XX You’re My Satellite XX

XX You’re My Satellite XX

Turns out I don’t have to call him. Why? Because…when I wake up around eleven the next morning, I’m completely alone in the house. For some stupid reason I grab my phone and turn it on like I usually do every morning. I kind of roll onto my back in my bed—god it’s cramped in this room—and before I can think about what I just did, my phone goes off with all sorts of alerts, dinging and pinging for all its worth (and its pretty expensive for a cell phone).

And, you know, I’m not too bright in the morning, so I grab the phone and scroll through my messages.

Let’s see: two missed calls from Britney and a text demanding that I had better fess up as to where I am pronto. One missed call from Paul (figures) and a few scattered texts asking why I’m not replying. There’s a missed call from my mom, along with a message wondering if I’ve gotten to England all right.

There are a few more messages from random people like Jamie (and my boss, Nona, but I’m afraid to listen to her message because she might’ve possibly fired me for taking a two week vacation on such short notice). Finally, I get to the end of the list.

Ten missed calls from Ossian. Twelve texts asking me what the fuck I think I’m doing, disappearing on him like that, and one message.

I’m scared to listen to his message, mainly because if the message is anything like his texts then he’s probably really pissed at me. But…I’ve got to listen to it, don’t I? I mean, if I don’t, then I broke up with Paul for absolutely no reason.

That, I think, is what prompts me to sigh and brace myself while I press the mandatory buttons to get to his message.

Jesus, it’s worse than yelling.

“Hey Lilly,” Ossian’s voice finds its way to my ear despite the long-distance crackling. “I was just wondering where you were. You know, if you were in London or not. Because I got this fucking terrible message on my phone last night, about how you were already off this fucking continent. Now, shit, I’m not a scientist or anything, but I think you would’ve had time to at least call me in between leaving and heading to England. You had time to call me, Lillian. You had time to tell me, but you didn’t. And now your phone isn’t even on? What a fucking coward.

“I told you I wasn’t gonna put up with this shit, but you got into my head. I’m trying to understand all this but it’s not working very well.

“I kinda want to smack you, Lillian, I really do. But…I can’t, because if I did that…I could never forgive myself. I just wish I had known you had no trouble giving me a slap to the face before this all went down.”

Ouch.

I drop my phone onto the crumpled bed sheets and wonder how, exactly, I should handle this.

Well, I’m trying to focus on that anyway, because all I want to do right now is cry. Ossian’s got every right in the world to be mad at me, but still…that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be accepting of his wrath. If he wants to smack me, he probably should be allowed to. I mean, if someone did that to me, I’d probably want to shoot them.

Nobody else is in the house but me. I’m very aware of this, partly because I can’t hear Janet’s incessant texting (she did it all night, I could hear the clicking of the stupid little buttons), and also because if my grandmother’s anything like me, she can’t paint unless she’s got music going.

Or, at least, she can’t paint really well without music.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I slide out of bed and grab my suitcase, flinging it onto the bed. I unzip it and tons of clothes fall out. I search around until I find a coat and shrug into it, grabbing my cell phone as well.

This is getting ridiculous. I need to actually talk to Ossian. Face to face would be extremely nice, but I have a feeling that there’s a lot stopping us from doing so right now. Therefore, I will settle for talking on the phone.

I trounce downstairs and find my boots, wondering if going out like this is going to be a big mistake. It probably will in the fashion long-run, but whatever.

It takes me a while to find the door to the backyard but eventually I do it, and I end up in this pristine little garden full of looming willows and flower beds.

Aha! There’s a little cast iron chair! I sit down in it and dial Ossian’s number. It’s got to be like what…just a little after school or so back home? He’ll pick up his phone if it’s important enough to him.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Nobody’s picking up. Then the killer—his voicemail comes on.

“Hey, it’s Ossian; I’m not here right now but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you ASAP.” I groan in frustration as the phone beeps, gently reminding me that I have to either give him a message now or hang up.

I opt for the first choice, even though I know whatever comes out of my mouth is going to be insanely rude and un-lady-like.

“Hey Ossian,” I begin, my voice soft. I’m trying not to scream. “I just got your message. I’m…I was going to tell you but it’s not like it would’ve mattered. What, were you going to come with me or something? And last time I checked, it’s not like we’re even dating. I got a chance to see my family, and I kind of wanted to go, so I went. Excuse me if I didn’t tell you about something private! And besides, I did tell you! I just never told you ASAP! So whatever Ossian. This is ridiculous. You don’t own me, so I don’t have to tell you shit. We’ll deal with this when I get back.”

And then, me being the stupid one as always, I hang up and toss my phone into a flower bed. It doesn’t break or anything, but I sure as hell won’t be picking it up anytime soon.

I hate him, I think. Well, I should hate him, right?

I don’t know…I don’t know anything anymore, remember?

So I sit in my chair and stew for a while, feeling like the worst person in the world—I probably am—and waiting to see if anyone’s coming home anytime soon. They’ll come home, right? They wouldn’t just abandon me in some apartment in England like some leper, right?

Minutes tick by, and it’s clear that I’m not going to be in any better of a mood sitting out here than if I was inside. Therefore, I get up and retrieve my phone, purely by instinct and now because I want to.

