by F. C. Reed
Amalia’s mother watched him run by in a flurry. “Did you check the desk in the study?” she called after him.
Amalia still hadn’t come down yet.
“Amalia, we’re going to be late,” her mother called.
She heard the call to come downstairs the first few times, and she ignored it, opting instead to stay in bed with the sheets pulled over her head. But if she ignored too long, her mother would come up and start knocking on the door. Then she would start nosing around with an excuse that had something to do with being worried or concerned about something or other. Not good.
The soft tapping of shoes on the hardwood staircase seemed to get her attention. Someone was coming. She had to get up. Through the haze of fatigue and lack of sleep, she slid out of bed and frowned at how brightly the sun shone through separations in the blinds.
“Amalia?” A soft knocking followed soon thereafter. Her mother didn’t try the door because she knew Amalia kept it locked at night—something Amalia was grateful that her parents allowed.
“Just a second, mom.” A quick scan of the room satisfied her that there was no telltale evidence of her social life - or lack thereof - lying about. No diary, no selfies, no sloppy puppy-love poems to Donovan Romin, the guy she was crushing hard on at the moment. She dragged herself to the door and unlocked it. As soon as her mother came in, she dragged herself back to her bed and flopped on top of it face first, determined to get just a few more winks.
“Honestly, Amalia, I really don’t know why you need to lock your door at night. What if something were to happen to you? Your father would want to break the door down to get in here. You realize he just bought that new sledgehammer, only heaven knows why, and has been itching to use it,” she sighed. “Please don’t give him an excuse to pull out a twenty pound hammer and start swinging it around. He’s liable to wreck the house.”
Amalia didn’t respond through her fatigue. The dream shroud surrounding her head muted all sound as her mother walked to the window and shoved the curtains back. A warm blast of golden light caused her to stuff a pillow over her head, curling herself into a fetal ball as though the sunlight pulled the life out of her.
“I know we’ve talked about this before but it never hurts to go over it again. Your father won’t be back until Monday evening. I’ll be returning from my trip tomorrow.”
There was a lengthy stretch of silence, followed by a growing knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. Lifting the pillow from her head, she glanced over her shoulder as her mother sat on the end of her bed. She knew that silence. She knew exactly what it meant. The please-consider-Yale-Harvard-Princeton-Stanford-because-you’re-too-good-for-Penn-State discussion.
“Honey, I know you’ve had some time to think about it,” Amalia’s mom sighed, “but I’d just as soon check in with your college choices.”
“Nothing’s changed, mom,” she mumbled into her pillow.
“You’ve been accepted to four fantastic Ivy League schools, all with full academic scholarships and you still choose Pennsylvania State University?”
“Yep.”
“I know what this lacrosse thing means to you, but you are capable of so much more than that,” her mother said.
The conversation often went nowhere, having gone through the same discussion many times before. She had to tell her persistent mother that she wasn’t interested in Harvard or Yale or Princeton or Stanford every week, sometimes twice. She figured that persistence was part of her mother’s strategy and would break her someday. Today, however, was not that day.
“I love lacrosse. Penn State is a division one school. Therefore, that’s where I want to go,” Amalia said with a shrug.
“Sweetie, you’re tired all the time. Bruised this and swollen that. Remember the time you got a black eye? I don’t like this sport. You’re a lady. Spend more time with gymnastics where the bruises and sprains are more, well, civilized.”
Amalia empathized for a moment with her mother, but was long adamant in her decision to play lacrosse at no other school than Penn State.
“Lara, we have to go,” Amalia’s father called from somewhere downstairs.
Thank you, Mark Issac Anders! She heaved a sigh of relief when she heard her father’s voice. The timing was perfect, and it instantly threw her mother off the beaten path of shoving Ivy League down her throat yet again. Amalia’s mother turned toward the exit.
“Well come kiss your father goodbye. Or are those who feel they are bound for Penn State don’t do that sort of thing?”
