The Lucky Kind

by Alyssa B. Sheinmel

  I hear the front door open, and then I hear that my father is making introductions. I hear a deep voice, much deeper than my dad’s, say “Merry Christmas, Mr. Brandt” to my grandfather and then “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Brandt” to my grandmother. And I hear my mother laughing, and I hear him call her Nina, and there is such familiarity in his voice that I know he and my mother have talked before.

  “Where’s Nick?” my dad says. I imagine he’s pulling off his coat and taking Sam’s, and leaving them on the chair in the doorway. I know my grandmother will hang them up later, when no one is looking.

  “Nick!” my dad shouts, and I can’t delay any longer. I think that since this will be the last time I stand up without knowing what my father’s firstborn looks like, I should do it slowly. I push my grandfather’s chair out from under his desk, feeling the wood scratch the carpet underneath it. My stomach hurts, and I will be very pissed if Sam’s being here spoils my appetite because I love Christmas food. And that’s the thought in my head when I walk into the living room.

  I see my father first—he’s standing in front of Sam—and he’s smiling, and looking at me excitedly. Maybe he’s been waiting for this moment as much as he was waiting to meet Sam.

  And then he steps aside, but before I see Sam’s face I see his hands. And then his hands are all I see because I recognize them; he has my father’s hands, which means he has my hands, which apparently means that I can’t tear my gaze away from his hands, can’t be bothered to look at his face, even with all this curiosity. I think I would have known him anywhere, just by his hands.

  “Nick, this is Sam,” my dad says as I walk toward them. I wonder if Sam will hug me. I don’t know whether he hugged my grandparents—his grandparents—hello, or my mom (his stepmom?). I don’t know if he hugged my dad. My dad is pretty big on hugging. He puts his arm around me now as he introduces me.

  “Nice to meet you, Nick,” Sam says, and he doesn’t go to hug me but instead to shake my hand, and luckily, since I’m staring at his hands, I see that, and I reach out my hand to shake his. And it’s when our fingers meet that I am finally able to look up, and at his face.

  He doesn’t look like my dad. He’s taller, like I am, and much tanner, I guess from all the Texas sun. His hair is lighter than ours, and his teeth look very white and very straight. But he does have my father’s eyes, maybe not quite the same color, but the shape of them, the way they crinkle at the sides as he smiles when he shakes my hand. But I honestly don’t think I would have noticed that unless I’d been looking.

  I don’t know what I thought he would look like, but I’m relieved to see that this is it.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say back, the same reflex that reminded me to reach for his hand when he offered it.

  “You too,” he says, even though he’s already said it.

  My grandmother ushers us inside. We haven’t opened any presents yet. I kind of feel like we shouldn’t, not with a guest here, but my grandmother insists. Sam sits next to my dad on the couch. I look at them more than I look at my presents, even though I feel bad because I know how my grandmother agonizes over what to get me every year.

  I feel a little ridiculous saying this, but Sam is really effing handsome. It’s like having a blond Superman sitting on your grandparents’ couch. Bio-Bro indeed, I think wryly. My dad can’t take his eyes off him. I think how proud he must be, having made something that came out so well. But then, I think, my dad would probably be looking at him like that no matter what Sam looked like. I’ve caught my father looking at me like that, too. But there’s something else in my father’s face; I think he’s relieved. Relieved to see that the baby he gave away is all grown-up, and seems to have grown up well, and happily. Relieved that his bad luck doesn’t seem to have turned into Sam’s bad luck. It makes me understand a little better why my dad was so excited to meet him, so excited every time he called.

  My grandmother keeps going back to the tree to grab and distribute presents. She walks over to hand one to my dad and, much to my surprise, places one in Sam’s lap. “From Santa,” she says, the same way she still says it to me. Sam looks so surprised that I almost think he’s going to cry. He looks to my dad, for permission, I guess, to unwrap it. My father nods, smiling, and Sam undoes the string around the box. It’s a scarf from Banana Republic. I recognize it; I tried it on when I was looking for a scarf to replace the one I gave to Eden. A pretty impersonal gift, I guess, but from the look on Sam’s face, you’d think it was the greatest thing anyone ever gave him.

