CHAPTER 28
Sam
I roll over and tuck my face between two bed pillows, unwilling to invite the light in and risk fully waking up. I’d been dreaming of Kassie—of the time we’d been standing side by side in the bathroom, our mother taking turns brushing our hair.
* * *
“Make mine longer, Momma!” nine-year-old Sam squealed into the tiny bathroom. With a laugh, her mother obliged.
She had this odd way of trailing the brush slowly down Sam’s back toward the curve of her spine, giving her the sensation of a lush crown of long, flowing hair. Sam always wanted straight hair long enough to sit on, but it never grew past her collarbone—partly because she was split-end prone, but mostly because her curly hair tangled easily and was more manageable when cut shorter. Her mother made up for Sam’s misfortune by playing Rapunzel on a frequent basis—if the make-believe princess had long, luxurious hair, Sam would also. Even if they had to fake it.
Finished, her mother snapped a clip in Sam’s hair and moved on to two-year-old Kassie. She managed to get in one stroke before Kassie protested.
“Ow! I don’t wike it when you do dat!” Kassie planted both hands on top of her head, refusing to move them so her mother could work.
“Kassie, put your arms down. We are leaving in ten minutes, and your hair is a tangled mess. You look like Little Orphan Annie, and that isn’t a compliment.” Kassie shook her head back and forth; her arms tightened around her head. Her mother tried to brush around it.
“I wike Annie,” Kassie said in her baby girl voice.
Her mother flashed a look at Sam, one that hid a smile only the two of them noticed. “That isn’t the point. Now drop your hands.”
“I wanna be Annie!” Kassie whined. Her elbows pointed upward. She shielded her head with all the strength she possessed.
“Young lady, put your arms down.” Her mother sighed.
“I wanna be Annie! I wanna be Annie!” Kassie turned the chant into a full-fledged cry, tears the size of fat rain drops rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the countertop.
Sam rolled her eyes and covered her ears. This was stupid and so was her sister. “Will she ever stop doing this? It happens every morning and I’m getting tired of it!” She bent to yell that last part to Kassie, which only made her sister cry harder.
Too bad.
Her mother shook her head at both of them, wearing the exasperated look of an exhausted and overworked woman. Sam couldn’t decide if she was angry or tired, but she finally gave both of them a wistful smile.
“She’ll stop someday.” She locked eyes with Sam. “Trust me, nothing lasts forever.”
* * *
A fly buzzes around my ear. I swat at it, but it keeps buzzing. Keeps flapping. Keeps vibrating.
Except flies don’t vibrate.
I squint and look around, feeling disjointed and out of sorts. I’m in my bedroom. No, I’m in Kassie’s bedroom. No, I’m in the living room. I fell asleep on the sofa with my phone beside my shoulder and everything about this scene feels entirely too familiar.
I jerk awake and swing my feet to the floor, heart pounding, pulse racing, mind tossing around every possible reason the phone might be ringing right now. Everything I come up with brings me back to one conclusion: I don’t want to answer it.
I refuse to answer it.
Phones ring when people are asleep for one reason only.
That reason is never a good one.
I reach for it, hold it in my hands, and stare. It could be Cory, not the police, but I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks. It makes no sense, and for the thousandth time in thirteen days, I relive that last afternoon.
The park. Kissing. Feeding ducks. Talking about the past. The future. Everything seemed perfect, storybook-worthy even. But I’m a writer and tend to romanticize things. It wasn’t until I relayed the story of my childhood friend that the plot twisted and went a direction I couldn’t have predicted. Cory’s expression went from concerned and involved to lifeless. He shifted his gaze away from me and to the water as though searching for something, not breaking the faraway trance even when my story ended. Sure the story had a sad finale, but I didn’t expect that look…that reaction.
