It was hard for anyone to get in a word that wasn’t about Sam. Even now that the crisis had abated, now that she was two weeks out of the hospital with no ill consequences, I was still jumpy at the sound of my phone, still spacing out when we were talking about the honeymoon, wondering how Sam’s health would be by then, and what we’d do if there was an emergency. But most of her calls that week were innocuous enough: she wasn’t working, and she was bored; she wanted to know what I wanted for my thirty-sixth birthday at the end of the month.
I wanted a piece of paper that said I was her guardian, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to be formally recognized as more than just a friend. I wanted to be able to talk to the doctors when she got sick, to say to them, “I’m her legal guardian.”
We talked about it some more when we met in Union Square one evening that week. “I only have an hour,” I’d warned her in advance. “I have to get a whole bunch of wedding stuff done; I’m really behind.”
“That’s cool. I’ll just be hanging out by the dog run. I’ll see you when you get here.”
And there she was, eyes gleaming as she watched the dogs playing, a scruffy black-and-white mutt barking joyfully at the discovery of a stick. We took a seat under a tree, and Sam started dissecting a fallen leaf along its veins.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, the only thing that freaks me out about the guardian thing is, what if the court wants to talk to my parents, or notify them or anything? I really don’t want them to know where I am. I don’t want any contact with them at all.”
Eesh. “I understand.” I didn’t want any contact with them, either. But I wouldn’t back down from them in a court of law—hell, I’d relish the opportunity to indict them for what they’d done to their children. “I don’t think that’s an issue, since you’re over eighteen, but I’m not sure how it works. I’ve been waiting to hear from you before I called a lawyer to look into it.”
She nodded, picking at a scab on her knee, visible through the rip in her cargo pants. “I’ll think about it some more,” she promised.
“Okay. In the meantime, though, you could sign the health-care proxy.”
“Oh, yeah, I meant to do that. It slipped my mind.” She looked up from the fascinating scab. “I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
Yeah, I guessed she had. No skateboard with her today, and her arms were getting bony again. I wondered if she had kicked last week’s rheumy cough. “How was your checkup the other day?”
Shrug. “It was okay. The numbers are low, but they’re stable. And I been feeling all right. I mean, I haven’t been working or anything….”
I started feeling for my wallet in my back pocket. “If you need anything—”
She held up her hand. “No, I’m good. Seriously, I don’t want to keep taking money from you, Janice. You’ve done so much for me already.”
I shook my head, peeved; we’d been over this a hundred times. “See, but that’s what a guardian is for. That’s what we do. We’re like parents are supposed to be; we look out for you, and we offer to help pay for stuff. You think my parents didn’t help me pay for stuff sometimes? I wouldn’t have gotten my apartment without my dad’s help; now I’m trying to help you.” I put my hands out in frustration. “Will you let me help you?”
She let her head hang, biting her lip, eyes obscured by her shaggy hair. I drew back, too late; I hadn’t realized how much I’d raised my voice while making my point.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not trying to harangue you.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I just…I want to be able to take care of myself.”
Two tears fell from under her hair to the dirt below, and she pulled her knees into her chest. “Oh, babe.” I crawled to her side, put my arm around her back, felt the lumps of her vertebrae through her shirt. “I know.”
“Why,” she said, into her knees. “Why did this happen now? Just as everything was going so good. I got an apartment, a job, friends; I been sober; I got everything I worked so hard for. Don’t I deserve a chance at a good life?”
I rubbed her bony back in circles. “You do, Sam, you do. And you’re going to have one.”
She shook it off—no. I could spout all the wishful thinking I wanted; she had only a few months to live, and she knew it. There was no right thing to say in this situation, no helpful advice, no mentoring I could offer her to assuage the fact that she was going to die within the year, and she was powerless to stop it. I could try to be her guardian, but I couldn’t guard her from dying.
We wound up spending a few hours together, browsing the bookstores, watching the crowds. Any errands I needed to do could wait; right now, I had the chance to be with Sam. I tried to buy her some ice cream, but she wasn’t hungry. “My stomach’s been not so good today.”
