Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  I go to the corner and plug the hair dryer in. At first I turn it on my leg, but that’s of course too hot. I try to hold my dress out myself, but really, it would be best if...

  “Why don’t I hold the hair dryer and you hold your dress,” Dylan says, taking the tool out of my hand.

  I hold it out for him as he delicately sprays warm air toward some of my more sensitive parts. He’s got to get close to do it correctly, so when he looks up and asks me if it’s too hot, his breath is only a couple of inches from my mouth. He’s got me cornered.

  My face warms.

  He clicks off the hair dryer. “This is kind of ridiculous.”

  “I’ll take my dress off.”

  His mouth parts.

  “In the bathroom,” I say, pointing.

  He laughs, but it’s this weird laugh that’s more of a grunt. I guess we’re back to the frustrated grunts. He steps aside and I brush by him.

  I stand alone in my underwear in the bathroom, blowing the bottom of my dress dry. Just another day on the campaign trail.

  Chapter Twelve

  In kindergarten, Peyton drew a picture of our family. She drew Jen with pearls and a blue dress and her raven hair pulled tight in a bun. But for my hair she took out the gray crayon, along with the black and brown crayons.

  “What is this gray?” I said in mock anger as I shook the picture. “My hair’s not gray!”

  Peyton twisted her head and bit her lip. She ran from the room. I sighed, thinking I’d upset her. But she came trampling back, her bare feet pounding along the linoleum in the kitchen. A bit out of breath, she held the retrieved object up to me as she encouraged me to look.

  It was a mirror.

  * * *

  The convention is filled with handshakes and hugs. It’s not so bad, though. I meet a few parents of kids with learning disorders and we talk about how precious great teachers are. I also met a woman who lost her father recently, and I teared up as I told her you never get over it, you just keep living, and that’s okay.

  After the blur of fundraising events and meet-and-greets, it’s time for me to take center stage, if only briefly. Hoping to be distracted, I watch the people bustling about in the staging area. Maybe if I focus really hard on the journalist flirting with the makeup artist I’ll forget that I’m about to speak in front of millions of people, and that if I make a small flub, it will reverberate across the cable news channels.

  And a big flub? I can’t even think about that.

  Dylan comes up from behind me, a bag over his shoulder. “You want to practice again?”

  “No, I know what to do. I’m just afraid that when I’m up there, seeing all those people, realizing the moment, I’m going to cry.” Even scanning the bit about losing my dad, which is about two-thirds of the introduction, gives me that feeling in the back of my throat and that pressure around my forehead where your body says it’s time to let the tears loose.

  Dylan shakes his head at me. “It would actually be great if you cried. We’re trying to humanize your mom, and seeing her daughter crying because she’s talking about her dad will help that.”

  “But I’m always the emotional one in my family. I’m the one who needs the tissues and the water. I’m the one who gets all red in the face when I’m angry or embarrassed. And, oh, by the way, I get angry or embarrassed. My mom doesn’t. My grandpa doesn’t.”

  “Well, you’re a squib,” Dylan says, a grin emerging.

  I shove his shoulder and turn away from him.

  “Whoa,” Dylan says, laughing. “Seriously, Peyton, is this really getting to you?”

  “No,” I say to the wall. He doesn’t know that my dad isn’t my dad, of course. I need to keep it together. But he’s quiet for too long. I turn to him and he’s staring at me, no humor left. “Come here.”

  He walks toward one of the makeup mirrors in the corner. I’m not sure what he’s getting at, but I follow. He puts his bag on the makeup counter and steps behind me. His hands curve over my shoulders and I close my eyes. When I realize what I’ve done, I pop them back open. My face blooms a hot red. “No Carmichaels get red faces like this. Always cool under pressure, see?” I say.

  He smiles, more to himself than to me.

  “Why are you smiling?” My red embarrassment turns to red anger.

  His smile grows into something with teeth, perfectly nice, white teeth. “Why are you blushing?”

  He squeezes my shoulders but then mercifully lets them go. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

  “Look at the mirror. Forget your red hair. Look at your chin, your mouth. It’s a Carmichael chin and mouth to a tee.”

  “But...”

  “And it’s not just your looks. I’ve been following you around for almost a week now.”

  “Has it really been that long? Feels like a year.”

  He laughs and tightens his crossed arms. “I just mean I’ve gotten to know you. And I know you’re a Carmichael and an Arthur.” He can’t quite make eye contact with me when he says it.

  “How do you know that?” I ask, heart thumping, some kind of hot, fusing liquid coursing through my veins. The thumping knowledge that I’m not an Arthur, not really, hurts my brain. Does he know it?

  He still doesn’t look up. His chin is almost touching his shirt.

  “What do you know about me?” I stare at him, ready for him to be brave enough to stare back.

  “I know that you’re compassionate in the practical sense, like a Carmichael, but also in the personal sense, like your dad.” He waits, as though it’s a question.

  “Yeah,” I say, stepping toward him.

  He leans ever so slightly to me. “Unlike Carmichaels, but like your dad, you’re quick to apologize and you’re forgiving.”

  “My mom can apologize.”

