Page 1 of All of You

One

Delia

Staring out the window, I watch vines stretch up the side of barns and poles, curling and reaching for the clear blue sky. Their tendrils dancing in the wind, appear as though they are trying to grasp at something—anything. The corner of my mouth lifts slightly.I feel you vines, I feel you.

I often feel as though I am flailing wildly, desperate to catch hold of anything within reach. Something to ground me.Roots. Not that it matters. Nor is it a useful feeling to have. My life is a perpetual ball of uncertainty.

Even now, off to another town, another new school. Another ‘fresh start’ as mom refers to it. Honestly, I’msoover‘fresh starts’. Mom doesn’t remember what being in high school is like. She clearly doesn’t remember being a teenager. Then again, maybe this was exactly how she grew up? I have no idea and I’m pretty sure I never will. She doesn’t talk about growing up. I don’t get those typical ‘when I was your age…’ talks. I’m not even certain she everwasunder twenty.

When I was younger, I sometimes imagined her just appearing at the edge of a tree line in a magic forest as a full-grown woman. I can’t even picture her as a kid. It’s weird. But I guess not that out of the ordinary. Most kids say they can’t fathom their parents as kids, but the difference is, they have pictures to prove they were. To guide their imagination. Or family members relay old stories about them.

I have none of that.

No family.

No siblings.

No dad.

No grandparents or aunts or uncles.

No old family friends.

My mom is a nomad and besides knowing that to get pregnant, there needs to be semen involved to fertilize an egg, I could swear my mom just spontaneously made me on a whim in the back of our camper just to be less lonely.

In fact, I like that idea better than knowing I have a father out there, maybe wondering if I exist, or maybe not. It’s kind of depressing.

If I let myself believe in a father, I have to also allow myself to be curious about said father and wonder about him and if he has a family, and if so, does that mean I’m part of a family that didn’t want me? Or are they sad and desperate to find and include me? It’s easier to remind myself that there is no one else. Just me and Mom. Me and the gypsy known as Clover.

The wind rips through the open window sending my hair flying in all directions. I reach up with both hands to tameit—cursing under my breath.

“Don’t fight it!” Mom’s voice shouts over the wind and blaring radio. “Be wild, babe.”

I side-eye her, her own dark blonde hair whipping around her face while simultaneously being sucked out the window, head bobbing to the music—something from the sixties—an easy smile on her face.

Sometimes just looking at her annoys me for no good reason, and sometimes looking at her sets my soul at ease. Today it is not the latter. I roll my eyes and continue my plight of taming my mane while rolling my window up halfway. She shakes my shoulder.

“So serious, Delia. Loosen up, Kid.”

“How much longer?” I ask, ignoring her observation.

She shrugs and I huff.

Unbuckling—no, my mom doesn’t care if I unbuckle while driving—I wobble into the back of the van until I can curl up on the bed alone, stare out the back windows, and watch the last remnants of the town I finally adjusted to, disappear into empty country road lined by trees and fields and a whole lot of nothing. We’re on a thin black ribbon of asphalt that bisects a whole lot of greenery and little else.

When I wake, I’m disoriented and groggy—feeling slick from the humidity and sleep. I blink my eyes open and stretch my body with a shudder that holds tension like a string pulled so tight that it makes a musical sound when you pluck it. Grinding the heels of my palms into my eyes I try to snap out of it.

It’s silent. Too silent.

Mom makes noise. Her actualpersonis somehow noisy. Always humming or singing, clacking pots or pans around,opening or closing things. I don’t know—she’s justloud. Laughing, talking, hell, whispering—she’s loud—or as she says,jolly. I sit up. Crack my neck. Glance around.

We’re parked—the van door is closed. As are all the windows. Usually, mom will leave something open, especially if I’m inside sleeping. A ripple of panic charges through me.This isn’t abnormal, Delia, this happens plenty. She’s probably right outside. Or peeing in the woods or whatever.I’d bet every modicum of blind faith on the fact that she’s simply wandering through nature right now. Still, the panic unsettles me. If I lose mom, I lose everything. Everyone.

I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and push up. It feels good to stretch. I slide open the van door and poke my head out. Fanned-out ferns stretch out around me. I feel a rush of wildness and color. A bunchy burst of purple flowers growing next to a copse of trees, a sort of a vine that doesn’t lie flat. Mom’s camping chair is set up in a little grass patch to the left. We’re basically parked on the edge of a field—all I can imagine is ticks galore—with no buildings anywhere.

I feel the warmth of the sunbeams at this time of day. They shine on me just as it does on the wilderness surrounding me. The leaves turn and the breeze coming in feels like the whole world is a pet dog that is breathing on me.

I’d kill for a dog. Or any pet really.

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