I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night writing.  Friday morning I'm a wreck.  I yawn all morning at work and Mrs. Beth growls at me that I need to work faster and pay more attention to customers.  I say nothing, keep my head down, avoid her gaze. Try not to fall asleep on the chocolate chip muffins I'm supposed to be packaging.

            There's a new girl working with me today.  Crystal.  She's tall and beautifully brunette.  She has eyes that are spaced perfectly in her face, bigger than usual and deep blue instead of brown.  Her cheeks are flushed just enough to look like she’s wearing blush. She's got a small ski-jump nose and red lips.  Her laugh is high and sparkling and I hate her almost immediately.  She talks about her boyfriend constantly and I hate him too.

            I nod at Crystal’s boring stories; chuckle like it’s funny in the right parts, and pretty much package bakery goods like a machine.

            Just get through the day.

            At quarter to five I tell Mrs. Beth I’m feeling sick, and I guess she takes in my glazed-over look, - the result of the many stories about Crystal’s boyfriend - and decides I’m telling the truth because she says I can go.

            I'm setting things up for tomorrow. I can’t go to work tomorrow; I have an art show to go to; I have a mother to confront.  How am I going to act tomorrow? Will I be mad and yell at her, accuse her of leaving me and making me grow up without a mother? Or will I be sad, cry crocodile tears to make her feel bad, hug her and ask why she didn’t at least write her poor broken child. I don't feel like either of those. Those emotions are so much work to feel for someone you don’t even know. I guess I might settle for a lazy resentment. Neither rage nor sadness.  What else is there to feel about the situation?

            Dad is home when I get there, sitting at his desk in the computer room staring blankly at his laptop. “Don’t leave your shoes out in the hall this time.” He says without glancing up.

            “Fine.” I walk past the computer room and sit on the living room couch, picking up the book I abandoned on the end table yesterday. Dad’s voice floats from the computer room.

            “Did you ask your boss about full time, Samantha?” He says it less like a question, more like a demand.

            “Yep,” I lie. “She said she only has part time available. She just hired someone.”

It was sort of true. She did just hire Crystal, although I doubt anyone knew her boyfriend apparently came with the package.

I wince, wait for an explosion, or a “you could have tried harder” or maybe he would storm in and tell me to go get my resume and get out there and look for another job. Over the years I've learned dad’s moods. They ebb and flow like the tides of the ocean. Sometimes there would be smouldering criticism, sometimes rage, often he was just grumpy.

            “Well do you at least have three days?” he says crossly.

            “Every week,” I say, and shove my nose firmly back into my book.

            Saturday morning I'm up at nine. I could have slept in - the art show isn’t until eleven, but I want to be there early so I hop on a ten o’clock bus downtown.  On the way I phone work, put on my best sick voice and tell someone (I don’t know who it is that picks up) that I feel terribly ill and will not be in today. I forget to bring my book with me, so I mostly fidget with my book bag and stare out the window watching the road fly past.  The crack-head sitting two seats ahead of me is craning around in his chair like a kid at a restaurant staring into the booth next to him. It bugs me when kids do it at Denny’s, and it certainly isn’t any better when it’s a full- grown man and he’s stoned off his face.  He tries to talk to me, something about rubber ducks. I concentrate very hard on the landscape.

            My stop finally comes and I climb off, the bus leaving me in the dust with a short fat woman with curly black hair.

            “Thank heavens,” she says.

            I don’t know why she's thanking the heavens, so I just shrug and walk across the road to the art gallery.  I’m a little early, so I take a seat beside the desk and watch as people run around setting up tables and booths, getting coffee, tea and wine ready for the many connoisseurs of art. Benji is running around like crazy; I get a drive-by smile and wave as he goes past.

People start to walk in and I wonder if they're the artists arriving early.  I have to try hard not to stare.  I expect its part of some kind of contract they all secretly sign. I solemnly swear to dress eccentrically at all times.  Many of the women have long beads and chains around their necks, one has a large floppy hat, and another wears a long green head-scarf.  I watch one lady as she walks through the show flinging her arms around - she has about a million gold bracelets on each arm and they jangled together constantly, making her sound like a sleigh ride. Some of the men have beards, or just look like they don’t own a razor at all.  One even has the audacity to wear a blue beret.  Honestly.

            I wondered what they would be like to talk to.  Probably a lot more fun than anyone at work or school. 

            “Hey, what do you think so far?” I turn to look at Benji who's leaning against the desk mopping at his brow.

