Memories of You (8 page)

As her research progressed, Camilla was growing more convinced that their brilliance was related to something inside their brains, a rare ability to grasp and process symbols with lightning speed. The study excited her, and promised to become the most important piece of research she’d ever done.

But with increasing frequency, she found herself wanting to put all the cards and tests aside, gather the twins into her lap and cuddle them.

She smiled at their curly dark heads glinting in the sunlight as they worked close together at the little table.

Her phone rang and she picked it up, still watching the children. “Dr. Pritchard speaking.”

“Camilla? It’s Simon.”

“Hello, Simon,” she said, a little surprised that he was calling her at work. Simon Constable was the senior administrator at the youth hostel.

“I know you don’t like to come down here on weeknights, but we’re really short-staffed. Could you possibly do the eight o’clock shift tonight?”

“All right. Eight o’clock, you said?”

“That’s right. I think you’ll probably only have to stay until midnight, unless there’s some kind of new crisis.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Camilla. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Wait, Simon. Have you heard how Chase…”

But he was already gone. She hung up and turned to find both twins watching her with wide, thoughtful eyes.

“Do you have a date?” Amy asked.

Camilla hesitated. “Sort of.”

“Is it somebody you really like?”

“It’s not that kind of date, dear. More like a job I have to do.”

Ari selected a crayon. “Daddy had a date once,” he volunteered.

“Who with?” she asked.

“It was a lady who was visiting at another ranch. She had red hair.”

“Did you like her?” Camilla asked, feeling treacherous.

“She was awful,” Amy muttered. “She laughed at us.”

“She
laughed
at you? Why on earth would she do that?”

Ari’s round face turned pink with distress. “Vanessa made us sing a song for the lady, and she laughed. She said we sounded like chipmunks.”

“Well, that was silly of her,” Camilla said indignantly. “I’ll bet your song was really good.”

“Daddy didn’t like it when she laughed at us.” Amy brightened a little. “He never had any more dates with her.”

“I wish
you’d
have a date with Daddy,” Ari said. “Why don’t you, Camilla?”

Camilla was conscious of both children watching her intently. An uncomfortable flush warmed her cheeks, and she looked down at the record book on her desk. “Your father’s one of my students, Ari.”

“But does that mean you can’t ever go out on a date with him? Could he be your boyfriend if you wanted him to?”

“I don’t think so. Teachers shouldn’t really go out on dates with their students. Tell me, how’s that army tank of yours coming along?”

She got up and crossed the room to look at their drawing. Soon, to Camilla’s relief, the children were absorbed in showing her the intricacies of their new
design, and there was no more dangerous talk about boyfriends and dates.

H
OURS LATER
Camilla settled behind the old desk at the hostel, took out her ever-present stack of papers and began marking. This was the essay from her senior English class, describing the most beautiful place they’d ever seen.

She worked carefully, making notes and comments, circling the errors. Her students had chosen to describe the usual places…cathedrals, waterfalls, mountain scenery.

Idly, she wondered what the response would be if she asked Ari and Amy to describe the most beautiful place they’d ever seen. There was absolutely no way to predict their answer, which was part of the fun of being with them.

She wound a strand of hair around her finger, thinking about Jon Campbell.

He, too, had a brilliantly original mind, something she was becoming increasingly conscious of as she marked his essays and graded his tests.

Was it feasible that a man like him would really have forgotten their encounter? He’d been so kind to Enrique and so sincere that she no longer thought him capable of outright deception, yet he showed no recollection of her.

Camilla couldn’t believe that she’d changed so much in twenty years. Inside she often felt like the same lost, terrified child she’d been when Jon Campbell first met her.

She was strongly tempted to rummage through the pile of essays and find the one he’d written. The man’s opinions and observations were becoming more fascinating all the time. But she forced herself to keep on marking, to wait until his essay appeared.

As she worked, she was interrupted regularly by street kids coming into the hostel and settling down for the night. About a dozen were in residence tonight, sleeping in the big adjoining room on old blankets and makeshift cots. They weren’t allowed to leave once they’d checked in, so after greeting Camilla they passed the evening playing cards and talking among themselves.

She got up every half hour and went to check on them, enduring their teasing sallies with calm good humor. The building was old and decrepit, but the tumbled blankets and noisy group of young people made it seem cozy, almost cheerful.