  “Quickly?” he asks. “I’m a big supporter of your mom. But she’s a politician. There’s always some strategy before an apology.”

  I wave my hand. “Okay, yeah, yeah, but what about that compassionate thing? My mom is compassionate.”

  “But she’s not tender,” he says.

  “Tender?” I ask, feeling the heat leave my face as he looks at me and continues.

  “I just mean, your mom has empathy for people and that’s great. She’s the kind of person you want making health care laws, but she’s not the kind of person you want sitting next to you in bed when you’re sick.”

  “And I am?” My organs beat against my ribs. Is he saying he wants me to take care of him when he’s sick? Do I want to be the one who takes care of Dylan when he’s sick?

  “Well, yeah,” he says. “We all know you’re good at taking care of someone who’s sick.”

  Oh. He means my dad.

  “So, you see, you’ve got the best of both. You’re a Carmichael and an Arthur.”

  “I’m a Carmichael and an Arthur,” I say.

  He taps the side of my shoulder. “And you also cry, which makes for great television.”

  I push him against the counter and he raises his hands in faux defeat.

  “It’s all well and good that you think it’s fine I cry, but there are logistical concerns.”

  He opens his bag. There’s half a dozen of those plastic tissue things, a couple of water bottles, a cosmetic case, and perhaps, most important, some gummy bears.

  “I could kiss you.” I smile, but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his mouth parts and his forehead furrows. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if I meant it. “I didn’t actually mean we should...not that I wouldn’t want to...I mean, I just...” Why can’t I shut up? “We need to focus.”

  Dylan’s eyes crease. “Yeah, we need to focus.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jen’s sister, Victoria, is the kind
of woman who will ask to borrow a Q-tip and then, the next time you see her, she’ll hand you a fresh pack of Q-tips. She doesn’t like being in debt to anyone. But even the proudest amongst us have loads we can’t carry.

  * * *

  Dylan and I walk back to the staging area in silence. My aunt Victoria waits, at the ready. “Peyton,” she breathes as she takes me in for a hug, her manicured hands careful not to crumple my navy blue dress.

  “I’m nervous,” I say.

  “We’re going to do great.” She stands back, squeezing my arms as I smell her familiar perfume. Like summer berries.

  I turn to Dylan. “Will you be somewhere I can see you?” I don’t care about sounding desperate or needy and piling on the awkward. I’ll deliver a stronger speech if I can see him. That’s what matters, and he knows it too.

  “Yeah, just look for a fluorescent orange poster about a third up on the left, okay?”

  I nod. He knocks my shoulder and gives me a smile.

  My body warms in a relaxed, excited way as I watch him leave.

  Even though we wait for it, even though the schedule is running like clockwork, when the big voice booms, introducing my aunt and me, a weird tingle freezes my throat.

  We walk onto the stage.

  My aunt starts. “Growing up with Jen, I always knew she was destined to lead. When she was sixteen, and I was just a shy little six-year-old, she’d take me to the park. She’d spend equal time teaching me how to braid grass strands together and telling me why our dad’s job was so important. ‘He helps make the rules that everyone follows.’”

  I keep my smile toward the crowd, but it’s hard not to look at my aunt occasionally. Be natural, that’s what Dylan would say. So, I’m natural. I let my gaze shift to my aunt now and then as I keep my hands folded in front of me.

  “I remember being rather amazed at that,” she continues. “‘Our dad gets to boss everyone else around! What power.’”

  I let out a small laugh along with the audience.

  “But, Jen tsked tsked me.” She shakes her pointer finger. “She said it’s not about power, it’s about responsibility. And I know that’s what she relishes about her job. Not the power to change lives, but the responsibility to change lives.”

  I’m impressed that my normally timid aunt crescendos the last bit of her speech, bringing the simmering crowd to a boil. The audience cheers and hollers as she presses her hand into my arm, holding tight.

  It’s my turn.

  My aunt releases her grip as I take over the podium.

  “I didn’t have any siblings, but I didn’t think I needed them, because I was lucky enough to be close to both of my parents.” I pause, just like Dylan and I practiced. The tears teeter on my eyelids.

  I wait for the somber murmurs to drift up the seats of the convention. Attention refocuses on me. “My dad was a great man,” I say, and a few “Amens” and a “He sure was” bellow from the crowd. “But I realize that my mom was part of what made him great. She was always there to give him an apple when he, well, you know, spent too much time in one particular room of our house.” The laughter swells around me, giving me energy to go on. “She made sure he never left the house with a navy blue tie and black suit or cursed out critics who gave his books bad reviews, no matter how much he wanted to.”

  I breathe in and stare at the tiny microphone in front of me. Its puffy little absorber and long metal neck. Such a small piece of machinery that can give voice to someone like me. I look at the crowd and catch a sign that says

  Who is Peyton’s Father?

  Richard Arthur

  A Boogeyman Invented by the Right Wing

  Tough call...

  I swallow hard. The sign is meant to be encouraging, but it’s wrong. My father is the boogeyman. There’s shuffling in the audience. I’ve been quiet for too long. I force myself to steam ahead as best as I can. “And, when he had to confront the fact that he wouldn’t be with us much longer, she made sure his last days were great days.” My voice shakes. I rub my fingers along the edge of the podium and look for Dylan.

