Free Split by Lisa Michaels Page B

not to pick me up from school in the mail truck; I would rather walk the mile down Spring Street.
    In the first days of school, I worked hard to befriend a cute little girl named Christine, trying to woo her with stories of our life on the road. "My mother used to let me run beside the mail truck all day," I told her. "I'd go off into the woods and explore while they were driving, and then at night I'd meet them at a campsite."
    Christine gave me a dubious look. I was either a liar or a very strange girl. "What did you eat all day?" she asked.
    "Oh, we had drop points where my mother brought me lunch," I told her, trying to sound offhand.
    I had so few clues as to what was worth bragging about that I ended up adding to my reputation for oddity. But I took it as a good sign that Christine let me sit beside her on the rag-coil rug while Mrs. Dillard read
See Spot Run.
I wanted to be as good and clean as the fictional Jane, who wore a triangular dress and spoke in short declarative sentences. I wanted it so badly my mouth began to water. I swallowed, and swallowed again, then looked over at Christine in a moment of queasy confusion and projected a stream of vomit into her lap. The day had a feeling of ruin about it. I didn't quibble when my mother pulled up in the mail truck and drove me home.
    At times like that, my mother didn't fawn over me. When she felt downhearted, she went through the motions of happiness—smiled, took up some vigorous activity—until her mood caught up with her actions. Sickness, second cousin to melancholy, got the same brusque treatment. That afternoon, she pulled a lawn chair into the garden and talked to me while she hoed between rows of asparagus. I was limp with relief to be taken away from the classroom, from the wearing work of fitting into a group of kids who'd played together since they could toddle. The sun was strong on the blanket over my lap. Mother shook dirt from the roots of stubborn crabgrass, and didn't stop for me. She kept working, as if to say, These hard days are common as garden weeds; you take the sun to your back and till them under.
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    My father was a ghost presence in those days. After the commune visit, I didn't see him for nearly a year. I kept him alive by telling stories—to Alison, to Charlene and Jill. It was all mythology: tales of what he let me do, tales of what he gave me. He would give me a dollar—all I had to do was ask. We pretty much ate pizza every day. I could go to bed as late as I liked.
    "If he's so crazy about you, how come he never comes around?" Alison asked me once, her voice like a rusty razor blade. She never bothered to tell stories about Roger. I think she knew he wasn't coming back.
    It would be years before I would understand how much my father had wanted to be the figure from my fantasies—showing up to sweep me away. But after he was released from prison, my mother kept him at bay. She worried about his judgment, and after years of our quiet family life with Jim, it made her nervous to let me go again.
    Once, during that time of infrequent visits, I caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man in the grocery store, and a longing so fierce rushed through my body that I was halfway to his side before I caught my mistake. In that half-second or so, I had invented the story of his appearance: he had come to take me on an impromptu picnic and had stopped in to pick up some food. Then the stranger turned and revealed a face that was thicker, paler, older than the one I had searched for. I stood among the pyramids of peppers and potatoes, watching the mist machines kick up a white froth over the produce bins, until my mother came and found me.
    When we had been in California for a year, my mother let me fly back to Boston to visit my father. On the day of my departure, she and I piled into the mail truck and drove down to San Francisco. As we rumbled through the city streets, Mother sighed over the Victorian houses, their