Even when I waved my fingers in front of his face, he didn’t snap out of it. Just looked at me with downturned eyes and a troubled expression that’s haunted me since.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking how awful that must have been for you back then. To lose someone so close to you when…” His words trailed off. He wouldn’t look at me when he said the next words. “You’ve lost an awful lot, Sam. Do you ever wonder why?”
Something in his words. He seemed to take my circumstances personally, like he wanted to deflect my hits but kept failing. It’s true I’m battered and bruised, but I’m not down yet. At least I don’t think so, but then this is my life. If there’s another, easier way to live—I haven’t been granted that privilege.
I smiled, but it felt like a tired one. “It was the beginning of a pattern with me. Sometimes I feel like a jinx. You might not want to stand too close.” I’d meant it as a joke; a tasteless one, but if I didn’t laugh at life, how would I get through it?
Cory didn’t crack a smile.
We left the park in silence and he drove me home. When I asked if he wanted to come inside, he claimed exhaustion and watched me walk to the door. For the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t offer to walk me to it.
The next morning, he left me a voicemail message…something about needing to get back to the studio, his next album being pushed up a month, his band ready to record. Something about the story seemed off. The timing? The shaky, distracted delivery? But I didn’t question him, it wasn’t my place. He said he would call soon.
I haven’t heard from him since.
I answer the buzzing phone still clutched in my fists and bring it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Sam, it’s Phyllis.” She’s breathing heavy, excited. My heart falls, disappointed at the female voice, but then races again because…my dad. It’s six thirty on a Saturday morning. Nothing good happens after midnight…but no one told me when the clock starts up again. Maybe at sunrise? Maybe later? Nothing about this feels good.
“What’s wrong?” Out of instinct, I’m off the sofa and frantically looking for my car keys. The road of panic is a familiar one, and I’ve traveled it often enough to know the route by heart. Find keys, get shoes, grab hairbrush, have mental breakdown at exit twenty.
“Everything’s okay, I think. It’s just…it’s your father. He’s awake.”
I stop walking, stop looking, stop twirling keys between my fingers. He’s awake? How does this news warrant an early morning phone call? I slump on my bed and force myself to calm down. My father isn’t sick, isn’t comatose, isn’t dead; he wakes up every day. My shoes are next to the bed, left there last night; I nudge them away, thankful I don’t need to bother slipping them on.
“Phyllis, why would you call me and scare me half to death when—”
“He’s asking for you.”
At those words, my world stops. The world of worry and loss and wondering if I can possibly take any more bad news. The world of routine and living on autopilot and feeling the mundaneness of it all from sunup to sundown and all the leftover hours in between. It stops. My father hasn’t asked for me in years. Why would you inquire about someone you don’t remember? Something scratches the back of my mind, a nugget of hope that won’t go away—not even at my mental command. Hope is a precarious thing, something I’m not ready to cling to. I need it to vanish before it leaves a scar. My mind is so damaged at this point, one more wound might change me into a different version of myself. One that no longer feels or trusts or hopes at all. Even with all my hurts, I wouldn’t like that new me at all.
“What do you mean, asking for me? He doesn’t know who I am.”
“You’re right, baby. You’re right. But sometimes…”
“Phyllis, what are you not telling me? He can’t be asking for me. He can’t.” Those last words are a question. The scratch grows into a pounding fist, and there it is. Hope stands in front me and refuses to be ignored.
Phyllis clears her throat. “Well, we’ve seen this happen before. Just not with your father.”
“You’ve seen what happen before?” My head throbs with possibility, and now hope has a partner. I resent both.
“Sometimes a patient in your father’s condition will have moments of lucidity. Those moments don’t happen often, usually only once or twice, and almost always when…” Phyllis trails off. I can’t take much more of this conversation.
“Spit it out. Almost always when what?”
“When they are nearing the end.”
