by Sandi Ward
“Sam, I’m sorry. That’s awful.” I shake my head. “I remember when your dad was diagnosed with cancer back when we were in high school.”
“Yeah. I guess it runs in my family. But my dad has been very lucky, living so long. Maybe Dan can beat it, too.” We’re standing nose to nose, and Sam gives me a look. “You never did tell me one thing about Peter that wasn’t perfect, you know.” He’s genuinely disappointed. “Some woman having a crush on him doesn’t count.”
“You’re right.” I pull my scarf back up over my chin and tighten it. “Honestly, he was pretty perfect.”
Sam nudges my elbow with his. “I knew it.” Taking one of my braids in his hand, he pulls it gently and runs his fingers down the length of it. “I remember you wearing your hair like this back in high school,” he says. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but I always liked it.”
I realize it’s no accident that I braided my hair this morning. “I know,” I say through my scarf. “I mean, I knew it. I knew everything about you, Sam.”
He turns his head toward the pale light filtering in through the trees. His skin is olive, just as I remember it, but with darker spots mottling the edges of his cheeks, and lines set in the corners of his eyes. Sam’s shoulders are heavier and broader than they were, and his hair isn’t as thick and dark. He’s not my young brown-eyed boy anymore, although his gaze is still bright and attentive.
I know he wants to say something. But I remember that Sam moves slowly in all things, and I have no choice but to wait.
“Is it getting easier?” he finally asks.
“A little. I try to appreciate small things. Like the smell of garlic in a sauté pan. Or the weight of a snowball in my hand. Or the heat from a hot shower. Peter will never get to enjoy those things again, and it hurts to think about that. I still think about him all the time.”
Sam nods, with a respectful silence.
What I don’t say is that six months of antidepressants seemed to help, but eventually stopped working. Delilah went to therapy once a week for a year. She loves to talk, and came out of her sessions feeling renewed. Donovan tried therapy once and refused to go back, and I let him be. Everyone grieves differently. Donovan spent a lot of time out on the soccer field last summer, practicing by himself, and I hoped he was working things through in his own way.
I’ve read articles on bereavement. Shock, anguish, loss, guilt, regret. Grief can be complicated.
“Maybe I could help you out,” Sam says. “You know, around the house. Or with errands. Or giving your kids a ride if they need it.”
“But I told you, we’re not staying in Manchester.”
“Annie,” Sam sighs, as he did when we were eighteen. I recognize that look. And I feel something shift inside me. Is it possible for your heart to change in a moment based on the way someone looks at you? Sam makes me think so. He makes me want to stay.
And so we need to go. Right now.
I pat his arm. “Let’s get Lisa.”
Sam pulls his hat back on. We continue on our way, one step at a time. At the top of the hill, I grab tree branches to haul myself up. There’s movement in the window and a flash of auburn hair. As soon as we step onto her front porch, Lisa opens the door to greet us.
“Hey!” she calls out. “You’ve come to rescue me. I’m fine, you know. I could’ve come down to you.”
“I got your text. I tried to call. Is your phone dead?”
She looks us both over: first me. Then Sam. Then me again. Confusion washes over her face. But then she stills herself and lifts her chin. She doesn’t look thrilled to see Sam.
I wait for her to answer me, sweating under my down coat. When she doesn’t say anything more, I interject. “So you’re out of power? No heat?” I can see behind her that the house is in shadows. I don’t see lights on, or any sign of life.
She runs a hand through her glossy hair and lets it fall over her shoulders. “Sam and Annika.” She rests one hand on her doorknob. “Wow. Together again. You guys look like an old married couple. Like you could be my nice neighbors. You did always make a cute couple in high school. You still look good together.” She doesn’t sound thrilled about this fact.
I sigh. I should’ve known it would go like this.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure. You too, Samuel. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Lisa reaches out to grab his arm and pull him in, and I have a flashback of her doing the same thing in high school.
As soon as I step inside after them, I can feel that the air is cold in the house, although at least it’s dry and we’re out of the snow for a minute.