  After dinner, just like on Thanksgiving, we play board games—today it’s Trivial Pursuit. For the first time, I think how lame our traditions must be to an outsider. Funny, I didn’t think that when Eden came at Thanksgiving, and I’ve never thought that about Stevie, but then it feels like Stevie has always been there, and it felt like Eden was always supposed to have been there.

  Dad says he and Sam will be a team before anyone can say anything else. I guess he wanted to make sure Sam wouldn’t feel left out. Usually I play with Dad and my mom plays with one or both of my grandparents, but tonight they’re staying in the kitchen, taking their time cleaning up.

  We sit around the coffee table in the living room. It doesn’t take long before my mom and I are creaming Sam and Dad. The funny thing is, though, they’re losing on things that I know my dad knows—he just can’t remember. We’ve been playing this same version of Trivial Pursuit for years (my grandparents refuse to buy a new one, and even though we always say we’ll bring an updated version from home, we never do). So half the time, Dad and Sam are getting questions that we had last year or the year before—questions that maybe you don’t remember right away, but then when you talk it out, you remember. That’s how my mom and I are winning. That’s how Dad and I won last year.

  Sam can’t, obviously, play like that. He doesn’t laugh, like the rest of us do, when my dad gets a question about cereal and answers Grape-Nuts, just because that’s his favorite. Sam doesn’t know how often it happens that my dad’s random guesses are true, that you want him on your team because he has good luck, or that you want my mom on your team because she always knows the most arcane of facts.

  Less than an hour goes by and my mom and I have three pie pieces, and they only have one. My grandparents want us to come back to the table for dessert, and my dad claps Sam on his back when they stand up from the sofa, as if to say Nice try and Good game. But he leans in toward me as we walk to the dining room and whispers, “That’s the last time I let myself get separated from you, old man.” And I almost laugh: Sam is really no competition.

  I ride with my mother back to the Days Inn. Sam and Dad are still in their separate car. I wonder what they’re talking about. Has Sam asked him why, with such a supportive and understanding family, he gave him up to begin with?

  At the hotel, they’ve lost Sam’s reservation, and believe it or not the Days Inn of Troy, Ohio, is booked solid.

  “Lots of people come to visit their families,” Dad guesses.

  We’re standing in the lobby. I want badly to get to my room, turn off the lights, and watch some bad Christmas movies. I want to be alone. My dad has actually raised his voice to the woman behind the check-in desk, for which he immediately apologized. I can tell he feels guilty, as though he can’t actually believe that he yelled at someone who has to work on Christmas Day. Sam is hanging on to his duffel bag for dear life. I know what I’m supposed to say, but the words are sandpapery in my mouth as I say them:

  “Sam can stay in my room.”

  My dad looks at me. “Are you sure, Buddy?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, though really I’m thinking, Well, what’s the alternative? “Come on,” I say to Sam. The Days Inn is one of those motels where you climb rickety outdoor metal stairs to get to your room. I lead the way up the stairs and fit the key in the lock. I can tell Sam wants some privacy, to take out his phone and call his fiancée, to digest everything that’s happened today. I should offer to
go wait outside, but it’s freezing.

  Sam sits on the couch in my room.

  “They said it opens up,” I offer. “And there’s extra bedding in the closet.”

  “Okay,” Sam says, and I sit and watch him make the bed. There is something eerily brotherly about it.

  “Do you smoke?” Sam asks.

  I shrug. “At parties.”

  “That’s how I started,” he says. “I’ve almost quit, but I bought a pack on my way here. Haven’t opened it yet. Didn’t want Rob to smell it on me and think I was a smoker.”

  I think it’s funny he said “Rob” instead of “your dad.”