I knew she would say it, and now I can’t breathe. Hope and possibility both die with a single gunshot, and there you have it. Another end. Another finality. Wetness blurs my vision, and I press my eyes with shaking fingertips. All kinds of awful thoughts run through my mind, though they come in the form of two words. The end. It’s all so awful, the script of my life. When my father is gone, I’ll be left with no one. Everyone I know comes with a readily available tribe, a wide array of family members to both get along with and ignore. Most of my friends complain about long Christmas lists and endless birthday celebrations—all required, all expected, don’t even think about skipping out.
I have no one but myself.
What kind of life is that?
I reach for my shoes.
This might be the end for my dad, or it might not. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past decade: no one knows when the end will come. We aren’t promised a long life, or to hit every milestone, or to have endless opportunities to gather up and appreciate all the seconds we’re given with those we love most. Sometimes those seconds go on and on, and sometimes they stop abruptly. In life, we’re only promised today, and today my father is asking for me. In ten short minutes, he’ll get his wish.
“I need to throw on some clothes. Tell him I’m on my way.”
* * *
By the time I make it to my father’s room, he’s asleep and I’m convinced I should have put up that shield. Hope is too hard; love is even harder. As always, antiseptic and urine are a third person in the room as I sit at the edge of his bed and nervously try to coax him awake.
“Dad? Dad, wake up.” He stirs—the flutter of a fingertip, the jerk of an eyelid—but he remains asleep. “It’s me, Sam. Can you please wake up for a minute?” I want him to. With everything in me I do. And I don’t. What happens if everything changes, if he recognizes me and asks for Kassie and wonders where we’ve been all this time?
Worse, what happens if nothing changes at all?
“Dad, wake up!” Louder this time, but some things just need to be faced.
He jerks awake, visibly annoyed and disoriented. Slowly his eyes focus on me. Really focus. I haven’t seen him this lucid in years. Maybe centuries. Time has a weird way of dissolving when you’re unable to comprehend what’s happening.
“Kassie died. She is buried by your mother. I went there to see them.”
I don’t know what I expected him to say, but this wasn’t it and it wouldn’t matter anyway. His voice alone is my undoing. Rich and deep and as fatherly as I remember. All the internal pieces I’ve been holding together crack and break with the sound. Tears escape and slide down my chin. I don’t bother to brush them away. Right now I want to feel it all. Brandishing that sword was worth the risk.
“I know, Dad. I saw you at the cemetery. Kassie had an accident. Do you remember me telling you about it?” I’m crumbling, coming apart on this bed, and I need something to hold onto. I grab onto his hand, something I haven’t done in a long time. Instead of slapping me in his usual way, he squeezes back. I’m clasping my father’s hand. It’s been years since we’ve met like this.
He nods, his gaze drifting toward the dirty hospital window.
“I love you,” he whispers, startling me. My eyes cut to his, and for the first time in years he’s looking right at me. Not through me or past me or around me while trying to make sense of a stranger’s presence in his room—but at me. I can’t breathe and I can’t feel and I can’t think. Numb. I’m numb and wrapped inside a cocoon of unbelief and tremendous relief. More tears threaten to fall, but I hold them back. I need to see everything with clear vision, not through blurred and hazy lenses. Later I’ll give myself permission to feel more of the moment, to grieve it if I must. But for now, joy wins out. My father is looking at me, and all I’m able to do is stare back and file away the moment.
“I love you too, Dad.”
The words I’ve longed to say come out on a breath. Mental snapshots are stacking up all around me, but this one belongs at the top of the pile. This one is the one most worth remembering. This one is worth revisiting over and over.
My dad loves me. I’ve forgotten the way it feels, but I’m certain I’ll never forget it again.
Against my better judgment, my mind creates scenarios.
Maybe things will return to normal. Maybe I’ll have my father back again. Maybe he will move back in with me and we’ll both have a brand new chance to rebuild our family. Maybe we’ll go out to dinner and he’ll help me choose a new car. Maybe one day he’ll walk me down the aisle, carefully walking beside me so as not to step on my beautiful white gown. Maybe he’ll hold a grandchild, maybe one named after him.