            “I think you look sweaty.”

            “Thanks. That’s what I get for volunteering to help out today. Dad has me moving furniture around.”

            Benji continues to talk about something, but I'm not listening anymore.  A woman has walked in the door and I know it's her.  It's not like I have some kind of instinct about it or anything; I don't just see her and know.  It's obvious. She looks like me. Or I guess the correct thing to say is I look like her.  She's tall, my height, and has the same lanky frame. Her hair is long and straight like mine, although it's a lighter colour, almost honey-brown.  She has on the kind of bohemian-type dress I would describe as “flowy”, black with tie-dye red stripes. 

            “Sam? Hello?” Benji is waving a hand at me.

            “What?” I barely tear my eyes away from her.

            “Are you okay? You look freaked out.”

            “Fine,” I mumble.

            My brain is working in overdrive. I hadn’t planned well enough. What do I do now? Do I go over and confront her? Do I ask her questions about...what? Her painting?  Maybe I should go talk to her before she gets distracted and starts talking to someone else.  I watch her, still hesitating, as she walks past us and starts down the hall. 

            “I’m gonna go talk to her,” I breathe.

            “Who?”

            “Her, my...the artist.”

            She's at the end of the hallway standing in front of her painting, examining it like she's seeing it for the first time. I stand behind her and feel horribly awkward, unsure of what to do or say. I fidget, chewing a fingernail anxiously, tapping my foot.  Trying to form words to say as my stomach churns.  Finally I decide to clear my throat and get her attention, when she suddenly speaks.

            “It’s like I don’t actually paint them.”

            I start in surprise as she turns around and smiles at me.  She must think I'm just another art-lover.  Her eyes are light brown, the colour of sand.  Those eyes are in my mirror every morning, so it’s sort of strange having them stare at me from someone else’s face.

            My throat locks up, nothing will come out. My jaw won't even move.  On top of that, I have nothing intelligent to say. I just stare.

            “Oh...” she says, and her sand-coloured eyes get a lot wider.

            I continue to stare like an idiot, blinking at her in a sort of stupor.  She knows. It’s obvious - why didn’t I think it would be this obvious? If I can tell, so can she.

            “Oh,” she says again, and then, ‘Oh dear.”

            Oh dear - that's not good.  Why did she say that?  I manage to get my mouth unstuck and say indignantly, “What is that supposed to mean?”

            That isn't what I wanted to say. This is all happening wrong.  I pictured this happening so much differently in my head.

            Her hand flutters to her mouth and she looks distraught. “I’m sorry.  I mean...this wasn’t what I...it’s not what I meant to say.”

            That makes two of us.

            “What did you mean to say?”

            Okay, apparently my mouth is going with the accusatory route.

            Incredibly, she blinks, and her brown eyes grow watery.  Instantly I feel bad, and then annoyed at myself for feeling bad. She should feel bad, not me.

            “Samantha.”

            “No one calls me that.”

            “I’m sorry.” I get the feeling that she means sorry for more than just calling me Samantha.

            “So you...you’re my mother.”

            She stares, blinking back more tears. After a moment’s pause she says, “I didn’t quite picture it like this, but...I have a feeling you have questions to ask me.”

            “Hundreds.”

            Didn’t quite picture what exactly?

            “Let me talk to Allen, and then we’ll go back to my flat, if that’s okay. It would be much better to talk there then in the middle of an art show.”

            You think?

            Why am I suddenly bitter? I don't even know this woman. It’s not like I ever missed her.  Maybe it's just the fact that she took off and I got stuck with dad being the way he is.  Is it her fault that dad is permanently angry?

            I watch her as she flows over to the front desk, says something quietly to Benji, who looks at her in surprise then looks down the hall at me, eyes wide.  It's   almost funny, how much his eyes bulge out.  I guess she must have told him the reason she's leaving.

            Oh you know, my long lost daughter who I abandoned fifteen years ago just showed up, so we’re going to have a little chat.

            She looks back down the hall at me and smiles, gesturing for me to come forward, come down the hall, walk out the door, cross the street, come to her apartment. My stomach is suddenly full of hyperactive butterflies. What will we talk about? Will it be awkward? What if she starts crying? Will I cry too?

            I zombie my way down the hall, passing chatting, laughing painters, not hearing anything they say to one another. On the way out, Benji gives me thumbs up and mouths the words “good luck”.

            I give him a weak smile and follow my mother out the door.