by Patricia Kay
As the villagers helped him up, his head spun. Gently, they led him to Reena's hut and laid him on his pallet. Reena wet a cloth and cleaned his forehead. He moaned. Still murmuring comforting words, she filled a small bowl with dhal, the lentil soup that was a mainstay of the villagers' diet. In the combination of Nepalese, bits of English, and sign language that had become their mode of communication, she urged him to eat.
Sam couldn't help smiling. Food. The universal cure-all for what ailed you.
Suddenly, in the process of lifting a spoonful of the hearty soup to his lips, he stopped. Shock radiated through him.
Sam. His name was Sam! Sam Robbins.
Slowly, over the next few hours, in bits and pieces, everything came back to him. The reason he was in Nepal. What he'd been doing when he'd fallen. The magazine. The snow leopards. And Amy. Amy.
Excitement caused his hands to tremble. Reena, who had been watching him closely since his fall, looked at him, wide-eyed. He knew she was frightened.
He grinned. "Reena," he said, pointing to her. "Naam."
Nodding, she echoed him. "Reena, naam."
He pointed to his chest. "Sam. Mero naam . . . ho Sam." My name is Sam.
"Sam," she repeated wonderingly. A sweet smile spread across her face. "Sam."
He lifted the picture of Amy that he always wore. "Amy," he said. He did not know how to say she was his fiancé, so he said the word for friend. "Saathi."
Reena's smile became coy and knowing, and she giggled. "Ah, saathi, saathi . . . "
Sam's heart swelled with happiness. Amy. He couldn't wait to see her. To hold her in his arms again. He closed his eyes, remembering every detail of her face, her body. Remembering that last night together. "Amy," he whispered. He knew that no matter how hard it was to leave the village or how long a trek it would prove to be to reach a place where he could make arrangements to fly home, the thought of Amy would carry him through.
What would she think? How would she react? He had been gone a long time. What if she thought he was dead? He pushed the thought away. He knew Amy. She would never believe he was dead.
The following day, his few possessions packed in a type of knapsack, Sam stood ready to leave the village. Pemba, one of the youngest and strongest of the male villagers, would accompany him, taking him to the nearest city with a telephone. From there, Sam would go to Kathmandu, where he would board a plane for home.
Home. He could hardly believe it. In just a few days, he would be with Amy. And Justin.
He smiled just thinking about Justin. Hell, he hoped he didn't cause poor Justin to have a heart attack.
As Sam and Pemba prepared to leave, Sam looked around the village. A pang of regret pierced him. He had grown to love these reclusive and primitive people. They had been good to him. If not for them, he most likely would have died.
He would especially miss Reena. His gaze met hers and he saw the sadness underlying her happiness for the return of his memory. Slowly, he said his farewells, leaving her for last.
They embraced. "I'll come back to see you," he promised, hoping she understood. "Thank you for everything."
"Namaste," she murmured. I salute the God in you. A sentiment given in greeting and in good-byes. Sam's eyes stung as he gave her a final hug.
The last thing he saw before turning to walk away was a lonely tear slipping down her cheek.
* * *
October 8, 1994 - Houston
Justin always listened to the radio when he worked on Saturdays. Lately, he'd been tuning in to 94.5—the oldies station. He especially liked the songs from the fifties and sixties. Selections like Chubby Checker's "Twist and Shout," Elvis's "In the Ghetto," and Peter, Paul and Mary's "I Dig Rock and Roll Music," were particular favorites.
This morning he was working on the third quarter financial report. It was a beautiful autumn day—bright and clear—and he wished he could be outside enjoying it, but the report was important. Anyway, he was almost finished. Another twenty minutes or so, and he could leave.
He smiled, thinking about the afternoon and evening he had planned. He and Amy were going out to lunch and then on to a movie. Justin wasn't crazy about movies the way she was, but he didn't mind going if that was what made her happy. He didn't mind doing anything that made her happy. And she was happy.
