The Distance Between Us
Page 8
“Oh, okay. It just freaked me out. I’ll tell the customer that we can order it for her.” I start to walk away.
“Caymen,” my mom says, keeping her voice low.
“Yeah?”
“Will you try to sell what we have on the floor before ordering another doll?”
I nod. Of course. That makes more sense than anything that had happened in the last five minutes. My mom wants to sell our inventory before we place more doll orders. It is a good idea to get us out of the hole. It actually eases my burden to know she has a plan for the big red number in her book.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the lady. “Tina has found another home, but I know we have some other dolls you’ll love that look very similar to Tina. Let me show you my favorite.” Favorite being a relative term, meaning I found her the least disturbing.
This woman was not biting. After showing her five dolls that look very much like Tina, she gets visibly upset. Her voice starts to wobble; her cheeks deepen a shade. “I just really want Tina. Is there a way I can order her? Do you have a catalog?”
My mom, having just said good-bye to her customers, joins us. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“You had a doll in here that I want, but now she’s gone.”
“Tina,” I remind my mom.
“Did Caymen show you some other dolls?”
“Yes, but those ones won’t work.”
“Is there something specific about Tina that makes her special to you?”
“Yes. My father bought me a doll when I was a girl. The doll was given away when I became a teenager and I have since lost my father. When I saw Tina a few months ago I couldn’t get over how similar she was to my doll. I left without buying her that day but haven’t been able to get her off my mind. I really just want that doll.” A few tears escape the woman’s eyes and she hastily wipes them away.
I look away, embarrassed for her. Or maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m jealous someone can have that close of a relationship with her father that even after he is gone just the thought of him makes her emotional. When I think of my father I feel only emptiness.
My mom pats her arm and says, “I completely understand.” But does she completely understand? My mother was disowned by her father. Is she thinking about that while comforting this lady? Does she think about that a lot? Or does she, like me, try to push it into the furthest parts of her mind and hope it never escapes, especially in front of others?
Mom continues. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes it’s the little things that bring that special someone back to us in some small way.” She waves her hand toward me and says, “Caymen can be a stickler sometimes, but we can definitely order that doll for you. We can probably even give you an extra special price.”
I see how it is, make me the scapegoat. But I can handle taking the blame. It’s the fact that my mom is once again not thinking about our financial problems that has me worried. Would this store have collapsed already if not for me keeping her from giving customers too many discounts, letting little girls pick too many clothes for their birthday dolls . . . ?
“For sure,” I say. “Let me take you to the catalog so we can make sure we’re all talking about the same doll here.” I lead the way and then say, “We require payment up front before we can place the order.” The last thing we need is to order a doll and have the lady never come get it.
My mom turns to me when the lady leaves. “Caymen.”
“What?”
“I don’t believe you were with that customer for a good half hour without finding out why she wanted that doll. We care about people, Caymen. I’ve been around too many people who only care about themselves to raise a daughter who doesn’t think about others, even if they are strangers.”
My mom’s not so veiled put-down of my father was not lost on me, but her generalization bothered me. Wasn’t it possible that money had nothing to do with the attitudes of the tiny slice of horrible rich people she had been exposed to? “You told me to try to get her to buy one we already had.”
“Not at the expense of her feelings.”
“Feelings don’t cost anything. Dolls do.”
She offers me a small smile and then runs a hand down my cheek. “Feelings, my dear daughter, you will perhaps learn one day, can be the most costly thing in the universe.”
And that’s the kind of attitude that is going to be the financial ruin of the store.
As I sit in my room later, her phrase plays over and over in my mind. Feelings can be the most costly thing in the universe. What does that mean? Well, I understand what it means, but what does it mean to her? Is she talking about my father? Hers?
I pull a notebook titled Organ Donor from the top shelf of my closet, flip to an empty page, and write the sentence my mom had said. This is where I keep all the information I have on my dad. I actually know a lot: his name, where he lives, even what he looks like. I’d looked him up on the internet out of curiosity. He works for some big law firm in New York. But knowing about someone doesn’t equate to knowing them. So in this notebook I write all the things my mom has ever said about my dad. It isn’t much. She had known my dad when she was young; it was a short relationship that ended fast. I often wonder if she really knew him at all. She could rarely answer any of my questions so I stopped asking. But every once in a while she says things in passing that I want to remember. Things that might help me discover . . . him? Me?