Amalia shoved her feet into her slippers and headed for the bathroom to freshen up. She was just glad to be out of the direct confrontation stage and into the polite, but laden with mild passive aggression stage.
“Now remember, sweetie,” her mother called through the house as Amalia brushed her teeth, “the emergency phone numbers and your grandmother’s number are on the fridge. No parties, young lady. Don’t stay out too late. Set the security system to level four before you go to sleep.”
Amalia descended the stairs and met them in the living area. Her mother was still laying out orders.
“Minimal visitors during the day,” she continued. “And certainly no overnight visitors. Mr. Durnst next door will be available too if you need help with anything.”
“Got it, mom.” Amalia hugged her parents at the door. Her father’s face held signs of stress just by getting ready to go.
“Your grandmother should be by to check in on you sometime today,” her mother said behind a scowl. “And you text me if she doesn’t show up.”
“Mom. I’ll be fine,” she said. “Nana will come over. She always does.”
Amalia sensed the tension between her mother and her grandmother, but never asked about it. She figured it was none of her business, and she also felt it was something she probably didn’t want to involve herself in or trouble herself with.
“You sure you don’t want to come to the ranch with me?” She had been asking Amalia that same question all week.
“I’ll be fine, mom. Really, I will. Say hi to Aunt Lillian and Uncle Roy for me.”
She loved her family, but the country life just wasn’t for her. The last time she went to vacation at the ranch, she was bored out of her mind. There was no cable television, and the water was yellow. The smell made her gag when images of drinking liquid fart came to mind. Sulfur, they blamed it on.
No movie theaters, no malls, no teenage hangouts at all. Dull, dull, and more dull. But she learned to ride a horse. Her grandmother had insisted that she learn, and every single year of her life that she could remember, she spent it getting saddle sores. Every year, the horses became bigger, faster, and more aggressive.
She talked her way out of going to the ranch this year by explaining to her parents that it would be an excellent lesson in responsibility and independence. Her finals were right around the corner, and she threw in some rhetoric about using the quiet time to dig into her studies. Reluctantly, her mother gave in, but only after her grandmother volunteered to check in on her from time to time. That secret call she made to Nana may have also helped the situation a bit.
Her father never had a problem with it. She liked to think he trusted her judgment and her maturity. More likely was the fact that he wasn’t her biological father, and so he didn’t really have that same level of emotional investment and smothering protectiveness that her mother had. But she’d known him all her life, and she was far too young to remember anything about her actual father when he and her mother split.
After listening to a couple more instructions from her mother and watching her father check his bags again (probably for the tenth time), they were in the car and down the street. She waved at them from the doorway until they disappeared around a corner. She then shut the door and headed straight for the couch, flopping herself down with a satisfying sigh.
So much free time, I don’t know what to do with it all.
As soon as she thought to come up with some ideas on how
to fill said time, the doorbell rang.
Chapter Nine
Amalia flung open the door without peeking out through the peephole. She fully expected her father to rush past her, mumbling about where he last left his cufflinks, or some other thing he normally forgets. Instead, her grandmother stood outside, much to her surprise.
“Nana?” She stumbled away from the door. “What… how?” She gently pulled her grandmother inside and poked her head out, glancing up and down the street. “I just closed the door a moment ago. Where did you come from?”
“Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart,” her grandmother said. She was a tall, broad woman with the simplest of features. A loose tangle of black hair framed her angled face, gently creased near her mouth. The halo of hair coiled around the crown in a hasty braid and often ended up tumbling down her back in a long, fluffy tassel. She had the build of a blacksmith’s apprentice, full and rigid with wide shoulders and thick forearms.
Amalia scanned the street again, convinced she should at least still be able to see her father’s SUV. But the quiet suburban street was empty. “You didn’t see mom and dad on your way in?” Amalia closed the door behind her.