Sometimes he still couldn't believe how good things were between them. For so long, he'd worried that she was still thinking about Sam. The worry had been like a cancer, eating away at him, no matter how many times he reminded himself that she had chosen to be with him, that he had not coerced her or in any way forced her. He knew it was stupid to keep doubting her feelings, but he couldn't seem to help himself because occasionally, she would stare off into space, and when he'd ask her what she was thinking about, she'd give herself a little shake and say, "Hmmm?" distractedly. She'd always laugh then, and say, "Oh, I was just daydreaming."
During these episodes, he told himself it was normal that she would occasionally think about Sam. After all, she had loved him very much. Her thinking about Sam didn't mean she was still sad or regretting anything about her life with Justin. But no matter how many times he reassured himself, he knew there'd always be a tiny, niggling fear at the back of his mind. And it wouldn't go away completely until she was his wife.
Well, she soon would be. In just a little over six weeks, they would be married. Almost all the arrangements had been made. He grinned, thinking about the wedding, and how he and Amy had prevailed against her mother.
That mother of hers was really something. Justin liked Faith because he knew she was on his side and very much in favor of him marrying Amy, but he wasn't blind to her faults. She was one strong-willed woman, used to getting her own way and formidable when she was crossed. She had wanted them to have a big, splashy wedding, but in this, he and Amy were in perfect accord. And they'd held their ground. Eventually, Amy's mother had capitulated on almost everything.
The wedding was going to be small, with only a few of their closest friends and family invited, and the reception afterwards would take place at the Carpenter home. Amy was wearing her mother's wedding dress. Lark would be her maid of honor and Steven was going to be Justin's best man.
That night, Amy and Justin would stay at The Houstonian, and early on Thanksgiving morning, they would fly to San Francisco for three nights. Justin had booked the bridal suite at the St. Francis Drake Hotel on Union Square. Both he and Amy were excited about the trip. Neither one had ever been to San Francisco.
Amy'd laughed about that. "I've been to Rome and Paris and London. I've even been to Moscow, but I've never been to San Francisco."
Still thinking about the good days ahead of them, Justin finished his report, cleared off his desk, turned off the radio, and headed for Amy's.
* * *
Amy hummed as she worked. She felt completely happy today, with none of the doubts and fears that still occasionally plagued her.
She was doing the right thing in marrying Justin, and she knew it. Justin really was wonderful, and she appreciated him more and more as the days went by. They would build a good marriage. What they had together was different from what she and Sam had had together, but it wasn't inferior. It was solid and stable, something that would give them a firm foundation when it came to making a home for the children they both hoped to have. And most importantly, she would never have to worry about Justin leaving her. Her welfare, their childrens' welfare, would always be first in his heart.
All these thoughts, and more, drifted through her mind as she dusted the furniture in the living area. The October sunlight streamed through the windows, catching her diamond ring and firing it with light.
Amy sighed. The ring was beautiful, but—and she'd never have admitted this to anyone—she could hardly admit it to herself—it didn't mean as much to her as the emerald ring Sam had given her. It hurt her to think this. It hurt her that she felt this way. And if Justin knew! God, she couldn't imagine how he would feel.
Well, he would never know. Never. She was stupid to even feel this way. Still, her thoughts strayed to the emerald. It still sat in her jewelry box. Every time she opened the lid of the box, she saw it. She knew she should put it away somewhere, completely out of sight. She knew Justin had caught sight of the ring and wondered what he thought about it. Several times, she had wanted to ask him, but then she stopped herself.
They never talked about Sam. Sam was a forbidden subject, and that hurt her, too. Why couldn't they talk about him? Would they ever be able to?
Perhaps one day, after she and Justin were married, and he was finally secure about her and her feelings for him, they would both be able to openly love Sam again, because Amy knew Justin did love Sam, and it saddened her that she was the cause of that love being denied. Wouldn't it be sweet, she fantasized, if some day they had a little girl and named her Samantha? Amy could save the ring for her to wear when she grew up. That would be lovely.
