“What happened, Dolores?”
“Well, I didn’t want to call you until I was sure. She has a concussion and a head wound that bled a lot, but the paramedics say that it isn’t serious.”
Sam could hear the hesitation in her voice, and she fumbled with her backpack as she threw books and her laptop into it, willing away the trembling in her hands. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I was the one who called the ambulance…I had been dragging the garbage cans out to the curb for pickup tomorrow morning when I heard a loud thud, and since you asked me to keep an eye on her while you’re away at school…well, anyway, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this…”
Sitting down on her bed, holding her backpack to her chest, Sam was still for the first time since she’d heard Dolores speak. “Was this…self-inflicted?”
The pause that followed went on for days. “Yes, dear.”
“You heard a thud?”
Clearing her throat, Dolores said softly, “That’s right. And I rushed right over.”
“The rope broke.” She could picture it clearly: the frayed knot, the overturned chair Eva must have hit her head on, her mother’s body sprawled across the floor. Her imagination wasn’t particularly taxed, considering she’d seen that exact picture when she was only eight.
“I don’t understand—how do you know this?”
“This isn’t the first time.”
The line was quiet, and Sam felt Dolores’s shock and pain through the miles that separated them. It should have been a relief, finally, to have someone other than Jack to confide in about this, but all she felt was hollow anger.
“I never knew. Oh, Sam.”
After pulling on her boots and grabbing her jacket, Sam closed her dorm room door too hard, as if through the noise she could escape being on the receiving end of Dolores’s pity. “Could you look after Aphrodite for the next couple of days, please? You don’t need to stay at the hospital—I’ll be there in a few hours. Thank you for all your help. And Dolores, please don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of discussing this with anyone, dear. Drive safely. It’s a Friday, and you know that means there will be inebriated drivers.”
“Thanks again,” Sam said, hurrying to her car.
As she drove, images flashed across her eyes: images of Eva in the bathtub with a razor against her wrist. When Sam was fourteen, it was pills. That one almost worked. Sam gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles aching. Her clenched jaw was giving her a headache, but she couldn’t make her face relax. She was hurt and angry and scared. And pissed. Eva had been doing so well. The timing wasn’t lost on her: two days after Dr. West encouraged her to think about moving across the country for graduate school, her mother succumbed to her depression.
She brushed aside tears of frustration and hissed to herself, “Who were you kidding? You can’t move to California.”
She regretted the glass of wine she’d had earlier—it made her eyes throb and her head pound. She wanted Natalie, and she was just weak enough to give in this time and call. Careful to keep her eyes on the road, she fumbled with her backpack in the passenger seat until her hand found the cell. Natalie answered gruffly on the fifth ring and Sam put the phone on speaker.
“Sam, I’m in the middle of something.”
Natalie’s brush-off wiped Sam’s mind blank, and for a long moment she couldn’t remember why she called. “Okay. I apologize for interrupting.”
Given the speed with which Natalie backpedaled, she must have sounded like shit. “Darling, what is it? Tell me.”
Too weary to explain, she simply said, “I’m going out of town for a bit, and I wondered if you would feed my fish. I left the door unlocked.”
“Out of town? What for? Sam, what’s going on?” From the rustling in the background, Sam guessed that Natalie was now sitting up in bed—hers or someone else’s.
Squeezing the bridge of her nose with one hand, she turned onto the entry ramp of I-91 with the other. “It’s my mom. She did something stupid, and I need to go home.”
“Is she okay?” Where Dolores’s concern had left her hands shaking, the concern in Natalie’s voice warmed her from fingertips to core.
“I think so, but she’s in the hospital. I’m headed there now.” As she merged from the ramp onto the highway and came to a dead stop, she sighed; it might take her half the night to get there.
“Dammit Sam, I would have gone with you.” Natalie’s exhale indicated she’d dropped back onto the pillow.
“I know. That’s why I left before I called.”
“Samantha Latham, you drive me crazy.”
Sam thought about the irony of those words and her car inched forward in silence as long seconds ticked away.
“What do you mean, she did something stupid?” Natalie asked softly.
She wished she hadn’t said anything. “Nothing—forget about it.”
Natalie waited a moment before gently asking, “Sam, did she hurt herself?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Sam,” Natalie said gently. “You’re an awful liar. She’s got depression, and she doesn’t take her medication regularly. I get the impression from the stories you’ve told me that she’s done this before.”
“Stop playing shrink with me, Freud. Psychology was what, three or four majors ago? And you didn’t even go to class.” Sam instantly regretted her words, but she felt transparent to Natalie, who was nothing but opaque to her.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, a little clinically. “Please let me know if you need anything. I’m here if you need me.”
“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Drive safely, Sam. I love you.”
Sam never said it back. They both knew they wouldn’t have meant it the same way, and it was an uneasy truce they had landed on. She responded as she always did: “Later.” It was a promise, she hoped.
The traffic cleared before she made it to North Haven, and four hours and two hundred and fifty miles later, Sam pulled her Jetta into the hospital parking lot. She got out of the car, slamming the door shut and leaning against it. Watching her breath in the cold February air, she steeled herself for the next few days—days away from her work and from Natalie, and from the life she was finally starting to feel comfortable making for herself. It would be days spent with her mother in restraints while Sam talked until she was blue in the face about the importance of Eva staying on her medication. She took a deep breath, the frigid air searing her throat, and began walking toward the hospital doors.