As my mind swims with possibilities, I run my thumb over the soft folds of his skin…skin no longer strong and calloused but wrinkled and blue-streaked with age. It’s been almost ten years since my father first began to show the signs of forgetfulness, five since the condition became too blatant to deny, two since I could no longer care for him myself. And all the while, I’ve mapped out the passage of time by the skin on the back of my father’s hand. Once strong and taut and able to grip mine in a strong grasp, his hand is now papery and soft, covered more in folds and creases than smooth spots. In the turmoil of the last few years, I didn’t pay attention to when his hands lost their strength.
He can gain it back. In no time at all, we can find a way to get back all we’ve lost.
I glance at the door, wondering why Phyllis hasn’t appeared yet. I have so many questions. Millions of questions, and she’s the only one who can answer them.
“Did Phyllis say when she might come back?”
My father doesn’t respond, but of course he wouldn’t. He probably doesn’t know who Phyllis is, probably doesn’t recall all the times she’s changed his bedpans and switched dirty sheets for clean ones and spoon fed him dinner. To him Phyllis would be a woman with no name; a caregiver at best, a stranger at worst.
Much like me.
“I guess not,” I answer myself, tearing my gaze away from the door. I decide to enjoy this private moment for what it is. Just me and my father before people rush in and chaos ensues. I take a deep breath and smile at him.
It isn’t until I look at his face that I know.
Hope evaporates.
Possibilities vanish.
I drop the sword.
Pick up the shield.
All my organs shut down.
My heart is the first to go.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. But it isn’t true. It’s filthy lie meant to make people like me feel better for their rotten lot in life.
Because my father. My father is looking at me with cautious eyes; an all-too-familiar wary stare. His hand abruptly shoves mine away and roams to his stomach, patting…patting. His shoulder comes up and over, shielding himself from my presence. He scoots over, as far from me as he can get inside the confines of the bed.
Alzheimer’s patients retreat inside and out. Alzheimer’s patients don’t like to be touched by anyone. Alzheimer’s patients are afraid of strangers.
And just like that, before the future I pictured had a chance to begin, my father is gone.
I am alone.
More so than I’ve ever been.
Surrounded by loss and the remnants of a life imagined but never experienced.
“Dad?” One word laced with a hundred questions, none of which he’ll answer. I know this. I’m certain of this. Still I try again. “Dad, can you hear me?” He continues to pat his stomach. It’s the response I’m used to but suddenly resent more than ever. Life shouldn’t be this cruel. Sometimes I wonder if God is up there laughing at me.
I believe in God, but not in a cruel one. So…why? Why would He wake my father up just to drag him under once again? Why give me hope only to rip it out from underneath my feet before I even had a second to stand? Why dangle the proverbial carrot in front of a starving woman only to replace it with ashes?
Why?
“How is he?”
Phyllis walks in the room, her timing off by a handful of awful seconds. I drag a fist over my face and shoot her a look. “Back to normal.” My words are wet and laced with bitterness. My fingers are wet and laced with black tears. “He told me he loved me, and for a minute I thought maybe—” I can’t finish the words. Even to my ears, they sound so incredibly foolish.
“Oh child.” She’s holding a stack of white towels that she deposits at the end of the bed. Her arm goes around my shoulder. I breathe in the scent of Pine Sol and peppermint gum. “You didn’t think he would get better, did you?”
I shrug. “I hoped he might.” But of course he wouldn’t. Ten years of illness never disappear overnight, not without a miracle. Miracles are real but also rare. That’s what makes them so fascinating.
There’s no miracle here.
Wasn’t it only a few days ago that I argued with Cory about the benefits of believing in them? A deeper sadness wraps itself around me. Where is he now? And why haven’t I heard from him?
“Why did it happen, Phyllis? Why did he wake up just to retreat again?” I sniff and swipe underneath my running nose. “What good is that except to torture me? Why would God do something so mean?”