  As promised, he’s two-thirds up, holding an orange poster: You can do it, Squib.

  My lips spread into a smile even as the salty tears slip over them. Boogeyman. Squib. Whatever. I will figure this out. Later. Right now I have to focus.

  “My mom is the kind of person you want in good times, she’s the kind of person you want in bad times, and she’s the kind of person you need in the worst times. I’m honored to introduce her tonight. Please help us welcome the next Vice President of the United States of America, Jen Arthur.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Juggling two careers and a small child is no small feat. Some things have to give. And other things get pushed together, like when scientists smash protons together just to see what the hell will happen.

  While I was researching A Sound Mind, my book about the fishing industry in New England, I went to Maine for several interviews, Peyton in tow. I was invited to a lobster bake, which I was assured was family friendly. And it was. Kids dashed around in the sand as the adults sipped Allagash beer.

  What they neglected to tell me was that Maine children are used to seeing live lobsters slowly die.

  Peyton was not. Never one to suppress her feelings, she cried for their pain. I knelt down and wiped the tears away with my thumb. “It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t think they feel it.”

  God knows that wasn’t the first time I lied to Peyton. But I could tell from the way she frowned and twisted away from me it was the first time she knew I lied.

  * * *

  All the normal students, and by normal I mean those who do not have presidential campaign duties, have already moved in. I’m moving in last, on the eve of the first day of classes. Annie is not only already settled in our dorm room, she’s already got her extra toothbrush and makeup bag at her boyfriend’s new apartment.

  My mom is actually able to make it. But this is a catch-22. They only allowed her to take three-quarters of a day off from the campaign to come because they made this part of the campaign. “It will be great,” Lisa had said. “She’s taking her only daughter to college. She’s just a regular mom at heart. It will really play well with women forty-five to sixty-five.”

  That’s a key demographic.

  They’re all key demographics.

  Yes, Lisa flitters around in the background as I try to decide which drawer should house my socks. A cameraman hovers over me: the great sock decision must be recorded for posterity.

  I’m feeling rather warm toward Lisa, as she did politely suggest I mark any box that shouldn’t be opened in front of the cameras. I decided on the infinity symbol for a few reasons, but I told Lisa only one: “Infinitely embarrassing.” She had actually laughed.

  Everyone helping me unpack knows to put the infinity boxes aside because I don’t need the whole nation to know what brand of tampon I use or that I write in a diary that has some glitter on it. (Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s a diary, it’s supposed to be indulgent). I also don’t need the whole nation to know that I brought my floppy, orange stuffed cat that I’ve had since I was six. My dad got it for me when we went to Maine—just the two of us—for a week. Him researching a book, his daughter in tow. I named the cat Sandy because it got sand all over it. Yes, I was a rather innovative child. There’s no way that I was leaving Sandy at home, and I don’t care that home’s only a twenty-minute metro ride away.

  “Peyton, what’s it like having such a monumental moment without your father here?” an eager beaver of a reporter asks as I move another non-infinity box.

  “Sad.” I slash the box with orange-handled scissors.

  “So you miss him?”

  I clutch the blade of the scissors in order to keep myself from saying something really snarky. But the ca
mera’s on me, the boom hovers over my head. I smile, as sweetly and as genuinely as I can. “Of course, I miss him every day.”

  And it’s true.

  But I have my mom.

  Once there’s a semblance of order in Annie’s and my room, my mom and I go to dinner, like you’re supposed to. Only we go to Tombs instead of someplace like Friendly’s, and, of course, the cameras follow us. I can see the voiceovers being scribbled and dribbled already.

  “Amber, as you saw, Senator Arthur had to say goodbye to her daughter today. Every parent knows what a bittersweet moment that is.”

  “Why yes, Todd, they sure do. Jen Arthur is just a regular mom, isn’t she? Completely worthy of our vote.”

  I can’t loosen up, not fully, while my distorted hair reflects in the camera lens and Lisa taps her pen lightly on her clipboard. I comment on things like how our flowers need rain and how the salad is good, especially the goat cheese, and any other inane thing that gurgles to the surface of my mind.

  My mom nods and plays along. Or am I the one playing along?

  Eventually, the meal ends. The camera people pack up. The waitstaff get back to whatever they usually do. It’s time for my mom to go.

  “I need to use the ladies’ room,” she says. As she walks by, she touches my shoulder and looks down at me with intensity, before her face once again loosens and her confident heels click toward the restrooms.

  I get up, careful as possible given we’re basically in an impromptu set—with cords, big black boxes of equipment, and other ambulatory hazards—and follow her. When I get in, she’s waiting for me. “Check the stalls, please.”

  I kneel down and my now notorious reddish locks flop against the tiles. It’s clear. “No one.”

  She takes a jewelry box out of her purse and presents it, her thumbs on top, her other fingers supporting the base. “I saw this a year and a half ago. I thought about giving it to you after your graduation, but I just couldn’t. It would mean you were grown up, and I fooled myself into thinking that you wouldn’t grow up, not really, until the summer was over.”