I even check for alerts before I curse myself for grabbing the phone in the first place. Oh, look; there’s a new text message. And, of course, it’s from Ossian.

“Nah, we’ll deal with this then we have time; like right now.”

Ugh, he’s putting my own words against me! I swear real loudly and stomp back into the house, very aware that this trip to London will not be fun if I dare look at my phone again.

I turn it off once I’m in the kitchen and raid the fridge until I find something edible—people in England aren’t very…adventurous. All I see in my grandmother’s fridge is bread, jam, and some jelly-like substance in a glass bottle with Japanese characters stamped on the label.

And I know for a fact that it’s not jam.

XX

I spend a whole week in London with Janet and my grandmother before I dare even turn my phone on again. It’s fun, I must admit, to run around the best-known city on the entire planet when I’m supposed to be in school. It smells in London though, which kind of puts me out of the mood but it’s not like the smell of living in one place for too long is going to ruin my fun.

When my grandmother finally got back after I’d gone and gotten mad at Ossian’s message, we went out for lunch at this snazzy little café near a park. It was cute because in London? Yeah, people actually go outside and use patio chairs like regular old couches. It’s amazing to me, considering I hardly go outside if I can help it. Too little privacy, I say.

After that, Janet came home from school—still texting of course—and then we all sat down together in my grandma’s “parlor”. Yes, she has a parlor, and it was kind of neat. She asked me questions about myself, and Janet and I got to listen through nearly a full hour of family history, as narrated by the elder Lillian Imnek.

So here’s how our family got to where it is today. I’ll give you the short version, because the detailed version is way too long in my opinion.

Way back when, before any white man set foot on American land, we of the Imnek tribe had been walking around in the upper parts of Russia. Apparently one of my relatives got the great idea to walk across something like a land bridge and so there the Imnek people went. We crossed down into what is now known as Alaska, and watched as dozens of other relatives of ours headed South, where we’d heard were cousins of ours (i.e., Aztecs and such).

Now, I don’t know how much of that is true since it’s so old, but I bet you couldn’t ask some European to trace their roots back to the ice age. They wouldn’t have any idea where to start, but I know why.

They were busy doing this whole revolutionizing thing, while we peoples of the undiscovered Americas were busy surviving and, in the Mayan’s case, calculating and doing extremely complicated math way before the Romans tried dared try anything with numbers.

Anyway, so my ancestors decided to stay put in Alaska near Anchorage. The formed their own little colony, and until about the seventeenth century never saw anyone but other Indian tribes.

After that, everything changed. White men came trampling about in the region, and a few of them froze in the mountains. My ancestors always tried to help out, just because it seemed like the right thing to do, even though these new explorers didn’t really have many…manners.

About seventy years ago is when my grandma really picked up her story. She explained that her grandmother was the first to marry out of Native Americans and into…other races. My grandmother jokingly told Janet and I that we girls of the family must be cursed, because ever since her we’ve almost all married out of Native Americans.

See, my great grandmother was a bit of a hussy, according to my own grandma. She settled down with someone of another tribe eventually, but before that it was all about the white miners in Alaska still searching for gold. They paid well, and my great grandmother liked the money. She was, pun intended, a gold-digger, but there’s not shame in that. At least she was smart enough to find away to make lots of money in a world that was slowly being torn apart into the Inuit and the White world.

The Inuit world kept you away from the rest of the world, and the White world kept you away from everything you’d ever known. It was a tough time to live in, but my ancestors tried to stay with their roots as much as possible.

Well, kind of. The Qopuks, who are Janet’s side of the family, tried to stick to that mantra better than the Imneks. It was only when Janet’s parents came of age did any major moves happen. They stuck with the Inuit tradition until the end—which happens to be Janet’s parents.

After those two got married…well, things changed. My mom went and found my dad because obviously since her relatives were okay with marrying outside of Inuit (Japanese, Oooh…) then she could get away with it as well.

Things don’t turn out so sweet when you try again for something good, I guess. You know the saying ‘fool me one, shame on me; fool me twice, shame on you’? That’s what happened with my mom and my dad. Janet’s parents got away with being a biracial couple (until they divorced as well) while my mom and her husband didn’t fare so well.

Anyway, after the turbulence of losing the family clan, my grandmother decided to move. She hated having to watch everything change, so she removed herself from the situation. Besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t have enough money to do it. She was a successful painter back in the seventies; therefore she was loaded with cash.

So that’s how my grandmother got to London in this swanky little penthouse. The details are a little outdated—sometimes just plain false—but that’s probably the best idea I’ll ever get about my family history.

My ancestors were total natives, and up until about a century ago we lived like all the other Native Americans—off the land. Then some white kids came up and introduced us to the rest of the world that was busy evolving right before our very own eyes.

We moved into the twentieth century with the rest of the corrupt, polluted world, but somehow…somehow we managed to keep everyone together until the past few generations.

When I realize that I’m doing the exact same thing as the rest of the women in my family, it occurs to me that…wanting Ossian so badly is probably in my genetic coding by now.

But, looking at all their failed relationships, everything warns me that I should want him as far away from me as possible.

Then again, all those messed-up relationships were supposed to be permanent.

Ossian, I don’t think, is going to be a permanent fixture in my life.

I hope.