I Am Cameron

Pokerface

 I haven't slept right in the past two days. The knowledge of my parents intentions gnawed away at my conscious, letting my paranoia get out of hand. I became super wary of everything they did or said, as if it was a code meant for me to decipher. I had to tread lightly as to not disturb the waters around me, threatening to pull me under.

That night I put the phone back where I found it and heated up my dinner in the endearing silence. I don't even remember eating. I don't remember waking up either.

I wish this was a dream-- no, nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

This nightmare lasted for hours. The nightmare ended when I came to terms with the fact that this was my reality. At this point I got angry. Why the hell shouldn't I be angry. For the past eight years I've covered for them, I hid the drugs when the police was about to do a full house sweep. I lied in front of dozens of people about my father's alibi during some questionable instances. When they were both on probation from Alcohol and their probation officers showed up, I'm the one who dumped the alcohol in a trash bag and covered it with an old cloth. I was a young kid who didn't know any better. All I knew is that I needed my parents. Sometimes, without even saying it, I believed they needed me too.

But what do I get in return? I get beaten for spilling a cup of alcohol accidentally. I had to sleep on the porch in the pouring rain mid-November because I was dusting the house and wiped away a small pile of cocaine. I don't know about the other states, but Vermont is cold as hell in November.

I was ten. Shit, I'm still only 17. What did I do to deserve any of that?

Why did they agree to sell me?

Frustrated and without answers, I get out of bed. Immediately after there is a knock on the door. I walk over quietly, my heart racing at the possibilities. Was this it? Would I be sold off to God knows where? My mind immediately thought of the Prince of Egypt story, but I dismiss the thought. I don't have siblings so I don't even qualify.

I peer out the peephole with the utmost subtlety.

Oh.

It's the mailman.

I was about to walk away and ignore him as I've always been told to do. I'm not allowed to touch the mail or any important documents because I might leave fingerprints that the police can use to trace the -- obviously illegal -- packages back to our apartment. I pause when I realize that I didn't care about that anymore. If I'm going to be sold off, I don't care what happens to them. So I open the door. The mailman steps back surprised before a curious look swept across his face. It makes sense. I've seen him plenty of times, but this is most likely the first time he's seen me.

"Is this", he looks back at the number above our door. "The Benning house"?

"Yeah. I'm Cameron".

His eyebrows perk up before shuffling the mail in his hand. He puts one envelope on top of the pile of papers.

"Then here you go. The one on top is yours", he says. He smiles brightly before saying goodbye and walking over to the mail truck. I watch as he drives off, still baffled by the experience. Once the awe is over, I look down at the package in my hand. Sure enough, it was addressed to Cameron Alexander Benning.

The return address was in Virginia. I don't know anyone in Virginia. I was still curious though. Closing the door behind me lightly, I head to my bed and sit on the edge. Shrugging off the angst, I open the letter. The letter was handwritten and neat. It definitely wasn't formal, like a college letter would be.

"Cameron Alexander Benning,

My name is Anastasia Analise Benning. Your father notified me that you have finished high school earlier this year. I'd like to congratulate you. I know you chose to live with your mother, but I would like to offer you a chance to visit your paternal side of the family. It may feel awkward a bit after fifteen years, but I would like to see you again. Your father just received a job overseas, but the rest of the family is still here."

The letter goes on stating a phone number, an email, and a return address.

I had to reread the letter several times and I was more confused each time. Who is this lady? My father? My father is at work with his new construction site. His boss just got a major contracting deal. Even with that, there's no way he'd have enough money to even attempt to go overseas. None of us even have passports. And 'chose to live with my mother'? I had a choice? When was this? Why would I choose to live like this?

In the end, I went to the one person who could have any answers at all. I knock on the bedroom door softly. If dad was here, he'd have beaten me to the ground for interrupting whatever they were doing, even if they were doing nothing. My mother wasn't any better, but she never physically beat me as dad did. When I didn't get an answer, I knocked again. I hear a small puff of profanity before I'm told to enter.

I open the door slightly and half step in. My mother was on her bed braiding her coarse, dry hair. Her hands fumbled and dropped the braid several times making her puff again. I walk over to her and take the braid out of her hands. I then take over, the room silent the entire time. I'd gotten used to being the one who took care of my mother when she was inebriated. My father wouldn't, so I had to learn several things, like braiding hair. She's a lot more manageable when she's sober, but still.

Her hair was in two braids when I was finished.

She gives a quick smile. That's all I was getting and that was thanks enough for me.

Before I can say anything she looks me up and down curious.

"You would have been better off with someone else", she says dejectedly. My ears perk up. I've heard her tell me this multiple times in the past and I mentally agreed with her while reassuring her at the same time. This time, the only thing that came to mind was that letter sitting on my bed.

"Do you know an Anastasia Analise Benning"?

The lengthy silence and the horrified but surprised look told me enough. I narrow my eyes. So the letter is by a real person who knew me. My thought of it being some random scammer was incinerated immediately. So what about the rest of the letter?

"Why do you know that name", she whispers. I almost backed down. When she whispers, what follows next only hurts me. I clench my teeth and continue.

"The letter said that my father is going overseas--"

"What letter"?

"-- and that I chose to stay with you. What is she talking about? When--"

"Cameron. Shut up", I'm told.

"-- did I make that decision? I would have never chosen to stay if there was a better option--"

"CAMERON"!

"--Is the man that I've been living with my father", I scream. My mother's eyes go wide. My breathing is harder as I'm trying to contain the anger I feel. "The one who's beaten me MULTIPLE times, who's kicked me out of the house, and hospitalized me TWICE... Is he my father"?

I knew immediately after my sentence was over. The sadness in her eyes, the crease in her brow, the way she quickly hung her head...

I knew what the answer was.

"No".