He smashed the painting into the cement floor, splintering one corner of the wood frame. Then he bent over, grabbed the broken pieces of the frame, and tore the canvas halfway down the middle.
“Stop, Christos!” I pleaded.
“I can’t stand this piece of shit!” He snatched the broken painting off the floor, barged past me and stomped through the house to the front door, which he ripped open. I was surprised he didn’t yank the door off the hinges, he pulled so hard.
With a growl, he threw the floppy remains of the ruined painting out into the entryway. He shouted a primal roar and chased after it, kicking at the heaped ruin of the broken canvas.
I jogged up behind him, “Christos, stop! This is insane.”
“No, it’s a PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!!!” He clutched one corner of the remains of the painting in both hands and beat it against the driveway like a rug. With each swing, he shouted, “PIECE! OF! FUCKING! SHIT!!!”
I backed off. He was in a rage, There was no point in trying to stop him. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. Christos was ten times bigger and stronger than me.
Christos continued beating his painting to death. I noticed Spiridon and Isabella standing behind me. Spiridon had a pained, sad look on his face. Isabella’s eyes were popping out of their sockets.
A car I didn’t recognize turned down the driveway and drove toward us while Christos pulverized the last shreds of the painting.
Christos was yelling, totally oblivious.
The glare from the sky overhead made it impossible to see who was in the car.
Christos bundled up the wad of torn canvas and the shattered wooden frame. He threw everything over the roof of the garage with a final primal roar. “PIECE OF FUCKING SHIIIIIIT!!!”
The car doors of the random sedan opened and two occupants stepped out.
“Sam?” my mom asked nervously, “is everything okay?”
Oh, fuck, no fucking way.
“Are you all right, Sam?” my dad asked.
Christos stormed back into the house, shouting “GOD DAMN USELESS MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT PAINTING!!!”
I stared at my parents.
My fucking parents.
How the hell did they find me in San Diego?
Maybe I should’ve checked that voicemail they’d left weeks ago.
Chapter 14
SAMANTHA
Spiridon walked into the living room from the kitchen and handed a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade to my mom. She sat next to my dad on the couch in the Manos’ living room. I sat on the leather chair opposite them.
“Thank you, uh…Spiridon?” my mom said, taking the glass from him. She hadn’t gotten used to his name. I could imagine her thinking it sounded hippie dippie. Whatever.
“This is good lemonade,” my dad said after taking another swallow.
“Thank you,” Spiridon smiled. “There’s plenty more. A warm day like today is perfect for it.”
I never imagined my parents inside this house. Ever. It felt wrong, like my privacy was being invaded in the worst way possible, like my hope for a new life was being undermined by their presence. I wished they would go. Like, now. I beamed ESP suggestions to my mom:
you left the stove on
Dad left the back door unlocked
your pipes will freeze and burst because you didn’t leave the faucets on a slow drip
GO THE FUCK HOME!!!
Nothing worked. Oh well. Maybe I should just tell them to leave? I could say, “Mom, Dad, you guys are such big jerks, I was thinking you could turn around and fly back to D.C., okay? It’s only a six hour flight.” Yeah, maybe not. I sighed to myself, fresh out of ideas.
“How are you two enjoying the warm weather?” Spiridon asked. “I bet it’s not this warm in Washington D.C.”
My mom smiled her office ass kissing smile, “I was just telling Bill on the drive over that the weather is so nice, maybe we should move here.”
My eyes bulged out of my head. No, please no. I buried my chin in my chest, hoping to hide my expression.
Dad said, “It was a smart move for you to choose San Diego, Sam.”
I nodded in mundane horror as my lips peeled back over my clenched teeth.
My mom chuckled fakely, “You never told us San Diego was so nice, Sam.”
Maybe because you never asked? Duh. All my parents cared about was whether or not I was taking all my Accounting classes in the right order and getting A’s. The weather? Irrelevant. My desire to become an artist? Irrelevant. My wonderful boyfriend? Irrelevant. My parents were in total denial.