Sam pushes the door shut behind us and the house gets dark, with the only light coming from the front windows. Lisa is wrapped in a large, bulky white cardigan that ties around her waist, but it doesn’t look like she’s shivering. She stands there silently, as if waiting for an explanation of why I’m here.
I force myself to ask what I came here to ask. “Do you want to come down the hill to stay with us until power is restored?”
She smirks. “Man, I remember Sam in his football uniform, and you wearing those obnoxious striped mittens. It’s all coming back to me. The good old days. You guys used to spend so much time together on that bench under the library stairs.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. Sam and I did, in fact, hang out on that bench a lot. I know Lisa resented it, how close Sam and I became, but I didn’t understand it completely until it was too late.
“How would you know? Weren’t you always skipping school?” I wince, hearing myself. I sound like a snotty teenager again.
“We were probably studying,” Sam responds in a mild voice, pulling off his gloves. “Or just talking.”
Lisa runs her fingers over her large, chunky necklace, a series of blue stones, and turns to Sam. “What are you doing with yourself these days, Sam?”
“I live with my parents right now. I’m helping out my dad, working with my brother Danny. We do construction, landscaping, snowplowing. I’ve only been back in town about six months.”
Lisa pinches her lips together. “You’ve got a wife? Kids?”
“No wife,” he says. “One kid. My daughter goes to the high school here now. She’s a junior.”
That fact makes my head spin. Sam’s daughter goes to the same high school we went to? The one where I enrolled my own children as sophomores? Of course, now that he says it, it makes sense. But it’s still hard to believe.
I wonder if Sam’s daughter sits on the bench under the stairs with any cute boys.
I wonder if she sits on the bench under the library stairs with one particular boy with dark eyes and asks him to promise to be on her debate team when they pair up later in English class. I wonder if that boy agrees immediately because he is too honest and lovesick to answer any other way. I wonder if she walks away surprised at herself, walking on air, feeling light and powerful.
I wonder if that bench is still there. I believe I carved my initials on it at one point.
“Is your daughter as good at math as you were?” Lisa asks. “I seem to remember that was your favorite subject. Just like Annika.”
“Ummm . . .” Sam stamps a foot, sending chunks of snow from his boot onto the mat below. “Yeah, I think so. She likes math. She’s autistic, so we don’t always—that is, we can’t quite exactly measure her progress against other kids her age. But yeah, her math scores are impressive.”
Lisa leans forward to put a hand on Sam’s arm. “I’m sure you couldn’t find a better school for her than Manchester. I’ve heard the staff is fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Sam exhales, seeming to relax at her words.
Lisa’s sudden shift to a serious tone impresses me. Just when I think she’s the same old Lisa, she proves to me that she’s changed at least a little over the years.
I wish I knew what to say to Sam. And I wish I knew something about autism, but I don’t.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” I finally ask, my mo
uth dry.
“Brianna,” he answers, his voice quiet in the still house.
The fact that Sam has a daughter in high school who I know absolutely nothing about hits me hard. So much has happened in the years since I saw him last. I suddenly understand how Sam felt when he heard I married Peter. It’s stunning how time has flown by and how much has happened.
We stand for a moment, and the house feels wrong and stale. No hum of a furnace, no whir of a ceiling fan, no electric buzz of a lamp. My equilibrium feels off. I have a sudden urge to fling open the door and wait on the front step, taking in a deep breath of the cold, crisp air.
Sam must feel it, too, the need to get out of here. He shifts his weight and kicks the toe of his boot on the mat again. “If you’re coming with us, Lisa, you should go turn your faucets on to a slow drip so the pipes don’t freeze.”
“Okay.”
“Then bundle up as best you can, with lots of layers. We lost heat, but at least we still have power and we can cook.”
“We?” She narrows her eyes. “Are you staying with Annika now?”
“Uh . . . sort of. Just last night. I mean . . . it’s not what it sounds like. It’s me and my brother Danny. Our plow got stuck.”