It was a bit like a slumber party, Camilla thought. Not that she’d ever been invited to slumber parties when she was a girl, but she’d often fantasized about them in those days, wondering how it would feel to spend the whole night with a laughing bunch of friends.

Still, there was a grim edge to this scene, too. She didn’t like to think where these kids would be tonight if the hostel weren’t in operation.

“Hey, Queen,” a voice said behind her. “How ya doin’?”

It was Marty, carrying Chase’s guitar and an old yellow pillowcase that bulged with clothes.

Camilla hugged the girl, delighted to see her. “I’ve been wondering about you,” she said.

Marty shifted on her feet, clearly touched by the embrace. “I thought maybe I’d crash here tonight if you’ve still got room. It’s scary over at that place when Chase isn’t there.”

“Of course I’ve got room. How is he, Marty?”

Camilla led the way into the office and gestured for the girl to sit opposite her. Marty put down the guitar and settled wearily on the chair, stashing her bundle of clothes out of sight behind her old running shoes.

“He’s getting better.” She glanced shyly at Camilla. “He’s going into drug rehab at the hospital. He’ll be there a few more weeks, I guess.”

Camilla smiled at the girl. “Really?”

“We talked for a long time after he woke up the other day. He’s ready to give it a try. That whole scene really scared him.” Marty lowered her head to look at the floor. “It scared both of us.”

“Sweetie, that’s such wonderful news!” Camilla got up and hugged Marty again. “I’ve been praying for this to happen.”

“Me, too. And he’s ready. I know Chase. He can do anything if he sets his mind to it.” Marty smiled shyly through her tangle of hair. “We’ve got all kinds of plans. I just got a job as dishwasher at a pizza restaurant over on Sixth Avenue. They said Chase can come and work there, too, as soon as he’s out of the hospital. We figure if we save everything we make and he’s not buying drugs anymore, we can maybe get a place of our own in a few months.”

“That’s great, Marty. Really wonderful. I’m so glad to hear it.”

Marty smiled again. “You know what I did yesterday, Queen? I opened a bank account and put in some of the money Chase made while he was playing. We were keeping it in a sock under the floorboards. Just imagine,” the girl said in wonder. “Me, with a bank account.”

On impulse Camilla reached for her handbag, took out a leather folder and wrote a check. “Add that to your bank account, honey.”

Marty took the check and looked at it. Her eyes widened.

“But this…it’s too much. You can’t give me all this.”

Camilla smiled. “Of course I can. I love to hear about a girl who’s trying to make her life better.”

“Queen, I…” Marty hesitated and glanced down at the check. “Camilla Pritchard,” she said awkwardly. “I’ve known you for years, but I never even heard your name before.”

“Well, now you know it. I teach English at the university.”

“Wow,” Marty said. “And you spend every weekend in a dump like this. Why?”

Because I’ve been there and I know what it’s like. Because somebody helped me once and turned my life around with kindness, and I’ve never forgotten it.

She longed to tell somebody the truth. But she simply couldn’t do it. Not even with Marty, who’d lived the same nightmare.

I can’t escape from my past,
Camilla thought in despair.
It’s going to haunt me forever because it’s too awful to talk about.

The girl was watching her in concern. Camilla gathered herself together and smiled. “I guess I’m just fond of kids,” she said. “Now, you’d better go and find a space for yourself before anybody else gets here.”

“Can I leave Chase’s guitar in here? I don’t want those guys to touch it.”

“Of course you can. Marty…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know anything about Zeke and Speedball?” Camilla asked. “What are they doing these days?”

Marty grimaced in distaste. “Nothing good, that’s for sure. I heard Zeke was in detention for a while, used a knife to rob some little old lady’s grocery store. The guy’s a total jerk.”

“Do you see him around much?”

“Not anymore. But I heard Speedball’s been bragging that they’ve got a good deal going.”

Camilla’s heart sank. “What kind of deal?” she asked, though she was fairly sure what the answer would be.

“They’ve got some rich kid hanging out with them, a guy with a car and lots of money. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with him, but I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

Camilla looked down at the papers on her desk. “Thanks, Marty.”

I see nothing inherently wrong with criminal activities, Steven Campbell had written.

Camilla watched as Marty trudged out of the office, her torn soles flapping against the splintery planks. Still troubled, she went back to her work, riffling through the pile of essays to find Jon’s.