“If you had,” my mom grinned, “we would’ve come to visit sooner,” she chuckled.
Yeah, because me and my mom were totally besties. Was she insane? I was waiting for Rod Serling to walk out from behind a piece of furniture and welcome us all to the Twilight Zone.
I searched around the armrests of my chair for one of those James Bond control panels. I was hoping there were ejector seats beneath my parents so I could shoot them through the ceiling. Or maybe trapdoors that dropped down to a dungeon filled with ravenous grizzly bears or a shark tank. I hadn’t yet found that control panel, but the leather chair had rivets on the front of the armrest, so I began meticulously pressing every single one. I was sure one of them was the trapdoor button.
“Sam, what are you doing?” my mom scoffed.
“Nothing,” I said defensively as I folded my hands in my lap. Sadly, I don’t think any of the rivets were switches.
Mom turned to Spiridon and chuckled, “Sam always was fidgety.”
Dad joined in with the good times. “I remember when Sam was a baby, she always wanted to play with my old adding machine. Once I showed her how to make the paper tape spool out by adding numbers together, she couldn’t get enough of it. She’d play with that adding machine until she’d used up the entire roll of tape. It was then that I realized my daughter’s love for numbers. Just like her father.”
I rolled my eyes. Was he serious? My dad was so oblivious. I don’t think he realized that adding machine had been far more responsive to me than he ever had. I was now convinced the stork had dropped my baby basket off at the wrong house nineteen years ago. Maybe my real parents were wizards like Harry Potter’s mum and dad. I rubbed my scalp, hoping to find a lightning bolt scar hidden there. Nope.
“Are you okay, Sam?” Mom frown-smiled. “Have you been using your dandruff shampoo?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I groaned. Where was my magic wand? Oh yeah, Christos had taken it with him when he went for a walk earlier. Yes, the wand in his pants. I repressed a secret smile.
“What’s so funny?” Dad asked.
I needed to take some spy classes so I could learn to make my secret smiles more secret. “Nothing,” I groaned.
“Where did Christos go?” my mom asked.
“I think he went for a walk,” Spiridon said. “He’ll be back sooner or later.”
Christos had stormed past my parents after they’d arrived without saying hello, and gone out the driveway to who knew where. I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t happy to see my parents either. It was for the best. My parents had been in shock for at least a half an hour after watching Christos murder his painting.
Wanting to change the subject away from Christos and his outrage, I said, “So, how’d you guys find the house?” I’d never told them the Manos’ address.
“That was easy,” my dad said. “We called the manager at your apartment and asked him for your forwarding address. Since we’re your parents, and we co-signed your lease, he was happy to oblige.”
Great. Thanks, Mr. Manager. What a great guy he was. Traitor.
“You’re not staying at Samoula’s apartment, are you?” Spiridon asked.
“Who?” my dad frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Spiridon smiled. “Samoula is a nickname I use for your daughter. It’s a common thing in Greek families to nickname everyone.”
Mom grimaced. I don’t think she liked the idea t
hat I had a nickname, like Spiridon was taking some sort of parental ownership of me. “We call her Sam,” she insisted.
Spiridon nodded, “That’s wonderful.”
Did that mean he was going to stop calling me Samoula? I hoped not. I liked my nickname. Maybe he’d use it after my parents left.
“At any rate,” Spiridon continued, “where are you two staying?”
“We’re staying at the Motel 6 in Hotel Circle,” my dad answered.
“What? That’s half way across the city!” Spiridon laughed. “You can’t stay there.”
“The price was unbeatable,” Dad said nervously, “and I found a coupon online—”
Spiridon cut him off with a dismissive grin. “You can’t stay in a hotel. You’re family and we have plenty of room here in my house. I won’t have you and your wife staying in some rundown no tell hotel. I hear that place rents rooms by the hour.” Spiridon chuckled.
No tell hotel? Since when did Spiridon start dishing out the jokes? I kind of liked it. He got awesomer every time I hung around him.