  “Yeah, he hates smoking,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, and I’m thinking how much my dad would hate it if he knew either of us, let alone both of us, was currently aching for a cigarette. I’m waiting for Sam to say he’s going to go out and smoke one—it’ll get him out of the room, out of my eye line and earshot, and I’m sure he’d like that. But instead he says, “Wanna go outside?”

  He digs the cigarettes out of his duffel bag and holds the pack out, an invitation.

  I shrug. “Okay, sure.”

  Cigarettes with Sam

  It’s cold, but I’m guessing that Sam is one of those outdoorsy kinds of guys who aren’t bothered by the cold. He hands me a cigarette, but every time he holds the lighter to it, the wind blows out the flame.

  “Here, give it to me,” he says, and then he puts my cigarette, and a second, in his mouth, and stands close to the brick wall of the Days Inn, his back to me. He turns around and both cigarettes are lit. He hands me one.

  I take it, but I hesitate for a second before putting it in my mouth. Sam doesn’t notice; he’s closed his eyes and is taking a long drag. I remember that when I was little, I thought it was only okay to share forks and knives and drinks with someone you were related to. I thought with everyone else it was dirty, but with family you didn’t have to worry about sharing germs.

  Sam exhales and opens his eyes. If he notices that I haven’t smoked the cigarette he’s given me, he doesn’t let on.

  “Let’s walk,” he says, heading for the stairs. I follow him, carefully placing the cigarette between my lips.

  Sam walks slowly, his long legs loping down the stairs and toward the parking lot. I want to make a list of the things I know about him now.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

  Sam answers without stopping, without looking back at me, “Nope. Only child.”

  “Is that why your parents adopted? They couldn’t get pregnant?”

  “Couldn’t get pregnant. When I was little, before I could really understand what it meant to be adopted, I used to beg them to get me a little brother. I thought it’d be such fun to be someone’s older brother.”

  That seems like a loaded statement, so I wait a beat before saying anything.

  “I’m an only child, too,” I finally offer.

  “I know,” he says. I wonder how much about my life my father has told him.

  “You’re a junior,” he says as we walk across the parking lot. There’s a bench at the far end, near the main entrance to the hotel. I assume that’s where we’re headed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I was a junior when I met Cath.”

  “Who’s Cath?” I ask dumbly.

  “Catherine. My fiancée,” he says, but not like he thought I should have known.

  “You’re marrying your high school sweetheart?”

  He looks back at me and grins. “Pretty lame, huh?”

  Even though it’s cold, I feel my face getting hot: I’m blushing.

  “Sometimes you meet the right one early, I guess,” he says.

  “I guess.”

  “How about you?” he asks. “You got a girl?”

  I shake my head, looking away. My nose is running. When we reach the bench, Sam sits; I stay standing.

  “Can I have another cigarette?” I ask finally. I’d tossed the other one halfway across the parking lot after I finished it.

  “Sure,” he says, and lights two more. He doesn’t even offer me the chance to light it myself, like he assumes he can do it better.

  “I was such a fuckup when we dated in high school,” he says, shifting his weight on the bench. I still haven’t sat down. “I’d always known that I was adopted, but I got so fucked up about it then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, I didn’t know who they were then. I had this picture in my mind that they must have been in high school. You know, the typical story.” He looks away as he smokes. “High school kids who don’t think they need to be careful, who get in trouble, who don’t know what else to do, that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I sit down now, next to him.

  “But Cath, she was so much smarter than I was. I tried to break up with her all the time.”

  “Really?” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m riveted.

  “Yeah. Especially after we had sex, can you believe it? I mean, whoever heard of a teenage boy doing that—avoiding more sex?”

  “Crazy,” I say, and my voice is hoarse.

  “I thought whatever we felt for each other couldn’t be the real thing; it was a total joke, because what did teenagers know about life if they made stupid mistakes like the people who had me must have made? I told her that our love wasn’t real.”