The most beautiful place I ever saw was a room in an old motel in Saskatchewan. The carpet was dirty brown, the furniture was faded orange plaid and the curtains had big blue flowers all over them. The toilet was cracked and the dresser was made of wood-grain plastic. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and had a colony of ants living under the heating unit.

But it was beautiful. I’ll never forget that room. What made it so beautiful was the girl who stayed there with me. Her name was Callie, and I’ve thought about her a thousand times in the years that have passed since then, even though I only saw her for a few days. Afterward I was…

Camilla’s eyes blurred as she stared at the paper, frozen with shock. Her face drained of color and her heart pounded.

She read the rest of his essay slowly, holding her breath. When she was finished, she put her head on her folded arms, dropped the marking pencil and began to sob.

July 1977

W
HEN
I
WAKE UP
he’s sitting across the room, watching television with the sound turned low. He leans back in the old vinyl armchair holding a can of juice. He’s wearing a T-shirt like mine, a pair of faded jeans and clean white socks. His feet are propped up on the edge of the bed.

Everything about this guy is so clean. I pretend to be asleep while I’m watching him through half-closed eyes.

He’s handsome in a wholesome, clean-cut way, like somebody’s older brother. He doesn’t look particularly scary, but I know you can’t judge by looks.

He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get me into this room. We’re alone together and I’m naked except for his cotton T-shirt. God knows what’s going to happen to me next.

Now that I’ve had some sleep and I’m not feeling so weak, I have enough energy to be worried about my safety. I wish I could pass out again and wake up by myself, but it’s a pretty faint hope.

This guy doesn’t look as if he’s going anywhere.
He’s just sitting there, waiting for me to open my eyes.

Suddenly he notices that I’m awake. When he smiles, his whole face lights up. I try to feign sleep again but it’s no use. He pads across the room and sits next to me on the bed.

“Hi, kiddo” he says, his voice husky. “I’ll bet you feel a lot better now. I thought you were never going to wake up.”

I look up at him, but I still can’t talk. I’m actually getting a little worried about my voice. Maybe I won’t ever be able to talk again. What if I have to go through the rest of my life writing notes to people because I can’t say anything?

But then I remember that the rest of my life doesn’t amount to much anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

“What happened to your nose?” he asks.

I watch him in wary silence, still trying to figure out what he plans to do with me.

“It looks like maybe it was broken,” he says, bending closer with a worried frown. “And I think you’ve had a couple of black eyes, too, but they’re mostly healed now. Can you tell me who hurt you?”

He touches the bridge of my nose with his fingers. I wince automatically but his hands are gentle and they don’t hurt.

“I’ve got some sandwiches here.” He gets up and crosses the room again to take a paper sack from the dresser. “And cookies and a few bottles of fruit juice. I didn’t know what you’d like.”

He unwraps the sandwich. I can see thick slices of
roast beef, lettuce, mayonnaise. My stomach rumbles. All at once I’m so hungry I can hardly keep from grabbing the bread and stuffing it into my mouth like a starving animal.

He hands me the sandwich and watches while I eat. “Orange juice?” he says casually, as if we’ve spent our whole lives eating together.

I nod and he pops the can, holding it out to me. I’ve never tasted anything as delicious as this sandwich and juice.

It’s like ambrosia. That’s something we learned about in history class. It was the food and nectar of the gods.

I’d like to tell him all about the ambrosia. There’s something in his face that makes me think he’d understand. But I’m nervous and the words still won’t come.

“Guess what time it is?” he says.

He gets up and opens the drapes. There’s a strange pearly light shimmering against the dirty windows. I can’t tell where it’s coming from.

When I don’t speak, he answers his own question. “It’s just a bit after dawn.”

He comes back to unwrap another sandwich for me while I watch him in confusion.

How can it be dawn? It was early morning when I went to sleep.

“You’ve slept for almost twenty-four hours,” he says as if I’d spoken aloud. “I’ve had a chance to explore every inch of this crummy little place. There’s an old dog with a litter of puppies in a cardboard box
behind the office. And the manager used to be a rodeo champion. He’s got all his trophies on a big shelf next to the check-in. He’s a really neat guy.”

I begin to eat the other sandwich. There’s such a big hole in the center of me, it feels as though I’ll never be full again. He opens a second can, apple juice this time, and hands it to me. I realize that I need to go to the bathroom, but I’m too shy to do anything about it while he’s sitting there.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Seventeen.”