“You better rest up for Saturday,” I fretted. “If you’re not feeling well, I don’t think we should go to Coney.”
“Oh, we’re going to Coney,” she insisted. “I never been on a roller-coaster before, and that’s one of the things I gotta do.”
Right. On the list she must have made. Like the list she made before she went to rehab, of things she wanted to do before she left—fly a kite, learn how to yo-yo. Now it was things she wanted to do before she died. Jesus. I knew she shouldn’t exert herself, but if riding a roller-coaster meant taking a week off the end of her life, it would be worth it. “Okay,” I said, pretending to lecture her. “But I want to see a note from your doctor saying you’re okay to go.”
“I promise I won’t go if I’m not feeling good.” She held up her flat palm like she was on the witness stand. “I swear. Oh, but listen, Valentina can’t make it—Alita is in town from Miami with a bunch of the other girls; one of her clients flew them all up for this all-weekend trick on Long Island.”
“Oh.” I frowned again. So instead of going to Coney Island with us, Valentina would be going with her trans family to a two-day trick in the suburbs. She wasn’t supposed to be tricking anymore—she was supposed to be going to school, doing her homework, fencing with sticks by the Bronx River. “Well, I’m sorry she can’t make it.”
“Me too,” said Sam. “But it’s still going to be awesome.”
Over the next few days, I monitored both Sam’s health and the weather anxiously, but Sam stayed hearty enough, and Saturday dawned with a golden sun, beaming bright but not too hot through a few pudgy clouds. Bill and I woke up, ran, showered, and tossed down some breakfast just as Sam rang the bell from downstairs. “Be right down,” I called, strapping my fanny pack around my waist.
In the elevator, I rifled through the pack—water, alcohol wipes, hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, Tylenol, tissues. A mini-pharmacy, in case Sam needed some kind of treatment during the day. And germ prevention—she had to be wary of viruses, infection, all that. All I needed was a bottle of Lysol hooked onto my belt like a firearm.
Sam was standing in the lobby, grinning from ear to ear. Thin, maybe, but full of energy, practically bouncing on her heels. “Hey there,” she hailed us. “Hey, Bill.”
“Hey, Sam.” There was a second of awkward foot shifting between them—how should they greet each other? Sam didn’t accept social kisses—she was more of a hand slapper. She and Bill settled on a firm shake, and we started moving toward the door, down the block, to the subway.
Again, conversation was easy between them. Bill and Sam shared an interest in forensics and the science of death, so we spent most of the train ride grossing out the riders around us, talking about the infamous “body farm,” where scientists study decomposing humans under varied conditions. “You know what would be a cool job,” said Sam, “is the person who studies the bugs that feed on dead people. ’Cause they can tell how long you’ve been dead by how fat the maggots are.”
They laughed and drew diagrams in the air, now moving on to the subject of victim disposal and the perfect murder. “Cruise ship,” I volunteered. “Right over the side. They never recover the bodies out there.�
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“Remind me never to take a cruise with you,” said Bill.
“We’re taking a plane to Disney,” Sam asked with mock concern, “right?”
So it went all day long—the chatter, the perfect murder scenarios, the jokes. We went straight from the subway to Nathan’s Famous, and I claimed a table for the three of us, watching as they stood in line, gesturing and smiling. Look at Bill, I thought; look at how fatherly he can be. And not in a patronizing, heavy-handed way; he was just a natural—elbowing her to point out one of the freak-show performers, blocking a path for her through the crowd as they exited the line. They brought over three cardboard trays of hot dogs, fried shrimp, and French fries. “Gotta get a good, solid base of greasy food under you for the day,” said Bill.
I kept an eye on Sam while she ate—Good, a whole hot dog, and a bunch of fries. So her appetite was okay, at least for today. She wiped ketchup from the side of her cheek and belched loudly, content. “So what’s first?”
We took a digestive walk down the pier to start; a group of sun-bronzed men in open shirts played instruments at the far end, singing and rapping sticks together, using an overturned bucket as a drum. Seagulls cawed overhead, children shrieked in the surf below, and the breeze was briny and damp against my cheek. People fished from the sides of the pier using poles, or small wire cages full of raw chicken. “Look,” said Bill, pointing. “That guy’s using a bucket of KFC to catch a sardine.”