She kissed Amalia’s forehead and started toward the kitchen. “I must have missed them,” her grandmother said with a shrug.
“How is that even possible? I literally just closed the door. There’s no way you would have missed them.”
That prompted another shrug from her grandmother.
Amalia, perplexed, flopped on the couch again and covered her face with her hands. “Ugh. I’m being consumed by crazy,” she mumbled.
“Although my early childhood was decades ago, I remember that feeling from time to time. I trust it’s not affecting your studies, is it?” Amalia’s grandmother returned balancing orange juice in one hand and a cup of hot Earl Grey tea in the other. “Or same as usual?” She went back for finger sandwiches.
“School’s terrible.” Amalia sighed and glanced out the window. “But at least it’s the weekend.”
“Well, lay it all on Nana. I want to hear what’s troubling you.” She returned and sat next to Amalia with her tea in her hand and slid the tray of sandwiches closer to Amalia. De-crusted ham and cheese with sliced tomato and a hint of mayo, the sandwich itself cross cut into little triangles. She fixed them quickly, too.
“I don’t know sometimes. It’s like there’s something missing from my life. Something I’m not sure how to access, but it’s right there. I feel like I’m out of place in my own surroundings because of it.” She clutched a throw pillow in her lap, crushing it gently as she spoke. “School just ends up making every thought and feeling more intense.”
Her grandmother nodded. “It’s not school that makes everything more intense. It’s being a teenager. You’re growing up. You can’t hope to be a child forever. Every part of you changes over time whether you like it or not.”
“I know, I know. But there’s more to it. More than growing up,” Amalia said.
“I see.” Her grandmother buried her face into her cup for a sip. “Christina Cross or boys?”
Amalia shook her head. “No and no,” she said, annoyed at the mention of Criss Cross and surprised at her own embarrassment over the mention of boys.
“Donovan Romin troubles then?”
“Nana,” Amalia groaned, her embarrassment swelling. She covered her face with the pillow she still held.
“Well, he is handsome. Smart. Has a great sense of humor.” Amalia’s grandmother shrugged. “And he’s a gentleman. Sometimes that last one is enough all by itself to make a young girl lose her focus.”
Amalia stared at her grandmother in that moment, her mouth open in disbelief. “How in the world could you possibly know any of that?”
“I am observant,” Amalia’s grandmother said with a slight smile which she concealed further by taking another sip of tea.
“Yeah, but from where? I hope you’re not spying on me in school.”
“Of course not. But sounds like I tagged your troubles as Donovin Romin.”
“Not even,” Amalia said, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“Then what?” Amalia’s grandmother set down her tea and crossed her arms over her chest. “Now’s probably the best time to talk about it.”
“I have dreams.” Amalia peeked over the edge of her pillow and out the window. “Weird dreams.” The words, barely a whisper, rolled off her tongue in a blur.
“Mind my asking about what?” Amalia’s grandmother didn’t look or sound surprised at all.
Amalia sighed. “All sorts of stuff. I’m thinking there’s a pattern. There’s this one part I see in every dream. I’m trapped in a coffin made of glass. It only lasts for like half a second, but I remember it when I wake up. It feels so real.”
“Hmm. These dreams are what you’re seeing the doctor for, then?”
Amalia blinked. “And how did you know about that?” she said, raising her hands in frustration and letting them flop back into her lap.
“I know more about you than you probably realize.” Amalia’s grandmother smiled. “Your mother and I talk from time to time, even though she isn’t fond of me.”
Amalia sat up on the couch, curious now. “About that. What’s up between you and mom?”
“What do you mean?” Amalia’s grandmother looked down and swirled her Earl Grey around in her cup.
Amalia pursed her lips. “It doesn’t take a genius to see the tension between the two of you. She stares daggers at you from across the room and she foams at the mouth at even the mention of you. Is it that you’re so much alike you can’t stand each other?”
“No,” she chuckled. “In fact, we’re very different. Perhaps too different.”