  “What did she say?” I ask, and I actually lean toward him to make sure I don’t miss any of the answer.

  “She would just tell me that I was wrong. She said some people find the real thing when they’re young. And if you do, you’re lucky.”

  Sam takes another drag on his cigarette, a long one, but I don’t say anything; I’m hoping Catherine said more. Sam continues, “And she’d say that maybe the people who had me were the lucky kind—maybe they really loved each other.”

  Sam pauses now, like he’s remembering one of these exchanges with Catherine; and he half smiles, like he’s thinking of the boy he was, the one who was so foolish that he tried to turn his back on love, and so lucky he found a girl who wouldn’t let him.

  “And we would break up and make up—we’d have the most ridiculous fights and I’d say terrible things. But the breakups just didn’t take. I always came back. And every time we got back together, I’d believe it that I really was lucky.” He smiles. “And not just because she took me back, you know?”

  I know I’m supposed to say something, but I can’t talk. I can’t talk because a golf ball has found its way into my throat. I try to smoke, but even the smoke can’t get past the golf ball. I start coughing and I can’t stop. It feels like I’ll never be able to take a deep breath again.

  “Shit, Nick, are you okay?” Sam says, patting my back. “Shit, some brother I would have made, huh? I’ve already got you smoking and choking.”

  But I’m not choking. I’m crying. I’m crying so hard my eyes hurt and mucus is running down my chin. I haven’t cried like this since I was a kid, and I can’t stop crying. Oh shit, I’m crying in front of Sam Roth. I don’t want him to think he’s the reason why.

  “It’s not because of you,” I choke out, finally.

  “What?”

  “I’m not so freaked out by meeting you that I’m crying.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  I take a deep breath. “I just miss my girlfriend, that’s all.”

  “You said you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

  I shake my head, wiping my nose. “I did. Before.”

  “Before when?”

  “Before I became such a fuckup,” I say, echoing his words, trying to laugh.

  “Well, shit, here I’ve been your big brother for, like, four hours and you’re already copying me.” Sam grins.

  I am finally able to take a deep breath. I wipe my eyes.

  “That’s not the right name for what you are,” I say, but I’m not angry that he said it.

  “I know,” he says. “I just don�
�t know what the right thing to call it is.”

  “At least you made it into a joke.”

  Sam grins. “It just so happens that I am one of the funniest people you will ever meet.”

  I look at his smile. “You know your teeth are freakishly white, right?” I say.

  Sam puts his fingers over his lips, trying to cover his smile.

  “Cath. She wanted me to whiten them before the wedding. Smoker’s teeth, you know. Yellow.”

  “I guess we know who’ll be wearing the pants in the Roth household.” I should be colder now; my face is soaking wet from crying. But I feel warm.

  Sam laughs, leaning back. He claps me on the back. “All I can say is thank God for the women in our lives.”

  And I nod. I nod because the women in our lives really do know best.

  The Sights and Sounds of Troy, Ohio

  It’s raining when we wake up the next morning, but Dad has promised Sam a tour of his old neighborhood—the school, the mall, his favorite restaurants. I wonder whether he’ll show him where Sarah Booker lived.

  This is the first night I’ve slept straight through since Eden and I broke up. When I wake up, Sam is in the bathroom with the door closed. I realize later that it was the sound of the shower, not the rain outside, that actually woke me. He emerges fully dressed, with wet hair.

  “Did I wake you?” he says, but not apologetically.

  “Uh-uh,” I say.

  Sam looks at me and says, “I’m going to get you some ice.”

  “What for?” I say. I want to go deeper under the covers but I force myself to sit up instead.

  “Your eyes are red,” he says, grabbing the cardboard bucket on the dresser and heading out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the bathroom, with the door closed behind me, I look in the mirror and see that Sam was understating it. My eyes aren’t just red but puffed out, swollen, like I’m a little kid who woke up crying from a nightmare in the middle of the night. No nightmare here, I think, just my life.