“Oh, no,” my dad corrected Spiridon, missing the humor completely, “I assure you, Motel 6 doesn’t rent rooms by the hour.”
“Are you sure, Dad?” I said dryly. “This is San Diego. We do things differently on the west coast.”
My dad frowned and shook his head. “Motel 6 doesn’t rent rooms by the hour. I know better.” He glanced at Spiridon, as if seeking agreement.
I arched a doubting eyebrow at Dad. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he insisted, “Motel 6 is not a flophouse.” I could tell he was starting to get angry.
Whatever.
“I don’t care if you have a suite at the Hotel Del,” Spiridon said. “You are Samoula’s parents and you can stay here with us.” He winked at my dad, “And we have the cheapest rates in town.”
My dad perked up at that and turned to Mom. “What do you think, Linda? We could save several hundred dollars if we stay here.”
“I don’t know, Bill,” she said skeptically, “we’ve already checked in and I unpacked my bags.”
“It’ll only take a minute to cancel the rest of our stay and pack your bags,” my dad said.
Rest of their stay? Geez, how long did my parents plan to be here? Despite the earlier failure of my ESP, I tried again. I stared at my mom.
Say no, say no, say NO, SAY NO!!!!!
Mom sighed and threw her hands up in defeat, “Fine.”
Wow, my ESP had backfired. I needed some ESP lessons ASAP.
“It’s settled then,” Dad said. “I’ll call the motel and let them know we won’t be needing the room after tonight. Spiridon, may I use your phone?”
As always, in my parents’ world, cell phones didn’t exist.
“Of course,” Spiridon smiled, “it’s in the kitchen.” Spiridon led the way for my dad.
I restrained a groan. Why did Spiridon have to go and invite my parents to stay? Yeah, I knew Spiridon was all about family. I was too, just not my family.
With Spiridon and my dad out of the living room, it was just me and my mom sitting alone together. I couldn’t have been happier. I started pressing the rivets on the leather chair again, looking for the one that triggered an escape hatch under my ass so I could get the hell out of here.
My mom was pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes closed. I knew this routine of hers well. I’d seen it a hundred thousand times since I was a kid. After the nose bridge pinch would come the rubbing of her temples with her fingers. Then she’d slide her palms down her cheeks into a prayer position beneath her chin while she stared heavenward for guidance.
While her eyes were closed, I punched both my fists in her direction and flipped her off. I opened my mouth wide and silently screamed, “Go the fuck HOOOME!!!” I’d already determined my ESP needed a little boost.
My mom suddenly stopped massaging her temples and her eyes popped open.
I instantly dropped my hands into my lap with a sheepish grin. Had she noticed? I couldn’t tell for sure, but she didn’t act like she had.
Mom closed her eyes and went back to rubbing her temples.
This was going to be a long Spring Break. Yeah, I’d always fantasized about spending my first ever college Spring Break with my parents.
Groanballs.
===
“Everything is taken care of,” my dad said when he walked back into the living room almost an hour later. “I canceled our room at the Motel 6 after tonight. We can pick up our bags this evening.”
Spiridon followed him into the room.
“I don’t know, Bill,” Mom said. “Are you sure you don't want to stay the night at the hotel since we already unpacked?”
Sounded like a great idea to me.
Dad smiled, “Spiridon was showing me the guest rooms upstairs. They’re much nicer than the Motel 6. And the deck outside is better than the pool at the motel. We’ll have plenty of privacy here.”
Yay! But I wouldn’t have any.
Were there any giant meteors in outer space hurtling toward San Diego? They couldn’t get here soon enough.
“Plus,” Dad continued with a big smile, “the price here can’t be beat.”
My mom huffed out a sigh. I knew she could only take so much of Dad’s bargain hunting before she was sick of it. “Fine, Bill. Whatever you say.”
The front door opened quietly and Christos walked into the living room. “Hey, everyone,” he said softly.