Even thinking that makes me angry. As if I need him to be a whole person. He left my mother to fend for herself. How could I want to be anything like him? But I’m practical, rational, and if I need to find him one day, I want to know as much as possible. I close the book and underline the title again. You never know when you might need a kidney or something one day. That is why I keep this notebook. It’s the only reason.
Chapter 12
The next morning my attitude hasn’t improved much. Thinking about my dad always puts me in a bad mood. And the discovery of the empty doll casket in back made me realize the store is in even more trouble than I thought. I had been hoping that we always ran in the red; now I know we don’t. But the fact that my mom ordered that lady her doll AT COST makes me realize something else: my mom might not have enough business sense to get us out of our financial trouble. Are we months away from homelessness? I sense the burden falling on my shoulders and I don’t know what to do with the extra load.
I grab my backpack and walk out of the store. The air is cold today and bites my cheeks as I step outside. Halfway down the block Xander appears at my side and hands me my already-been-sipped-once drink. I savor the heat as it coats my mouth and throat. I can’t believe we’ve been walking together all week. I hide my grin as I take another long sip.
“You okay?”
I look over at him and he’s staring at me with a critical eye. “What? Yeah, of course.”
“You just usually have something sarcastic to say right out of the gate.”
Does he know me that well already? “Am I your required dose of daily abuse?”
“That works.” He coughs a little. “Okay, new game. A challenge if you will.”
“Listening.”
“You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I don’t know what I want to do with mine. But we both know that we don’t want to do dolls or hotels.”
“That sounded bad, but I’m following.”
“So I’m going to discover your destiny and you can discover mine.”
“Uh, what?”
“I’m going to try to figure out what you like to do.”
“How?”
“By trying different things, of course. Career days, if you will. I’ll set up the first one. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Be ready.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”
“What? No. I hate tennis.”
I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
“I work Saturdays.”
“Time to start sending different signals.”
I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
“Okay, one o’clock.”
Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.
“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re set.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”
She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”
“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.
She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”
Chapter 13
When the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.
The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold streak across the black pupil. “Crap,” I breathe out.
“Caymen,” my mom says, keeping her voice low.
“Yeah?”
“Will you try to sell what we have on the floor before ordering another doll?”
I nod. Of course. That makes more sense than anything that had happened in the last five minutes. My mom wants to sell our inventory before we place more doll orders. It is a good idea to get us out of the hole. It actually eases my burden to know she has a plan for the big red number in her book.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the lady. “Tina has found another home, but I know we have some other dolls you’ll love that look very similar to Tina. Let me show you my favorite.” Favorite being a relative term, meaning I found her the least disturbing.
This woman was not biting. After showing her five dolls that look very much like Tina, she gets visibly upset. Her voice starts to wobble; her cheeks deepen a shade. “I just really want Tina. Is there a way I can order her? Do you have a catalog?”
My mom, having just said good-bye to her customers, joins us. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“You had a doll in here that I want, but now she’s gone.”
“Tina,” I remind my mom.
“Did Caymen show you some other dolls?”
“Yes, but those ones won’t work.”
“Is there something specific about Tina that makes her special to you?”
“Yes. My father bought me a doll when I was a girl. The doll was given away when I became a teenager and I have since lost my father. When I saw Tina a few months ago I couldn’t get over how similar she was to my doll. I left without buying her that day but haven’t been able to get her off my mind. I really just want that doll.” A few tears escape the woman’s eyes and she hastily wipes them away.
I look away, embarrassed for her. Or maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m jealous someone can have that close of a relationship with her father that even after he is gone just the thought of him makes her emotional. When I think of my father I feel only emptiness.
My mom pats her arm and says, “I completely understand.” But does she completely understand? My mother was disowned by her father. Is she thinking about that while comforting this lady? Does she think about that a lot? Or does she, like me, try to push it into the furthest parts of her mind and hope it never escapes, especially in front of others?
Mom continues. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes it’s the little things that bring that special someone back to us in some small way.” She waves her hand toward me and says, “Caymen can be a stickler sometimes, but we can definitely order that doll for you. We can probably even give you an extra special price.”