We’re both astonished that I’ve actually spoken. My voice is practically a croak but at least it’s audible. We smile at each other and I have to turn away quickly. His smile makes me feel strange, warm and melting inside. It’s a weird sensation but not unpleasant, just a little scary.

“Did you run away?”

I nod and gulp the juice.

“Why?”

I shake my head. He’s so nice, so boyish and gentle and kind. How can I tell him about the squalor of my life, and the things that have happened to me?

When I remember, I feel ashamed and dirty-again, tense with misery. Tears fill my eyes and begin to roll down my cheeks.

His face twists in sympathy. “Hey,” he whispers, touching my shoulder. “Come on, don’t do that. Please don’t cry. What’s your name? Mine’s Jon.”

“Callie,” I whisper.

They’ve always called me that. Actually, my real
name is Camilla, but nobody uses it. I’ve always secretly wished people would, because it sounds like such a quiet, elegant kind of name.

But I’m just poor Callie Pritchard from the trailer park, the girl whose mother drinks and brings men home all the time. I’m trash. No wonder they don’t call me Camilla.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says. “Callie.” He repeats it softly, making it sound a whole lot nicer than it is.

Everything about him is nice. He’s strong and brown, and his teeth are so white when he smiles.

“I went downtown on my bike yesterday afternoon while you were sleeping,” he says. “I bought some stuff for you.”

Again I’m confused, trying to grasp how long I’ve been lying in this bed. And I really need to go to the bathroom.

Before I can move, he’s on his feet again, dumping a mound of packages onto the covers, opening them to display their contents. There’s a new pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, a warm jacket, socks and running shoes, even a pack of cotton panties.

“I don’t know much about girl’s clothes,” he says, looking shy and embarrassed. “I hope this stuff is the right size.”

I can’t think of anything to say. I stare at the clothes, then back at him. Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.

Finally I scramble off the bed, gather up the packages
and take them into the bathroom. I get dressed slowly, savoring the feeling of new denim and cotton.

I must not be as close to death as I’d thought, if new clothes can still make me feel this good.

When I’m dressed I stand and look at myself in the mirror, reluctant to go back into that other room where he’s waiting. My nose is still swollen across the bridge, though the rainbow of bruising has begun to fade from around my eyes.

How can he look at me with such warmth and admiration? I’m ugly. My face still carries the mark of that man’s hand. And my body…

I shudder and turn away from the mirror. When it can’t be delayed any longer, I open the door timidly and venture out into the other room.

He’s waiting, and he examines me with obvious delight. “Hey, those jeans are a perfect fit,” he says. “Aren’t they?”

I nod and search for my voice. “I can’t…I can’t pay you for all this stuff. I don’t have any—”

He waves his hand, looking awkward. “Forget it, okay? I’ve got lots of money left over from the trip. Besides, it was kind of fun, buying all that stuff. Like dressing a doll.”

I hate the thought of being somebody’s doll, but I know he means well so I don’t say anything.

“Are you feeling okay now?” he asks. “Not so weak anymore?”

“I’m a lot better. Thank you,” I add a little stiffly, because I owe him so much that I can’t begin to express it.

His face lights up again with that luminous smile, making my heart beat faster. He lifts his rangy body out of the chair and reaches for my hand.

“Come on, Callie,” he says. “Let’s go look at the puppies.”

We spend the rest of the morning wandering around in the sunshine, playing with the litter of fat puppies behind the motel, talking with the old cowboy who runs the place.

After lunch we go for a long walk on the prairie and he tells me about the ranch where he lives, about his family, their horses and pets.

He’s an only child and both his parents are already in their sixties. It sounds as if he’s always been the center of their existence. No wonder he walks with such easy confidence, as if the whole world was made for him and nothing’s ever going to be denied him.

Early in the evening we climb onto the motorcycle and go downtown for a pizza. The restaurant is full of young people like us, laughing and fooling around.

It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this. I feel like a normal teenage girl, out on a date with her boyfriend. Actually, it’s just what I’ve always dreamed of, a night like this.

But it’s too late for the experience to bring me any real pleasure, because I know that if I told him the truth about myself, he’d turn away in disgust. Even if he were polite enough to hide his reaction, I’d be able to see it in his eyes.