“Oh, did it now?”
Sam’s face turns pink. “Yeah. So. Anyway. Maybe you could pack a bag with a few things to eat. A loaf of bread, ajar of peanut butter, that sort of thing? We have a small crowd at the house, and this one”—he gestures toward me—“we’re going to eat her out of house and home. We could use reinforcements.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Lisa has disappeared down the dark hall, I close my eyes. I feel a tremendous ache, a longing for our high school days when I could sit with Sam on that bench under the stairs, when everything was pure and simple. And now, here Sam is, a middle-aged man with a teenage daughter I’ve never met.
Life is so strange sometimes. Disappointing, I guess. Sam is right next to me. He’s offered me a chance to reconnect. So why am I hesitating?
I promised him in high school that everything would be okay. And it wasn’t.
Sam told me he loved me, and I pledged my love back to him. And we never had the chance to sit with that, to enjoy and experience it for very long. The car accident cut everything short.
I suddenly realize that life isn’t what is disappointing here. No, it’s me. I’m the disappointment. After Sam moved away, we didn’t stay in touch. Here’s what happened: I told Sam I loved him; then I fell in love with Peter the minute Sam left. Why wouldn’t he feel betrayed when he heard I married Peter?
Lisa soon has her things together, and we’re just about to head back out into the storm, when the kids burst in. They’re coated in snow, their pale faces flushed red from exertion.
“Aunt Lisa,” Donovan blurts out, a black ski hat covering his head, ponytail hanging behind. “Did you know my mom enrolled us at The President’s Academy?”
“Yeah!” Delilah shakes violently to get the snow off of her arms. The hood of her bright pink coat is ringed in soft fur, and she flips it back. “Did you know and not tell us?”
Lisa holds up one finger. “Excuse me. When did the two of you turn into accusatory detectives? Hmm? How about some concern for me, trapped alone here during a blizzard?”
I feel the blood drain out of my face. I’d mentioned boarding school to Lisa, but hadn’t confessed to her yet that it was a done deal.
Donovan frowns. “She enrolled us. Our grandmother already paid for it.”
Sam takes a step back. “Maybe I should go—”
“No,” Lisa says. “Stay. You’re here to rescue me, remember?” She narrows her eyes. “What school are we talking about?”
“The . . . the boarding school near Peter’s parents. In Connecticut.” I clench my fists in my wool mittens. “It’s a terrific opportunity.”
She makes a face. “In Connecticut? You just escaped from there. We have perfectly good private schools here in Massachusetts if you want to waste your money.”
“It’s an excellent school,” I huff. “It’s hard to get in. They offer honors-level classes and every activity you could ever want. Judith and Frank pulled some strings, and they’re paying the tuition, for both kids. It costs a fortune.”
Lisa folds her arms. “So it’s a fancy, expensive school. Big deal. Is that supposed to impress me?”
I feel my heart start pounding in my chest. I need Lisa to take my side—I was hoping she’d help me convince the twins to go.
“Aunt Lisa, can I live with you? I don’t want to go to boarding school.” Donovan pulls the hat off his head and looks down at Lisa with pleading eyes. He’s taller than her, but I can see the child in his face. “Can we both stay here in Manchester with you? You could use us in a situation like this. So you’re not alone in a snowstorm.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Del says, turning to me. “But I want to stay, too.”
I close my eyes. I cannot believe my kids are trying to undo my plans, right in front of me. Donovan has clearly recruited Delilah to his side, which makes this even harder.
“Well . . .” Lisa puts her hands on her hips. “This is all news to me. I’m just renting here. What’s happening with the cottage?”
The cottage?
“Oh. Well.” I clear my throat. Lisa waits for my answer.
I notice Sam is listening, too.
“My plan is to move out so Mom and Dad can sell it.”
Lisa nods. “Hmm. Okay. That’s very interesting. I can work with that. I’d be happy to live in the cottage with the kids. I hope you know I’ve been waiting forever for that house. I was going to move in myself after Mom and Dad retired to Maine, but you cut the line.”