She finished her dusting and was just about to walk out onto the deck to shake out the dustcloth when she heard the sound of a car on the driveway below.
It must be Justin, coming a little earlier than she'd expected him. She looked in the corner where Major lay sleeping in a patch of sunlight. The dog spent most of his time at Amy's now, since Justin was rarely at home. As she watched, Major opened his eyes and his ears perked up. He'd heard the car, too.
Now she heard a thunk. A few seconds later, slow footsteps started up the stairs.
Funny how different Justin's footsteps sounded from Sam's. Sam had always bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Justin was slower, more methodical.
Major stood up. He listened for a moment. Then, bewildering Amy, he raced for the door and pawed it frantically, whimpering the whole time.
What had gotten into the dog? He never acted this way when Justin came home.
Suddenly, a clear whistle floated in the air.
Our song . . .
Chillbumps broke out on Amy's arms. She moved, trancelike, to the door. The moment she opened it, Major bounded out and down the stairs, barking joyously. Amy felt as if time had been suspended. As if the earth had stopped moving. Dazed, she walked out onto the deck. Looked down. Blinked to clear her eyes. This couldn't be happening. This can't be real. I'm dreaming.
But the barking was no dream. The whistle was no dream. And the lean, tanned man standing halfway up the stairway was no dream. Her heart beat wildly as she stared, hardly able to believe her eyes. His hair was lighter than she remembered it, and longer, tied back in a ponytail. His skin was much darker, as if he'd been outdoors for a long time. But his eyes hadn't changed. They were still golden-brown, still intense, still filled with that wonderful light.
"Sam!" Tears filled her eyes, even as she rushed forward. "Sam, Sam!"
By now he'd reached the top, and she catapulted herself into his arms. Sam! Sam was alive! His arms closed around her the way they had so many times before, crushing her against his chest.
And then they were kissing and laughing and crying and Major was running in circles around them, barking at the top of his lungs. Amy said his name over and over again, touching his face, still hardly grasping the miraculous fact of his return . . . alive and warm and breathing.
"Amy, Amy . . . " Sam said. His heart was a battering ram against his chest as he drank her in. She looked so beautiful. So clean and fresh and beautiful. Her eyes were filled with tears, but her smile was blinding.
"Oh, Sam. You're alive. You're alive," she cried. The tears rolled down her cheeks.
They kissed again and again. The only thought in Amy's head was that Sam had come back to her. Her love was alive, and he had come home.
"I thought about this moment the whole way home. I could just picture you here, on the steps, waiting for me," he said as they finally stopped kissing long enough to look at each other. He touched her face, her eyes, her cheek, running his hands over her silky skin. He would never get enough of her. The love he felt for her threatened to burst his heart. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered.
"Oh, Sam, we thought you were dead! Where have you been? What happened? Oh, God, I can't believe you're here!" Sam . . . Sam . . . Sam, her heart sang.
"Whoa," he said, laughing. "One question at a time. Let's sit down. My leg . . . it bothers me to stand too long."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"No, no, don't worry. It's all right. It'll just be better for me to sit."
So they sat on the top step and there, with the sun warm on their faces, the soft breeze caressing their skin, and the song of the birds filling the air around them, he told her everything. How elusive the snow leopards had been. How tired he had felt. How Morgenstern had gotten sick. And how, that last day, he had seen his chance to get his pictures and go home to her. "That's what I was thinking about, Amy," he said. "How much I wanted to go home. It's the first time I'd ever resented being away, ever wanted a job to just be over. And that's because of you."
"Oh, Sam . . . "
He told her how he'd decided to climb down to the cave, how the Sherpa guide had warned him not to, how he hadn't listened. "I was stupid," he said. "Stupid. Jesus, I wouldn't blame you if you never forgave me." His arm tightened around her shoulders as his eyes implored her to understand.
She forgave him. She would forgive him anything, now that he was home again.