I see how it is, make me the scapegoat. But I can handle taking the blame. It’s the fact that my mom is once again not thinking about our financial problems that has me worried. Would this store have collapsed already if not for me keeping her from giving customers too many discounts, letting little girls pick too many clothes for their birthday dolls . . . ?
“For sure,” I say. “Let me take you to the catalog so we can make sure we’re all talking about the same doll here.” I lead the way and then say, “We require payment up front before we can place the order.” The last thing we need is to order a doll and have the lady never come get it.
My mom turns to me when the lady leaves. “Caymen.”
“What?”
“I don’t believe you were with that customer for a good half hour without finding out why she wanted that doll. We care about people, Caymen. I’ve been around too many people who only care about themselves to raise a daughter who doesn’t think about others, even if they are strangers.”
My mom’s not so veiled put-down of my father was not lost on me, but her generalization bothered me. Wasn’t it possible that money had nothing to do with the attitudes of the tiny slice of horrible rich people she had been exposed to? “You told me to try to get her to buy one we already had.”
“Not at the expense of her feelings.”
“Feelings don’t cost anything. Dolls do.”
She offers me a small smile and then runs a hand down my cheek. “Feelings, my dear daughter, you will perhaps learn one day, can be the most costly thing in the universe.”
And that’s the kind of attitude that is going to be the financial ruin of the store.
As I sit in my room later, her phrase plays over and over in my mind. Feelings can be the most costly thing in the universe. What does that mean? Well, I understand what it means, but what does it mean to her? Is she talking about my father? Hers?
I pull a notebook titled Organ Donor from the top shelf of my closet, flip to an empty page, and write the sentence my mom had said. This is where I keep all the information I have on my dad. I actually know a lot: his name, where he lives, even what he looks like. I’d looked him up on the internet out of curiosity. He works for some big law firm in New York. But knowing about someone doesn’t equate to knowing them. So in this notebook I write all the things my mom has ever said about my dad. It isn’t much. She had known my dad when she was young; it was a short relationship that ended fast. I often wonder if she really knew him at all. She could rarely answer any of my questions so I stopped asking. But every once in a while she says things in passing that I want to remember. Things that might help me discover . . . him? Me?
Even thinking that makes me angry. As if I need him to be a whole person. He left my mother to fend for herself. How could I want to be anything like him? But I’m practical, rational, and if I need to find him one day, I want to know as much as possible. I close the book and underline the title again. You never know when you might need a kidney or something one day. That is why I keep this notebook. It’s the only reason.
Chapter 12
The next morning my attitude hasn’t improved much. Thinking about my dad always puts me in a bad mood. And the discovery of the empty doll casket in back made me realize the store is in even more trouble than I thought. I had been hoping that we always ran in the red; now I know we don’t. But the fact that my mom ordered that lady her doll AT COST makes me realize something else: my mom might not have enough business sense to get us out of our financial trouble. Are we months away from homelessness? I sense the burden falling on my shoulders and I don’t know what to do with the extra load.
I grab my backpack and walk out of the store. The air is cold today and bites my cheeks as I step outside. Halfway down the block Xander appears at my side and hands me my already-been-sipped-once drink. I savor the heat as it coats my mouth and throat. I can’t believe we’ve been walking together all week. I hide my grin as I take another long sip.
“You okay?”
I look over at him and he’s staring at me with a critical eye. “What? Yeah, of course.”
“You just usually have something sarcastic to say right out of the gate.”
Does he know me that well already? “Am I your required dose of daily abuse?”
“That works.” He coughs a little. “Okay, new game. A challenge if you will.”
“Listening.”
“You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I don’t know what I want to do with mine. But we both know that we don’t want to do dolls or hotels.”
“That sounded bad, but I’m following.”
“So I’m going to discover your destiny and you can discover mine.”
“Uh, what?”
“I’m going to try to figure out what you like to do.”
“How?”
“By trying different things, of course. Career days, if you will. I’ll set up the first one. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Be ready.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”
“What? No. I hate tennis.”
I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
“I work Saturdays.”
“Time to start sending different signals.”
I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
“Okay, one o’clock.”
Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.
“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re set.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”
She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”
“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.
She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”
Chapter 13
When the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.
The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold streak across the black pupil. “Crap,” I breathe out.