“So how come she hates you?” Amalia snapped back, feeling the moment of vulnerability dissipate. Despite all her efforts, she had a feeling her question would not be answered.
“Hate is a little strong. I think she is disappointed in me and how our relationship has unfolded over the years,” Amalia’s grandmother sighed. “It’s a long, long story, my dear. One that you’ll understand and appreciate some day when you have children of your own.”
That answer didn’t convince Amalia, but she ignored its implications. “So what happened to your husband, or my grandfather, or whatever it is we’re not calling him. Does he have something to do with this?”
Amalia’s grandmother retrieved her tea. “No. That’s another matter entirely.” She moved to take a sip, but Amalia’s crossed arms and expectant gaze gave her pause.
“I’ve never met my grandfather or my real father,” Amalia said. “Nobody talks about your husband, not even you, Nana. I haven’t seen pictures or anything that even remotely refers to him. Now you have to admit that’s weird. I know you know something. You have to. He was your flipping husband or your baby daddy or your sugar daddy. And whatever you do, please don’t say I’m too young to understand.”
“Husband.” Amalia’s grandmother nodded with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose it is weird.” She swirled what was left of her tea around in her cup.
“So what happened to your husband and my grandfather?”
“He’s… gone.”
Amalia hesitated. “Is he dead?”
“No. Just gone.”
Her grandfather, she always imagined that she would call him ‘grandpops,’ had to have left her grandmother. It was the only explanation that made sense if he wasn’t dead. Amalia braved another query on the subject. “Did you love him?” she asked in a whisper.
Amalia’s grandmother heaved a lengthy sigh. “Yes. I did very much so. And in a way, I still do.”
Amalia found herself momentarily speechless. But then she blurted, “Tough luck, I guess,” wincing inside afterward, as if she’d delivered a poorly timed joke.
Amalia’s grandmother raised an eyebrow, grinned, and took a sip of tea. “So tell me about these dreams,” she said.
Amalia frowned at the obvious diversion. Th
e conversation about her absentee grandfather definitely deserved revisiting. “My dreams? Well, they’re kind of fairy tale-ish.”
“Like you’re a princess or a—
“Nah. Nothing like that.” Amalia made a face.
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re some teenage witch or wizard. Or maybe you’re caught in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf,” Nana laughed.
“Not even,” Amalia grimaced with a shake of her head. “In one, there is a castle with a central structure made of shiny blue metal that stretches into the clouds, hence the fairy tale vibes. The blue metal gives it an eerie beauty. It seems important.” She paused to recall the image. “And every single time I see it, there’s always an urge for me to go there.”
“So you’re the hero in these dreams. Interesting,” Amalia’s grandmother said through another sip of tea. “Anything else in particular?”
Amalia cocked an eyebrow at her grandmother’s reaction, or lack thereof. “The dream usually ends with a black tidal wave rushing in from one side of me, and people running in on the other side. I am caught in the middle. If I stand there, I’ll be mashed to death. I’m stuck. Can’t move. I wonder what it means.”
“Dreams sometimes have a way of telling us what to expect. What’s coming. Or they can be images and memories of the past, with no particular meaning. Perhaps it’s nothing more than a dream,” Amalia’s grandmother said, searching the girl’s face.
“The dreams weird me out, though. Either I wake up bruised and sore, or I wake up wanting to puke. Sometimes I’m just plain old exhausted. Like I ran a marathon, swam a mile, and played two games of tackle football.”
Amalia’s grandmother nodded. “Probably from lacrosse. It’s not for the fainthearted.” She smoothed Amalia’s hair, kissing her forehead. “That’s progress, sweetheart. Builds endurance, fortifies your core, and stacks on stamina. You’ll need it.” She smiled at a perplexed Amalia.
“Need it? For what?” Amalia straightened her back on the couch.
“In due time,” Amalia’s grandmother said as she stood. “Now the surprise.”
