Samantha darling

by Jennifer Davis

  Samantha

  darling

  JENNIFER DAVIS

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the published, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons dead or alive is purely coincidental.

  No brand names mentioned have endorsed this work.

  Cover created at Canva.com

  Copyright © 2019 JENNIFER DAVIS

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781794250611

  For Jayme

  .

  “Positive anything is better than negative nothing.”

  —Elbert Hubbard

  Playlist

  “Numb” Meg Myers

  “Roll Me Up” Willie Nelson

  “When I’m With Him.” Empress Of

  “Never Feel Alone” The Dangerous Summer

  “Hurt” Johnny Cash

  “Falling Apart” Broods

  “Everything” Lifehouse

  “12” The 1975

  “Everything Goes (Wow)” Broods

  .

  1

  “S amantha. Sam.”

  Hearing my name, a smile touched my lips, but disappeared the instant my eyes opened and I realized the voice I’d heard belonged to my father’s wife, Betty, and not my mother.

  Hearing my mother’s voice would have been impossible since she’d been dead for almost a year.

  “Where’s my dad?” I’d fallen asleep waiting for him to pick me up.

  “Right behind me. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  “That’s so good to hear.” Betty’s voice was clear and melodic. The remnants of her words always seemed to linger in the air after she spoke.

  Dad didn’t introduce me to Betty until after he’d told me they were getting married. I’d had no idea he’d been dating so the announcement caused me to come unglued. My mother had only been dust for seventy-nine days and I’d known Betty for a week when she and Dad eloped.

  “Hey, kiddo. Ready to go?” Dad asked, snapping his fingers as he entered the room with my doctor, saving me from having to make more small talk with his wife. He knew better than to ask how I felt because I’d been lying about my feelings since before my mother died.

  After Dr. Ming provided Dad and Betty with a summary of my last week at The Boothe Center—for the mildly criminal, yet insanely rich psychotics, she gave me a perky smile, told me she’d call soon to check in, and for me to continue writing in my journal.

  I growled, rolled off of the bed, and grabbed my bag, which was full of t-shirts and yoga pants. I didn’t do yoga, but it had been suggested to me by one of the grief counselors I’d seen that I try it. She’d said yoga would help to center my core, so I asked her how centering my core would keep my brain from seeing my dead mother’s body every time I closed my eyes. She gave me a textbook answer, then ditched me as a patient. In her defense, I’d been consistently difficult and more than anyone would want to deal with for seventy-five bucks an hour.

  “Is there anything you’d like,” Dad asked once we were in Betty’s Mercedes SUV.

  “To go home,” I answered dryly.

  “We talked about this move, Samantha.” He sounded exasperated.

  “While I was in a mental hospital under the influence of God knows what.”

  Dad ignored my complaint and said, “Lyle’s Island is beautiful. You’re going to love it,” as if I had no other choice.

  Then Betty chimed in. “With summer beginning there will be plenty of teenagers around. Making friends should be easy.”

  Making friends with trust fund monsters was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “A new surrounding can change your entire perspective,” Dad added.

  “So could a lobotomy,” I mumbled to myself, then opened a book and pretended to read, so they would stop talking to me.

  Dad had asked me to move to Betty’s after their elopement, but since I was pissed that he’d married her and didn’t want to leave the house I’d shared with my mother, I said no, and they continued to live separately until a month later when I pulled some shit at school that handed Dad the opportunity to veto my decision not to live at Betty’s on a silver platter. And landed me at The Boothe Center.

  I nearly died when Dad parked in the cobblestone roundabout in front of a sprawling log home he’d referred to as a cabin.

  It was not a fucking cabin.

  Cabins are cozy.

  This place hogged up at least an acre of land.

  I’d been invited to visit Betty’s house before, but had not so politely declined. I got out of the car and looked around. Like the house, the neighborhood was not what I’d expected. The homes were close together and the yards were almost nonexistent.

  “Where’s the water?” I asked.

  “There’s a pool in back,” Dad answered.

  “Islands are supposed to be surrounded by water. There should at least be a large pond in the vicinity.”

  “The man who owned this property referred to it as an island because it was so isolated. His great-grandsons created the Lyle’s Island development in his honor,” Dad explained.

  Putting a country club and obnoxiously sized homes in the man’s place of peace. What an honor.

  Crossing the threshold into the three story praline colored log home, I was smacked in the face with cool air and the scent of honeysuckle. To say the inside of the house was grand would be a total understatement. The wooden walls were painted cream with some of the knots showing through. The doors were teal blue, and the trim was black. It was more contemporary than rustic, I thought, and although I loved the Craftsman Dad and I had lived in, I didn’t hate the modernity of Betty’s house.

  Betty appeared absolutely giddy while instructing me to choose any room I wanted upstairs, and that she’d have Jonathan move my things into it for me. I didn’t know who Jonathan was, but whatever.