Then it was time to get serious. “Let’s start with the International Speedway,” I suggested. We hastened to the track and threw ourselves into consecutive race cars, decorated with the flags of various countries. Sam was Germany, Bill was Italy, and I was the United States. “I’m going to kick your fascist asses,” I promised.
But the two of them were just as determined and lead-footed as me, and in the end we were all thwarted by the kid driving for Brazil. Undaunted, we moved on to the Polar Express, one of those rides that whips you around a circular track until the centrifugal force pushes you practically into your seat mate’s lap, tossing you in the air and catching you with each revolution. This version featured a mural of hip-hop polar bears spinning records and driving Beemers, with the disembodied heads of Biggie and Tupac floating in between; it also featured a live deejay playing ear-blasting Beyoncé and exhorting everybody to “say ho! (Ho!) Say ho ho ho! (Ho ho ho!) Say ho ho ho ho! (Ho ho ho ho!) Now screeeeeeeam!”
“Aaaaaahhhhh!”
After the Polar Express, it was the Wonder Wheel, the Break Dancer, the Top Spin, and the Zipper, which scared me so badly my shirt was drenched in pungent sweat by the end, though I laughed my ass off, between screams. The Zipper bore a sign advising against the following people riding: pregnant women, people with heart conditions, people with a history of seizures….
I pointed it out to Sam, and she scoffed. “I haven’t had seizures in weeks!”
Then it was time for ice cream and candy. We stopped at an arcade for a few games of Skee-Ball, and Sam started in on a giant blue jawbreaker the size of a small child’s fist. It stained the entire lower half of her face blue.
“Okay,” said Bill, serious. “Enough screwing around. It’s time for the Cyclone.”
Yeah. Time for me to stand and watch them go on the Cyclone from across the street. Just the previous summer, Bill had talked me into trying the rickety old wooden coaster, and I’d spent the entire three-minute ride cursing his name and threatening his life, in between weeping in terror. “I’ll be waving to you from over here,” I said.
I watched Sam and Bill go through the turnstile, waited a few minutes while they stood on line, then saw their car start to rise—chik-chik-chik—up the first hill. They turned and waved. I waved back.
Then the car stopped. I knew for a fact that it was not supposed to stop there, halfway up the first hill. Everybody in the car turned around, started craning their heads. Bill leaned over and gave me an exaggerated shrug. I gave an exaggerated shrug back.
A mechanic in overalls started to climb the tracks. Oh my god. They were stuck. The ride was malfunctioning. This was going to be a disaster, I was going to see it in the Post the next day, KILLER CYCLONE! CONEY COASTER KILLS TWENTY-SIX ON OTHERWISE IDYLLIC DAY. I shaded my eyes, sweating, watching the mechanic kick the tires of the car. I wondered if I should take a picture with my cell phone. It could be the last picture of the two of them, ever.
Just then the car started to move, and everybody cheered. Sam and Bill waved again as they resumed the climb up the hill. Chik-chik…“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I kept my eyes on them, their arms up in the air as the car screeched and jostled along its track, whipping over the camelback humps, ending in a pneumatic hiss. A glut of riders emerged from the exit, but Sam and Bill were not to be seen. Until the car started up again, and there they were, this time in the very first seat.
I had to wipe away tears, watching them together, hearing their yelps of surprise, seeing their grins flapping in the wind as they tore around the track. I managed to get it together by the time they came through the turnstile again, Sam’s eyes the size of saucers.
“That was AWESOME!” she confirmed. “I LOVE roller-coasters!”
The shadows were getting longer as we walked along the boardwalk, taking in the karaoke stand and the guys with giant snakes around their necks and the Shoot the Freak booth. Bill let out a yawn, and I saw Sam stifling the same.
“It’s getting late,” I said regretfully. “We should probably head home soon. You’ve got a long ride back to the Bronx.”
I expected Sam to quibble, but she agreed right away. “Okay.”
