Sleeping Beauty-ish

Memories

I looked at the bone in my hand. "Daddy, is this a dinosaur bone?" I asked my father. I was seven years old, at my first archaeological dig. "Is it a T-rex bone?"

"No, Jack," sighed my dad wearily. "Put that down, it's an artifact. Your DNA might contaminate it."

"What does comantinate mean?" I asked, trying my best to pronounce the word right. Mom would have corrected me gently; I wasn't yet used to Dad's style of parenting.

"For the last time, Jack, it's contaminate, and it means to ruin," said my dad, his teeth gritted. "Why don't you go inside the tent and take a nap?"

"But it's noon, and I'm not tired, and I'm hungry," I protested. "Daddy, why can't we go see Mommy?"

"Mommy doesn't want to see us, okay? And besides, you're my little archaeologist- in-training," joked my dad, going from irritated to happy. "There should be some McDonald's in the tent. Just don't wander too far, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy," I said. As I walked off, I heard one of Dad's acquaintances ask, "Are you sure it was a good idea to bring the kid along, Henry? Should've just given him to Social Services."

"I was going to," my dad said, his voice fading, "but his mother would've just taken him from them. Either way, when he gets older, he'll be a fabulous archaeologist."

**********

It was two years later. "Daddy, my legs hurt," I complained to my father. I'd grown used to the fact that Mom wasn't around anymore. "When are we going to get there?"

"Stop complaining, Jack," Dad said. "We're almost there. Just another mile to go. And I've told you it was an accident that our car ran out of gas. There aren't a whole lot of gas stations in Africa."

"What are you looking for this time, Daddy?"

"Evidence of early human activity," said Dad. "And Jack, this is a very important dig. Why don't you go read some of your history textbooks, and work on that math worksheet I gave you? We went over it on the plane, remember?"

"Yes, Daddy," I told him obediently, and as we arrived, I went into the tent Dad always set up for me and him and pulled out the textbooks Dad had bought me to tutor me. I already knew more about history than most eight-year-olds, and the math worksheet Dad had given me was for a sixth-grader. But I finished it in ten minutes, and then set to work reading the history textbook. By the time I finished, it was nighttime, and I was tired. I fell asleep on my cot, the history textbook splayed out on my chest. "Good night, Daddy," I murmured to no one.

***********

When I was ten, Daddy had a dig site back in America. I was lonely at school, but one girl was friendly to me. She told me her name was Lexi. That name sounded familiar to me, but I couldn't figure out why. Then I saw the car she went to after school. It was Mom's car, the one she'd taken when she'd left. She still kept the pink dice dangling from her window. I'd picked them out for her.

I'd lied to Rosie. Mom had talked to me. As Lexi walked over to her car, and Mom stepped out, she saw me, with the shaggy hair Dad rarely bothered to cut, and my blue eyes that looked like hers. She saw how I was about to cry, and how I saw the toddler who must be my half-brother crying in the backseat as Mom got out of the car.

"Jack," she told me. I should have run, but I didn't. Instead I froze, tears slipping down my cheeks. "You look so grown-up. Is Henry - is Dad taking care of you?"

I took a step back. "You left," I whispered. "You didn't take me with you. You didn't love me."

She reached for me. "Jack, I will always love you," she whispered. "You will always be welcome at my house."