What? “I didn’t know that.”
“Really? You didn’t?”
I rack my brain—has Lisa ever mentioned to me she wanted to move into the cottage after our parents moved out? Yes, maybe. Possibly once or twice over the years. But after Peter died, that’s not the kind of thing that was top of mind.
Delilah tries to smile, but falters. I can see she’s as confused as I am at this new information. “Okay. You know what? We can talk about it when we get home.” She opens the door.
Sam picks up Lisa’s bag from the floor and then helps her take a big first step into the deep snow. I feel like I’ve lost my way for a moment. When I step outside, Sam pulls the front door shut behind us and I stand on Lisa’s front porch, squinting as the sun glances off the snow.
Lisa is shocked when she sees what Delilah has leaned up against the house. “Hey! That’s our old red sled.”
“Sure. You want to take a few runs with it? I’m sure Del will go with you.”
“Yeah, Aunt Lisa, let’s go.” Delilah’s face is crimson with the cold, but she’s still up for a little excitement. Lisa follows her around to the back of the house.
Donovan, unfortunately, starts back down toward our cottage. I was hoping to keep him out of the house a few more minutes so I can search for Peter’s journal. Now that he’s recruited Delilah to read it with him, he’s probably looking for any kind of information that he can use against me.
I hesitate, because as much as I want to get ahead of Donovan, I’m not looking forward to stumbling down the steep and rocky hill. Climbing up was hard enough; going down will be tricky.
Sam puts a hand out toward me to help me step off the porch. “One step at a time, okay?”
I nod and put my hand in his. I hold his hand all the way down the steep part of the hill, trying to keep my balance. When Donovan whips his head around to see where I am, I drop Sam’s hand and move away from him. But Donovan already saw I was holding Sam’s hand, and he frowns at me with disapproval.
At first, I’m embarrassed. But a burning sensation in my chest grows as my frustration with Donovan surges.
I drag my feet, stewing as I wonder what to do, and I’m the last one down the hill. Sam waits for me at the side of the road. I tighten the scarf aroun
d my neck. The snowfall is beautiful, but my toes are starting to get numb and my ears are ringing with pain from the cold.
“Sorry. I’m falling behind.”
He shrugs. “There’s no rush. Too bad we don’t have the sled. I could have pulled you the rest of the way, like a horse and sleigh.”
I smile. “Ha ha. Thanks, but I’ll make it. Eventually.”
“Come on. We’re almost there.” When he reaches out his hand, I take it again. We cross the street, kicking aside the deep snow.
“So . . .” He raises an eyebrow. “Lisa hasn’t changed much, huh?”
I wasn’t expecting him to say that, and I laugh. “Umm . . . well, maybe not so much. She’s still the same Lisa at heart.”
Fortunately, Donovan has made his way over to Danny. It looks like Danny has asked him to climb up onto the hood of the truck so he can knock snow off the roof. He’s pushing snow aside with one hand.
Good. This is my chance.
“Make sure everyone stays out here for a minute,” I say to Sam.
He looks over at Donovan. “Don’t worry about it. Go do what you need to do.”
“Thanks, Sam. I can always count on you.” It comes out of my mouth before I think about it, and I’m embarrassed when I realize what I’ve said.
But I don’t take it back. It’s always been true. I hurry through the snow to get inside.
Peter’s Typewriter
LUNA
I’m sleeping on the kitchen rug when I hear someone enter the house and pad up the stairs.
There are footsteps coming from Donovan’s room, but I can tell it’s not one of the twins. The twins stomp and run around, but Annika moves with a lighter, slower step. When I enter the bedroom, Annika is searching, opening drawers and checking under the mattress. My woman still wears all of her winter gear, although she has taken off her boots so I can see her fluffy socks. Dust disperses into the air and hangs there, particles floating in the faint light flooding in from the snow-ringed window. Although the room is sparsely decorated, there are dirty clothes and papers on the floor, and Annika has to walk carefully to step around the mess.