  I took off my shoes and carried them up the stone stairs just off of the foyer, which was where I’d chosen to end my tour, while glimpsing the crystal chandelier the size of a compact car hanging from the ceiling as I climbed upward.

  Upstairs, I opened door after door to plush suites that any sane person would appreciate calling their own. Still, I would have preferred to be at my old house, in my old room, surrounded by things that meant something to me.

  As I opened the fifth and final door, I knew it would be my room, not because it was full of fancy décor, but because it was the furthest away from Dad and Betty.

  My own island.

  2

  I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom, noticing that my clothes were hanging in the closet. For a second, I wondered how they’d gotten there, then remembered: Jonathan.

  The vanity top was sleek, marble, I guessed, like the shower, and the drawers were full of toiletry items. Stacks of fluffy white towels rested on the shelves of the linen closet; a robe just as cottony hung on the inside of the door. It was how I imagined a high end hotel bathroom would look.

  After getting myself together, I went downstairs and meandered through the house, catching a whiff of onions and peppers. Dad is a Denver omelet fan, so I’d expected to see him when I entered the kitchen, which was the actual size of my old house, but found a woman instead.

  “Would you like an omelet?” she asked, emptying the onions and peppers onto a napkin covered plate.r />
  “No, thanks. I hate onions.”

  “You must be hungry. How about scrambled eggs and fruit?”

  I shrugged. It didn’t sound terrible. And I wasn’t hungry, I was starving. Upset about having to move into Betty’s house, I hadn’t eaten much the day before.

  “I’m Ellen.”

  “Sam.”

  “Sit.” Ellen pointed to the granite covered island in the center of the room. When I didn’t budge, she repeated the word and I reluctantly took a seat.

  “What do you like to drink with breakfast?” she asked.

  “Coffee.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “With cream and whipped cream, but I’ll get it.” I stood from my seat.

  “Nope. Sit.”

  “I don’t know what Dad and Betty told you about me, but I’m not so fragile that I can’t pour my own coffee.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “I’m not paying you to do it.”

  Ellen smiled. “Your dad said you might be a little cranky this morning.”

  “I’m cranky most mornings. The only thing different about me today is that I’m being forced to live here instead of my own home.”

  “Give the place a chance. You might like it.”

  “I highly doubt it,” I grumbled.

  Ellen placed in front of me a mug of coffee topped with a perfect dollop of whipped cream and a plate of scrambled eggs, strawberries, and sliced cantaloupe that looked like something a professional would photograph for a restaurant menu.

  If nothing else, I’d like the food here.

  I was finishing my eggs when Dad entered the kitchen. He was dressed like an idiot and carrying a tennis racket.

  “Hey kiddo, sleep okay?”

  “Fine. Why do you look like that?”

  “Betty and I had a quick game. We like to play before breakfast.”

  “Who are you?” I asked disdainfully. Things were much worse than I’d imagined. He’d turned into a yuppie in my absence.

  Dad laughed as he reached inside of a cabinet and brought out a prescription bottle. “You should take this while you’re eating.”

  I popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed it with a splash of coffee.

  “We’re having the neighbors over for dinner tonight.”

  “I ask again, who are you?” My parents hadn’t been the entertaining type, but my mother’s illness would have made that difficult.

  Dad took my question as rhetorical, I guess, because he didn’t answer.

  “They’ll be here at 7:30.”

  “What should I do until then?”

  “Get some sun. It does wonders for your brain.”

  I snickered.

  “I read it, Samantha. It’s scientifically proven, and you’ve been cooped up inside of a building with fluorescent lighting for three months. Take a walk, go for a swim, or just relax with a book.”

  “They let us go outside and you saw the building, it was full of windows. Not dungeon-like at all.”

  “You should still get out for a while.” Dad removed the foil from the plate Ellen had left for him and dug into his omelet.

  Since it was 9:30, and he was still in tennis whites, I wondered if Dad had become a house husband. “Did you quit your job at Harwell’s?” I asked. He’d run a moving company for the past fifteen years, and the owner had been gracious when it came to my mother and her needs.

  “Working at Harwell’s was no longer feasible because of the drive. I work from here now—trading farm equipment through the internet.”

  I frowned. “What do you know about farm equipment?”

  “I’ve learned a lot the last few months.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Where’s Betty?” I was certain that she was responsible for Dad’s weird new career.

  “Grocery store. She’s cooking tonight.”

  “Doesn’t she pay someone to do that for her?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having staff. Betty’s worked hard to have all that she does. You shouldn’t turn up your nose.”

  “Who turned up their nose? I only asked a question.”

  “She tries so hard with you, Sam. It would be nice if you put in a little effort as well.”

  I bit my tongue, stood up, and placed my empty plate in the dishwasher. “Is this allowed in my room?” I held up my coffee cup.

  “Of course.”

  “I just thought the rules might be different in this house than they were in ours.”