He told her about the thoughts that raced through his brain as he fell. "In those seconds," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "all I could think about was you."
She swallowed. Remembered what it was like to hear about his accident. To be told he was dead. "It was awful," she whispered. "When they told me, I didn't want to believe it." Then she remembered something else, something she would have to tell him, something they would cry over together, but not now . . . later . . . there would be time to talk about their little lost baby later . . . .
He told her about waking up and finding himself in a remote village in western Nepal. "I had no memory," he said slowly. "I didn't know who I was or where I'd come from. I was delirious and in terrible pain. Both my legs were broken, and I had all kinds of injuries. It's a miracle I was alive. The villagers, especially one kind, older woman, nursed me back to health."
He told her about the big blizzard and the avalanches that followed. He told her about gradually being able to walk again, about the crutches one of the village men had fashioned for him, about how he'd eventually been able to get around with only the aid of a cane.
He told her about Reena and how good she'd been to him. A sadness clouded his eyes when he talked about her, and Amy squeezed his hand. "She was wonderful," he said softly. "I want you to meet her some day."
He told her how his memory had come back to him. And how he'd made his way home.
"But Sam," she said when he'd finished, "I don't understand why, after the winter was over, the villagers didn't get help for you."
"You'd have to know what a closed kind of society they live in to understand. They are mistrustful of outsiders, especially outsiders in their own land. It's a lucky thing for me that so many Americans have visited Nepal and been so forthcoming with their money. Now even the people in the most remote areas have kindly feelings toward Americans. But the most important thing was, Reena had kind of adopted me. From what I've been able to figure out, I don't think she was able to have children, and she made me her son. So the villagers wouldn't have wanted to take me away unless she sanctioned it." His eyes softened. "I'm sure she didn't want me to leave, but once I'd indicated that I wanted to, she wouldn't try to hold me."
"But why didn't you leave when you were able to? I mean, I know you had no memory, but didn't you want to find out who you were?"
He shrugged. "It's hard to explain, but I was afraid. The village was the only security I had. Everything else was unknown . . . and frightening."
"Well, why didn't you call me once you had your memory back?" Amy demanded.
"All I could think about
was coming home. I didn't want to talk on the telephone. I didn't want to try to explain long distance. I wanted to see your face. God, I love you."
"Oh, Sam, I love you, too." Tears filled her eyes again, tumbling down her face. She paid no attention to them. "I've never stopped loving you."
He drew her closer. The kiss he gave her was filled with a fierce hunger and it drove any remaining questions completely out of her mind.
"Let's go inside," he muttered.
"Yes."
They barely made it through the door before he was kissing her again, kissing her and touching her. "Amy, Amy, I've been thinking about this for days . . . wanting you so much." His voice was rough as his hands grazed her breasts and his mouth dropped to her neck.
It was only then, as Amy's head fell back to give him better access, that her gaze fell on the book Justin had been reading last night, which lay open on the coffee table.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Oh, my God. Justin! How could she have forgotten him? Now her heart pounded in fear. What was she going to do? Justin would be home soon. Panicked, she said, "Sam, I-I have to tell you about—"
"No, no. Let's not talk," he muttered. "Not now." He sought her mouth, even as she tried to turn her face away, his hands moving down to cup her buttocks and press her close.
Amy could hardly think. His mouth captured hers again, open and hungry. His tongue, his hands, the way they were caressing and stroking her, brought a torrent of emotion and sensation and a reawakening of the wild passion he had always been able to ignite. She clung to him, forgetting everything else. Her body trembled with desire, she felt as if her insides were on fire, and only he could put the fire out.
He pushed her sweater up, buried his face in the hollow between her breasts. "Amy, Amy," he muttered, his voice ragged. His thumbs rubbed against her nipples. She moaned as pain and pleasure arched through her, and wove her fingers through his hair.
Then, as if through a dense fog, she heard the unmistakable sound of a car in the driveway. A car door slammed. Slow footsteps sounded on the stairs.