Memories of You

by Margot Dalton

  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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  July 1977

  WHEN 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 f
un, 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.

  I tell him about our awful poverty and my mother’s erratic behavior, and how terrifying it used to be when I was a little girl, never knowing what shape she’d be in when I woke up. I tell him all of it, the squalor and the hunger, the pain of being mocked by other kids because of the way we lived. I let him know everything except my full name and the town my mother lives in.

  When I get to the part about the boyfriends and how scary they’ve been lately, he reaches over and takes my hand, holding it gently.

  I falter a little but keep on talking. I tell him about the newest boyfriend, about the increasing drunkenness and the threatening looks, about the knife under my pillow. His hand tightens on mine but he makes no other response.

  Finally I get to that last terrible night. My voice catches in my throat and I can’t go on.

  “Tell me, Callie.” He leans up on his elbow and looks at me earnestly across the knapsack and duffel bag, his face silvered by the moonlight. “You need to talk about it. Tell me what happened.”

  So I do. I tell him about the man coming into my room, about
how easily he got the knife away from me and what happened next. By the time it’s finished, I’m sobbing and the sacks are gone from between us. He’s holding me tenderly, brushing at my hair, soothing me like a little child.

  With infinite gentleness he kisses the damaged bridge of my nose, then cuddles me in his arms.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  I know nothing’s going to be all right, ever again. Still, it feels good to hear him say it.

  After a long time I fall asleep. He’s still holding me and the closeness of his body isn’t terrifying anymore, just tender and strong and comforting, like the father I’ve never had.

  NEXT MORNING I wake in the pale light of dawn to find him sound asleep beside me. I rub my eyes, then roll my head on the pillow to study his face. He seems so young when he’s sleeping like this. Despite his broad shoulders and the sinewy, muscular look of his arms, he’s like a boy. His breathing is deep and even, and his brown hair stands up in an unruly cowlick that makes me smile.

  I reach out to touch his head, trying to smooth the cowlick. He opens his eyes and watches me.

  “It’s standing right on end,” I tell him, stroking the back of his head. “You look like a little kid.”

  He grins lazily and stretches. “I’m not a little kid.”

  I know what he means, and realize it’s dangerous to keep touching his hair. He’s watching me now with a warm, intent look that scares me a bit, but I’m gripped by a kind of recklessness. I run my hand down the tanned curve of his cheek, marveling at how soft his skin feels.

  He grasps my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing my fingers, then my palm. I shiver at the feeling of his lips on my hand. Everything about him is sweet and exciting, like heady wine. I don’t even know what I’m doing.

  He reaches out and gathers me close to him. Our legs are bare, and his skin is warm on mine. He tickles my ankles with his feet and laughs softly.

  “You’re so sweet,” he murmurs. “Give me a kiss, Callie.”