Phyllis sits on the bed on the other side of my dad and takes my hand. “I don’t know why people like your father are sometimes able to break free for a bit. Maybe just to say hello. Maybe just to remind the people who love them that they are loved in return. But I don’t think it’s God being mean. I think maybe it’s just His way of giving us a window into the way things will be in heaven.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care about heaven right now.” My words sound harsher than I mean them to. But still, I mean them. “I want my dad back now, here on earth. I was doing fine before this, and now I’m not.” The tears are falling in earnest. All my feelings descend like raindrops onto my lap, and there’s no way to stop them. Phyllis hands me a tissue but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“You haven’t been doing okay for a long time now, child,” she says quietly.
My eyes narrow. “Yes, I have. Why would you say that?”
Her grip on my hand tightens. “I’m not trying to chastise you. But honey, you’ve lost your mother and sister and you’ve been dealing with your father. Nobody could handle that well. And then there’s that singer.”
“What about him?’
“The news has been all over that story. There’s so much pressure on you, but that isn’t my point. My point is that with all you’ve had going on, maybe God just thought you needed a little encouragement.”
I roll my watery eyes. “Encouragement is fine if it lasts, but not when it’s taken away before it can even settle. Why bother with it if it’s going to be ripped away? I thought God was nicer than that.”
She’s quiet, thinking. “I’m going to tell you something a friend told me when I lost my oldest son.”
I inhale a sharp breath. “I didn’t know you—”
“That’s because I don’t talk about it anymore. It’s been a long time, and it’s still too painful. But here’s what she told me: You can ask why all day long if you want to. You can ask God why and your friends why and yourself why until you’re buried in nothing but that single question, but you’ll never get an answer. This side of heaven, time is the only thing that helps a little bit. So don’t give in. Don’t let the whys have it. Don’t let them take advantage of you. They’ll crush your heart and steal your peace and mess with your mind and wrap around you so tight you won’t be able to breathe. Don’t let the whys ruin your life, child. Every time they try to sneak up, push them aside and move forward. Trust me, it’s the only way you can get on with living.” She pats my hand. “And as far as being nice goes, I think God has bigger things to worry about than being popular.”
I turn toward the window and think about her words. “What if I can’t? Let it go, I mean?”
I don’t see her smile, but I hear it. “You can. I know you can. Because no matter how hard life gets, there’s always goodness right around the corner. All you have to do is look for it.”
* * *
An hour later, I’m in the parking lot looking for my car. The sun is beating down on the pavement from its spot high in the sky. I shield my eyes to squint through the brightness. Thank God the clouds are gone—the ones in the sky and the ones marring my mood. Phyllis’s words have wound their way inside me, leaving me questioning, encouraged, and drained all at once. I keep replaying the year, everything that’s happened, everything yet to happen, everything I have to look forward to.
That last one is short, the list very small. I haven’t heard from Cory, things are bleak with my father, and my heart is battered by both. But I’m looking.
Phyllis said to look, and I am looking.
My phone rings just as I press the unlock button and climb inside the car. I slide the phone on and balance it with my shoulder.
“Hello?”
As I pull onto the road, I can’t help but think that maybe this is it. Maybe this is when my world might shift a bit to make room for the good.
Maybe.
“Sam, it’s me.” Hannah sounds out of breath and frantic. “I need you to come to work now. A pipe burst in the storage room, and everything is flooded. I need help moving furniture before our inventory is ruined.”
I close my eyes.
My day off. I get one day off, and it’s turned into the worst day in memory.
Staring out the windshield, I count the yellow lines on the pavement as they pass by in a blur. After telling Hannah I’m on my way, I absentmindedly turn off my phone.
And throw it behind my head.
It clatters against the back seat and falls to the floor. If I’m lucky, it shattered enough to never ring again.
So much for looking for goodness.
Whys assault me from all sides.