  “My rules haven’t changed.”

  “Only everything else about you,” I complained, and could tell by his expression that I’d hit a nerve.

  “I’m only trying to enjoy life, Sam. It’s short and not always sweet, which you know. You can judge me if you want to, but I’m going to play tennis, have people over for dinner, and whatever else I feel like doing. You may not think it’s fair of me to want those things, but hopefully, one day you’ll understand.”

  “I never expected you to become a recluse, Dad, but you’re moving on with your life at breakneck speed.”

  “I just want to be happy.” Dad sat his plate down and wrapped his arms around me. “I want the same for you.”

  “I want to be happy, too,” I muttered, a tad of regret in my tone. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  I felt that my mother’s death had brought him some relief. Dealing with her illness had become harder the last couple years of her life. As much as I’d been through with her, Dad’s experience was worse, which was why I had decided not to be a full time turd about him marrying Betty, although I thought it was bullshit with a capital B.

  My therapist at the time told me some facts about the way men deal with grief and being alone. She said that statistically men were more likely to remarry quickly, whether they lost a spouse to divorce or death, and that my dad may have thought marrying Betty would help me to see that life goes on. I rolled the hell out of my eyes. His marrying Betty didn’t have shit to do with me, but I totally agreed that men function better with a companion.

  Dad let go of me and looked into my eyes. “Go. Enjoy this beautiful day.”

  I didn’t think I was quite to that point, but I went outside and got some sun for my brain while finishing my coffee, then went back to my room and eventually back to sleep.

  3

  W hen I arrived at The Boothe Center, I was placed on suicide watch until Dr. Ming could properly evaluate me. Although I’d insisted that I hadn’t been trying to off myself that day at school, she didn’t buy it, and her evaluation of me lasted for two weeks. I had to spend those two weeks in the so-called suicide suite where a nurse was stationed 27-7 outside of my door that could never be closed.

  I was monitored at all times, even when in the shower.

  The one thing Dr. Ming had done that I eventually appreciated, and the reason I’d remained at The Boothe Center for so long, was that she’d changed my medication. Before my mother died, I’d been taking a mild antidepressant that also helped to curb anxiety, which was the more prominent issue for me at the time, and it had only taken a few tries to get it right, which was lucky.

  With there being so many combinations of drugs and doses, sometimes, it can take as long as a year to accomplish a harmonious balance in a person’s brain. The side effects can be a real bitch, too. You may have the right medication and the perfect dosage, but discover that the side effects are intolerable.

  As I came off of the medication I’d been taking, I felt like I had the flu. My joints were tight. My body ached. I was nauseated, and on the verge of sweating as if I’d been running a marathon, which is something I would never do. But in a way, I was glad I felt so shitty because it meant that I wouldn’t have to go to group therapy, which I hated, despised, and loathed. I could stay in bed all day and not talk. To anyone. About anything. I wouldn’t be told to dig deep and purge, or to share my thoughts and feelings with the strangers surrounding me.

  Although Dr. Ming had delivered the delicious news that I cou
ld skip therapy until my withdrawal was complete, I was grouchy for the next few days. So irritated that it reminded me of what I’d felt that day at school, as if the irritation were trapped deep inside of my bones. It got so bad that I was dying to scratch it out of me. I’d asked for gloves to keep from damaging my skin, but apparently, there is a way to commit suicide using latex gloves and I wasn’t allowed to have them. Not even with a nurse outside of my door. Thankfully, there was a pill to soothe the desire to scrape open my flesh.

  I also had nightmares so vivid that I’d once screamed in my sleep. The sound woke me, but I didn’t realize it had come from me until a team of nurses rushed into my room. “Bad dream. Bad dream. Bad dream,” I’d repeated, trying to convince my brain that what was in my head wasn’t real, which actually wasn’t all that bad in the grand scheme. I’d witnessed something much worse in person.

  Four days later I felt that if I disappeared completely from the world that I’d be good with that. It’s when I knew my system was empty of medication and it was time to start a new one.

  When I met with Dr. Ming to discuss the drug she’d chosen for me, she told me that the best time to write in my journal was while I wasn’t medicated and my feelings were exposed. She was right, but doing it would have been too hard on me. I’d been burying my feelings for years and dealing with them at that point would have been traumatic. I felt so raw and fragile, and hyperaware that the pill I’d been taking was all that had been holding me together. I felt naked without it, and ashamed that I needed it to function. That the chemicals in my brain couldn’t get their shit together and work like they were supposed to on their own. I cried until my throat was sore and my sinuses were clogged and I couldn’t breathe—until all had been purged.

  And then I was numb.

  And it was horrible.

  It wasn’t comforting to feel nothing. It wasn’t the blissful oblivion I’d once imagined. Being completely empty was scary as hell, and I was more aware than ever that I used sarcasm and attitude as a tool. It got old and annoying, but I needed those things to survive, just like I needed that stupid pill.