We made our way to the subway, ears still ringing with the swinging sensation of the Zipper, the Break Dancer, the Polar Express. My fanny pack bulged with the prizes we’d won at Skee-Ball—miniature Slinkys, Magic 8-Ball key chains, and Day-Glo tubs of squishy “moon goo.” I smelled like French fries and sea brine.
Bill took my hand and smiled at me, sidelong. I love you, he mouthed.
I love you, too.
“This was one of my best days ever,” said Sam, her teeth faintly blue in her smile. “I’m never going to forget today.”
Chapter Twelve
Unlucky
August 29, 2005
Dear Janice,
Happy Birthday! I was very happy to get the birthday card and photos that you sent, and I’m glad you understand how busy Jerry and I are these days—we’re planning to open our new store on the day of your wedding! I wish the timing were different, but I am afraid we will have to miss your big day. But I’m delighted that you’ve found someone to love and be happy with, which is what you deserve. We will be thinking of you, and send love to you and Bill!
Love,
Mom
I reread the card from my mother, closed it, and put it in the out-box on my desk. I’d figured as much. I was relieved, really; I didn’t want to spend the whole wedding worrying about whether my mom felt awkward around my dad and Sylvia, whether she was having an okay time. I felt protective of her. But part of me had hoped maybe she’d come, just for a little while, just long enough that I could get a picture of the two of us, my mom and me, on my wedding day.
Well, my dad and Sylvia would be there, and my brother, Jake. So would all my honorary aunts and uncles; my stepsister, Satia, from Georgia; Bill’s family; and all of our friends—Edward from the museum, Jay the volunteer, Adam the ex-hacker—friends and colleagues from high school, college, and old jobs; folks from North Carolina, Los Angeles, Oregon. And, of course, Valentina and Sam.
Only three weeks to go.
But first, I had to celebrate turning thirty-six. Bill took me out for dinner that night, squiring me down the block on his tweed-jacketed arm to the cab he hailed. I wore the same dress I wore the night we got engaged, just ten weeks earlier, and the same candlelit glow, as he held my hand and I hooked his leg with mine under the table.
“Happy birthday,” toasted Bill. “To the future Mrs. William K. Scurry, Jr.�
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I pretended to choke on my drink. He laughed and amended himself. “To the future Ms. Janice Erlbaum. Happy birthday, Shmoo.”
We clinked, kissed, and sipped, our gold rings gleaming in the candlelight.
I clung to his arm as we walked toward home, done in again by two glasses of wine and an extravagant meal. The doorman stopped us on our way through the lobby. “Got something for you.” He handed me a small gift bag, an envelope with Sam’s handwriting on it sticking out of the top.
I opened the card in the elevator.
Dear Janice,
Happy Birthday! You’re such a great person, and I’m really grateful for all that you’ve done for me. I hope you’re having fun—remember to take time to take care of yourself today. Have a great birthday, and I’ll talk to you soon.
Sam
Inside the bag was a vanilla-scented candle. “Look at her,” said Bill, kvelling. “So thoughtful.”
My eyes filled, mascara threatening to run from the corners. She wanted me to take care of myself. What a sensitive and loving girl she was; how lucky I was to have found her. I’d have to call her in the morning, thank her for the gift, maybe see if she wanted to meet me in the park after work and browse the bookstore. “She is.”
And yet I didn’t call her the next day—I got up, ran, and sat down at my desk, where a pile of overdue projects sat steaming and attracting flies. I meant to call her at lunch, but I called my dad first, and we wound up talking for a while; then my friend Emilie came by after work and we split a bottle of wine in celebration of my aging. By the time she left and Bill came home, I was all giddy and sloppy and laughing excessively, and we picked at leftovers from the fridge in front of the TV until I fell asleep, my head in his lap.
But I meant to call Sam—I kept thinking of her, as I always did, when something reminded me of her lopsided smile, her loping stride, the way she’d turned her face upward to the sun last weekend at Coney Island, closing her eyes and basking. I’ll call her after I finish this one thing, I kept thinking. After I scoop the cat litter. After dinner. After this show. And then the day ran away from me again, and I still hadn’t called.
Have You Found Her Page 25