“You’re so smart, Cammy. So damn smart . . .”
He rises from the couch and stares out the window. After a long second, he says, “They don’t just hand out paychecks for being smart, you know.”
“Well, for you, they should.” She pats the space next to her on the couch, and Cameron sinks down, dropping his throbbing head onto her shoulder. He loves Aunt Jeanne, of course he does. But she doesn’t get it.
NO ONE IN the family knows where Cameron got his smarts. And by “family,” he means him and Aunt Jeanne. That’s his whole family.
He can barely remember his mother’s face. He was nine years old when Aunt Jeanne picked him up from his mother’s apartment after she’d told him to pack his bag to stay with his aunt for the weekend. In itself, this wasn’t unusual. He often stayed overnight there. But this time, his mother never came to retrieve him. He remembers her giving him a hug goodbye, tears running inky trails of makeup down her face. He recalls, with clarity, that her arms felt bony.
The weekend turned into a week, then a month. Then a year.
Somewhere in her cluttered curio cabinet, Aunt Jeanne has these little ceramic tchotchkes his mother collected as a child. Shaped like hearts, stars, animals. Some of them are engraved with her name: DAPHNE ANN CASSMORE. Every so often, Aunt Jeanne asks him if he’d like to have them, and every time, he says no. Why would he want her old crap when she couldn’t get herself clean long enough to be his mother?
At least Cameron knows who he inherited the disaster gene from.
Aunt Jeanne applied for sole custody with the courts, which was granted without contest. Much better this way, he remembers the caseworker saying in a low voice, for Cameron to be with family rather than “entering the system.”
A decade older than Daphne, Aunt Jeanne never married or had children of her own. She always called Cameron the blessing she never expected to have.
With Aunt Jeanne, his childhood was good. She was never exactly like the mothers of his friends. Who could forget the Halloween she showed up for his grade school parade in a homemade Marge Simpson costume, the year he went as Bart? But somehow, it worked.
In school, Cameron did well enough. He met Elizabeth there, then Brad. Surprisingly well-adjusted, he overheard people say sometimes, for a kid in his shoes.
As for his father? It’s possible that’s where Cameron got his smarts.
Anything could be possible when it comes to his father. Neither he nor Aunt Jeanne has any idea who his father is. When Cameron was a kid, before he understood how baby-making worked and the necessity of, at a minimum, a sperm donor, he used to believe he simply didn’t have one.
“Knowing the crowd your mom ran with, he was probably someone you’re better off without,” Aunt Jeanne always says when the subject comes up. But Cameron has always doubted that. He’s sure his mother was clean when he was born. He’s seen the photos, her hair in soft brown curls as she pushes him on a baby swing at the park. The using, the problems, Cameron is sure, came after.
Came because of him.
Aunt Jeanne starts to get up. “More coffee, hon?”
“You sit, I’ll get it,” he says, shaking the headache off. He picks his way across the clutter toward the kitchen.
As he’s pouring two fresh cups, Aunt Jeanne calls from the sofa, “Say, how’s Elizabeth Burnett doing? She’s due at the end of the summer, right? I ran into her mama at the gas station a few days ago, but we didn’t have much chance to chat.”
“Yeah, she’s about to pop. But she’s good. She and Brad, they’re both good.” Creamer swirls in white streaks as Cameron pours it into his coffee.
“She was always such a sweet girl. I never got why she chose Brad over you.”
“Aunt Jeanne!” Cameron groans. He must’ve explained a million times; it was never like that with Elizabeth.
“Well, I’m just saying.”
Cameron, Brad, and Elizabeth were best friends growing up: the three musketeers. Now, somehow, the other two are married and having a baby. It’s not lost on Cameron that the tot’s going to take his place as Brad and Elizabeth’s third wheel.
“Speaking of which, I should bounce. Brad needs his truck back by lunchtime.”
“Oh! One thing, before you go.” With effort, Aunt Jeanne uses her cane to lever herself up from the sofa. Cameron tries to help, but she waves him away.
For what seems like a decade, she jostles around the clutter in the other room. Meanwhile, he can’t resist poking through a stack of papers on the table. Old electric bill （paid, thankfully）， a page torn from TV Guide （they still publish that?）， and a hunk of discharge papers from the minute clinic at the drugstore in town, a prescription form stapled to the top page. Damn, personal shit. But before he can bury the script, he sees something that makes his cheeks burn white-hot. This can’t be right.