always remember, for despite its small size, or perhaps because of it, it was as a beautiful place as its name signified. Les Belles Champs. And she always recognized the stark white label with its plain print, though only rarely did she find it in the stocks of any liquor store.
This was the last of it; the last cupful of the last bottle they'd bought but never broached. She'd had no heart to buy more, because although the wine was sweet, the memories were bitter dregs indeed. Only on their anniversary could she bear to look at the dark bottle, much less drink.
Tonight would have been their twentieth. They would have opened a bottle, drunk it by candlelight, a quiet fire in the hearth of their room, and held each other far into the night, until sleep gently overwhelmed them.
Well, Jonathan, she thought, still slowly swirling the goblet, entranced by the reflection of the kitchen light in the maroon depths. Tonight's the night. Happy Anniversary, mon cheri. She took a long sip of the wine, and closed her eyes. It wasn't as sweet as she remembered. Or perhaps it was the company. Perhaps ghosts soured the palate.
Did Xanna know the significance of this night? Rachael wondered. Did she even remember? Probably she does, but she doesn't care. "Oh, Jonathan," she whispered. "It's a fine thing when your daughter hates you . . . ."
Well, maybe hate was too strong a word. Maybe dislike was the better way. But, in any case, Xanna certainly didn't love her. Birthday cards, Mother's Day and Christmas presents can say many things, even things they don't mean to say. Xanna still loved her father, and her mother could go hang. There were times when she could almost think, Oh, it's just a phase she's going through. Girls just don't get along with their mothers at this age. But other times . . . dislike was the only word to describe it.
"How can you hate me for things I did so long ago? I only did them to protect you, to keep you from getting lost . . . or hurt . . . ." Her voice trailed off to nothing. She had never spanked the child; that had always been Jonathan's bailiwick. And he never went soft on her either; there had been a few nights when she couldn't sit down for supper. Perhaps their disciplines had been a little too harsh sometimes, but that was merely because they didn't want anything to happen to their only child.
Ah, mon enfant, she thought, lapsing for a moment into the French she and Jonathan had spoken so softly to each other. I love you, but sometimes you make it so difficult. She brought her attention back to the goblet, and drained it. The wine was gone. Jonathan was gone. Roxanna was going, if not already gone. Soon, I will be alone in this rickety old house.
Oh, fantome, je t'aime. But she wasn't sure to which ghost she was speaking, the ghost of the dead, or the ghost of the living.
So, what platitudes am I going to be subjected to? Xanna wondered. She finished folding her clothes into the dresser and shut the drawer. For a moment, she played with her toiletries and hair bands on top of the dresser, then turned away. The suitcase she just emptied sat open upon the bed. Her mother sat perched on the edge of the chair to the desk. If she tells me how she scrimped and saved for this one more time, I think I'll scream. But there were tears in her eyes even as the thought it. She didn't know why. She closed the suitcase and put it next to its twin. Then she just stared at the floor. What else was there to do?
Rachael looked around the spartan dorm room, out the window at the parking lot filled with cars, anywhere but at her daughter. She fiddled with her purse, then picked up one of the empty suitcases. Xanna hadn't brought much in the way of clothes, leaving most of her small wardrobe at home. Rachael had no idea what her reason for this was. Maybe she was just traveling light. As Xanna quickly grabbed the other suitcase, Rachael's heart sank a little further. Well, she's trying to get rid of me again, she thought. So, this time, I'll make it easy for her. Anyway, she won't have to see me again until Thanksgiving. She doesn't have to come home until then. There can be merits in letting a child simply have her way, and I guess I've seen the light of giving up. But "Thank you" was all she said as they carried the luggage downstairs and over to the curb, where the car was parked. There was a light breeze, but otherwise it was a sultry day in late August, made worse by the oppressive pall of the city. Crixton pretended to be a large city, with all the drawbacks and none of the advantages thereof. Rachael felt herself dripping with sweat after a couple trips up and down three flights of stairs, and Xanna didn't appear very fresh either.
Rachael opened the trunk of the car, and they placed the suitcases in it. As she slammed the trunk firmly closed, she asked, "You will call once a week or so, won't you, just to let me know if you need anything?" One last stab, she thought.
"Yes, Mom, I will." She nodded. Xanna hesitated as her mother walked around the car. She felt like everything she knew was slipping through her fingers, like she was falling into the abyss of the Unknown. Suddenly, afraid that if she didn't speak now, she'd be lost, she blurted, "Ma? Please, would you . . . if you have time . . . would you come get me this Friday?" Then she bit her lip, thinking that her mother would refuse. I probably would, if I were her, she thought despairingly.
Rachael stopped in amazement. Had she heard aright? No, this must just be her imagination. But she turned to face her daughter . . . and for the first time, looked into a living mirror. Their hair was the same dark brown- Xanna's had darkened over the years from the shade her father's had been. Except for perhaps the high cheekbones- which could only have come from her father- Xanna's face was Rachael's own, each feature identical, as if they had come from the same mold. Xanna's eyes were her father's hazel, although the contact lenses she wore made them appear yellowish sometimes. They were much different from Rachael's own "mud brown," as she'd playfully called them to Jonathan once. Xanna was just as tall as her mother. She had Jonathan's slimness of build, which made her appear taller, but her eyes were on a level with her mother's, and her mother wasn't short.
But more than their physical similarities, Rachael saw something else. For all that she had protested she wanted out of the house and away from her mother, for all that she'd picked out her college in eleventh grade, Xanna didn't want to leave. A snippet of Shakespeare drifted through her mind. Methinks thou dost protest too much.
But she couldn't say that, couldn't recognize it out loud. It would probably sunder what little bridge had just been made. So she smiled and nodded. "Sure, Xanna, I will. Just call me and tell me what time you get out of class."
Xanna was startled. "Mom, I think that's the first time you've called me 'Xanna' since I was about ten."
Now it was Rachael's turn to be surprised. "Really? I thought I called you that all the time."
"Maybe you thought you did . . .but you didn't. I've kinda missed it."
"Sorry . . .I didn't realize you liked it."
"It's what Daddy called me."
Enough said, Rachael thought. She turned to get in the car. "You just call me Thursday evening with your schedule for Friday, and I'll come pick you up after I'm through work. Is that all right? If your classes are over early enough, I might be able to come get you during my lunch hour."
"Sure, Mom, whenever you have time. I just . . . don't want to stay here this weekend. It won't be every weekend," she hastened to assure her. "But a couple times a month, if it won't be a problem, I'd like to come home. Maybe just to do laundry . . . ."
"All right. I'll come get you whenever you want me to." She didn't reach out, didn't hug her daughter, as they said "Goodbye," because theirs was never that kind of a relationship. She sat down behind the wheel of the car and slammed the door. Rolling down the window, she said, "And don't worry! You'll have a great freshman year. Eventually, you won't want to come home." I know I didn't, she thought.
"Whatever you say, Ma," Xanna called back, smiling. "But I doubt it." They waved, and her mother pulled out of the parking lot and was gone. "I really doubt it," she repeated to herself. She shivered a little, even in the heat, as a chill ran down her spine. Well, she thought. This is was I wanted. I'm here, and now I have to deal with it. Shrugging her shoulders, she faced the long climb back up to her new room, her new home.
On to Chapter 2.
Back to the Works page.
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