We go to a movie, the only one playing in this little town. The film is violent and juvenile, and we both
hate it. Later, walking back to the pizza parlor for a snack, we talk about our tastes and find that we’ve read a lot of the same books.

He’s in his second year of college. I tell him how much I’ve always wanted to attend college, how I’ve dreamed of getting an education but it’s never going to happen. He takes my hand and leans toward me earnestly, telling me nothing’s impossible if we want it badly enough.

I have to look away so he can’t see my sudden flare of contempt.

What does he know about it? Nothing’s ever going to be difficult for him, let alone impossible. The world’s been handed to him on silver platter, all he has to do is reach out and take it.

But he’s so sincere, so genuinely nice that I can’t stay angry with him. I just nod and keep looking down at the sidewalk.

Sounding a little shy, he begins to tell me some of his own dreams. He wants to finish college, then travel around and see the world for a few years before he settles down.

“Will you go back to the ranch?” I ask him.

“Of course,” he says, looking surprised. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world. I want to get married and a raise a bunch of kids there. But first I’ll have to find the right girl.”

I can feel him smiling down at me. My stomach tightens and a little chill of excitement whispers through me, making me feel warm and trembly.

Maybe this is how it feels to be in love.

But I can’t fall in love with this boy! He’s a prince, an aristocrat…

And I’m Callie Pritchard.

When he finds out, he won’t even want to talk to me anymore.

We go for a ride on the motorcycle before we head back to the motel. It’s dark out on the prairie highway, and the sky hangs above us like a canopy of black silk dusted with silver. There’s a damp fragrance of grass and sage. The air is warm and cool in patches, and I cling to him and lift my face to the wind.

I can see his broad back, his shoulders and the tanned curve of his cheek as he turns to shout something over the roar of the bike. I have a sudden urge to cuddle against him and press my face into his jacket. Instead, I take my arms from around his waist and cling to the luggage rack so I won’t have to touch him.

“Are you okay?” he calls.

“I’m fine.”

But he seems concerned. Finally he pulls the bike around and heads back to the motel.

There’s a moment of awkwardness when we enter and turn on the lights. It feels different now that I’m healthy and strong again, not some helpless little starved kitten that he’s carrying around. We don’t quite know how to behave with each other.

A last I get his white T-shirt from under my pillow and head for the bathroom. “I’ll go first,” I tell him, and he nods.

I undress quickly and wash my face. He’s even bought me a toothbrush and some other stuff, soap and perfumed hand lotion, toothpaste and a plastic hairbrush. It’s all in a new red duffel bag on the floor. I can’t believe anybody would be so generous.

When I’m ready, I come nervously back into the room and duck under the covers, staying close to my edge of the bed.

“I’ll spend another night in the armchair,” he tells me, looking away so I can’t see his face. “It’s pretty comfortable, actually.”

I’m consumed with guilt. He’s done so much for me already. Last night he sat in that little chair for hours while I slept like a log.

“Look, it’s a big bed,” I tell him reluctantly. “I guess we can share if you like. You need to get some sleep, too.”

His face creases briefly into a smile. “Thanks for the thought, but I’m not sure I could stand it.”

I understand what he means and my cheeks flame with embarrassment.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says.

He fetches his knapsack and my new duffel bag and puts them beside me under the covers, forming a long barrier down the middle of the bed.

I lie on my side of the nylon hedge, watching him.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“It’s…I guess it’s okay.”

“Good.”

He vanishes into the bathroom and I hear water running. He’s having a shower. I try not to picture
him naked under the streaming jets of water. When he comes out, his hair is damp, showing the neat tracks of a comb. He’s wearing a T-shirt and undershorts, and his legs are hairy and muscular, making him look like a man instead of a boy.

His body gives me a brief shiver of terror and I turn away quickly. But when he climbs into bed and switches off the light, I find that I like having him over there beyond the knapsacks. It’s a safe, cozy feeling, knowing I could touch him if I wanted. And nobody would ever dare hurt me while he’s so close to me.

We lie in the dark, talking quietly. I don’t know how it happens, but I find that I’m telling him all about myself.

This is something I never do. I don’t talk about my own life, not even with the counselor at school who tries hard to be helpful and understanding. But he’s listening so intently that I can sense his concern wrapping all around me, and I feel safe.