I jumped out of my chair and ran to him to see if he was okay, but slowed halfway across the room because my parents were here. Their presence always, I don’t know, restrained me. I stopped a foot away from Christos and didn’t even touch him with my hand or anything. “Hey,” I said.
“Sorry about the scene earlier,” Christos smiled. “I was having a bit of a problem with one of my paintings.”
Spiridon nodded sympathetically, “I’ve been there many times myself. Sometimes a painting goes south in the middle of the process and there’s not much you can do with it short of starting over.”
“You’re an artist too?” My dad asked innocently.
“Yes,” Spiridon said. “All of the paintings hanging in this room are mine.”
It was weird, because there were literally dozens of them surrounding us, and my parents hadn’t said a word about them since they’d walked in. That just went to show how much my parents paid attention to art. It was nearly invisible to them. Just like my love of art. They had no idea it existed.
“There’s a lot of paintings in here. Don’t you ever sell them?” Dad asked.
“I do. As a matter of fact, I’ve sold over a thousand paintings in my career,” Spiridon said.
“Is that how you paid for this house?” my dad asked.
Yeah, my dad was world renown for his social graces.
Spiridon smiled indulgently, “Yes. Everything you see in this house was paid for by the sale of my art.”
Go, Spiridon! Tell it! This was exactly the kind of thing my parents needed to see and hear. An actual mansion, way bigger than my parents’ house, bought and paid for by a real live art career.
“So why haven’t you sold the paintings in this room?” Dad asked.
“I love them too much to part with them,” Spiridon said thoughtfully. “Each one holds a special meaning for me. They’re touchstones that remind me of moments in my life I never want to forget. I could never sell them, at any price.”
“Oh,” Dad said. He had no idea what Spiridon was talking about. Spiridon may as well have been speaking a foreign language when it came to talking about feelings with my dad.
“They’re very nice,” my mom said curtly. “You’re a very gifted artist, Spiridon. I’m sure if our daughter could paint as well as you, she would sell paintings too.”
Because I was turned away from her, my mom’s words literally stabbed me right in my back. Fortunately my mom couldn’t see my face burning with sudden rage and embarrassment. Had she seen my
anger, she would’ve told me to get a hold of myself and stop acting like a child. I gave Christos a pleading look.
“You haven’t seen any of Samantha’s recent paintings,” Christos said to my mom. “She’s come a long way since I met her. Her artistic growth has been unreal. Your daughter is epically talented.”
Take that, stupid Mom and Dad!
“She really is good,” Spiridon said, walking over to me to rest his hand on my shoulder. “With my grandson tutoring her, she gets better every day.” He flashed a smile at me, “Isn’t that right, Samoula?”
Now I was blushing as tears of joy threatened to pour down my face. I nodded. The Manos men were defending me against my evil parents! I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to happy dance all over my parents’ faces while hungry sharks nipped at their toes. Yippee!
“You should see some of her paintings,” Christos said.
The next thing I knew, we were all in the studio.
“This entire room is a painting studio?” my mom marveled. “It’s as big as our house!”
My dad looked around, taking everything in. “I wouldn’t say it’s as big,” he said defensively. “Perhaps two-thirds the square footage. Maybe less if you include our garage.”
Yeah, whatever, Dad.
“And these are your paintings, Christos?” my mom asked.
“Yeah,” he said casually.
I could tell Christos was still somewhat buzzed from all the bourbon he’d been drinking before my parents arrived. But now he was happy drunk, not angry drunk.
“You sure like to paint naked women,” my mom scoffed judgmentally.
I couldn’t take my parents anywhere.
“It’s art, Mom,” I said. “You know, like Rembrandt and Botticelli and Bouguereau.”
“Who?” she frowned.
“William-Adolphe Bouguereau? The nineteenth century French realist?” I’d learned a thing or two about artists from hanging out at the Manos house all the time.
My mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“He’s really good. You should check out his work,” I sneered. “One of Bouguereau’s paintings is hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park. It’s awesome.”
Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3) Page 24