Eva stayed in the hospital for a week under psychological evaluation. Sam e-mailed her professors to say that her mother was sick and she would miss a couple of classes. She got a hotel room in Burlington and wore grooves into the roads, she made so many trips to and from the hospital. She called Dolores every day to give her concerned neighbor updates and, if she was being honest, to subtly remind Dolores to feed Aphrodite.
When it was just the two of them alone in the car after the hospital released Eva, Sam stole glances at her mother, who sat in the passenger seat riveted by the landscape she’d been surrounded by all her life. “Mom?” she asked tentatively.
“Hm?” Eva rotated toward her, and for a moment, Sam thought they might actually have a conversation. “What do you want to listen to?” Eva turned on the radio and punched buttons until she landed on a classical music station.
Sam just concentrated on the road. They arrived at the house at dinnertime, and she ordered pizza, “medium mushroom,” about the only words she spoke all night. Every time she opened her mouth to say something substantive to her mother, she either closed it nervously or bit her lip before something angry came out.
For her part, Eva drifted through the house like a deflated balloon, utterly uninterested in talking.
Sam refused to let Eva out of her sight, even though it was clear Eva noticed and was annoyed. After pizza and a brief stint on the couch channel surfing, Eva said, with steel in her voice, “May I use the bathroom please?”
“God, Mom, you don’t have to ask permission. I’m not the hall monitor.”
“Could have fooled me,” Eva muttered before trudging off to her room.
Well, at least in that brief exchange her mother had displayed some emotion.
She found an awful romantic comedy, which they watched for a while until Eva’s eyes started to droop. Sam tucked her into bed, earning her another dirty look. After she closed the door to Eva’s bedroom, she went straight into the converted garage to clean it out of anything that could be used for self-harm. She gathered up blades for box cutters, a small handsaw, and various pairs of scissors before she came to a chisel. Could that be made into a weapon? She weighed it in her hand and spun around, taking stock of the wood carvers, sewing needles, and, of course, the welder. How the hell was she supposed to purge the studio and still leave her mother with enough tools to make art, which everyone agreed was vital to her mental health?
Maybe as long as there wasn’t any rope in the house, Eva would be safe. But what about belts? And bed sheets? She wondered what Jack had done in the past, but couldn’t work up the energy to call him. Frankly, energy was in low supply all around.
Besides, Eva was a grown woman with her own credit cards, and she could easily replace whatever dangerous objects Sam removed from the house.
Standing there at a loss, she looked at the objects in her hand. Maybe what Eva needed after a week in a psychiatric ward was for someone to believe in her. Sam returned everything, brushed her teeth, and went to bed.
The next morning Eva had some color in her cheeks, and she stood a little taller. A night in her own bed did her a world of good, and Sam, too, appreciated the comforts of home. They drank coffee together at the table, Sam still too nervous around her mom to say much besides “want another cup?” Finally, after Eva had finished her second mug, and Sam was partway through a third, the tension dissipated a bit and Sam unearthed some courage. She opened her mouth and inhaled.
“Don’t,” Eva said, and there was a hint of pleading in her voice.
“You don’t even know—”
“I know enough.” She sighed, looked around the kitchen, and then gazed at Sam. Their hands met on the table. “I’m sorry, Samantha. And it won’t happen again.”
Sam studied their hands for a long minute, wishing she could find satisfaction in her mother’s words. “I don’t think that’s going to cut it.”
“I know,” Eva said. “Right now, it’s the best I can do. But those aren’t just words—I really mean it. Samantha, you shouldn’t have to go through this.”
Tears filled Sam’s eyes, try as she might to blink them back. “You shouldn’t either, Mom.”
“I know, honey. I know.” Her mother caressed her fingers with mesmerizing motions, and everything Sam thought to say sounded hollow and insufficient in her head. “Everything got so dark, and I couldn’t see another way.”
“There’s always another way,” Sam said softly.
“I know that, today. And I promise, I will know that tomorrow, too. I want to be better for you, darling.”
“I don’t need you to do it for me. Be better for you.” A tear dripped off of Sam’s face onto their fingers, and her voice wavered as she said it.
“It’s easier for me if I can do it for you,” Eva said, cupping Sam’s chin.
Sam slid off her chair, knelt down in front of her mother, and put her hands on Eva’s knees. “I don’t want to lose you, Mom,” she said, and the simplicity of those words seemed to melt away Eva’s strength. Tears slid down her cheeks, and the sorrow in her eyes looked like a vast abyss. Sam knew her grief was as much for Sam as it was for herself. Sam held her as they both wept, and the crying soothed the rough edges of their pain.
They stayed that way for long minutes, for hours, for days: Sam spent another week in Stowe, helping ease Eva back into art and filling her fridge with fresh produce. Every time they talked, when they passed each other in the hallway, when they said good night, Sam was careful to offer small, supportive gestures of touch for her mother, holding her hand or resting her arm around her shoulders. It was as much to assure herself that Eva was still there as it was to offer comfort while Eva made her way toward the sun again. It wasn’t a solution by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a start.
SOPHOMORE YEAR:
SPRING 2005
As Sam approached the bench behind the music building, she took in Natalie’s attire: a plaid flannel shirt over a white ribbed tank, jeans, and Doc Martins. Nineties grunge? No, the shirt was tucked in, not tied around her waist. And the brown leather belt Natalie wore looked like it had been purchased in the men’s section. Sam laughed at herself as she arrived at a second guess she was certain had to be off the mark: Natalie looked like she had just spent a rough night in a lesbian dive bar. Shaking her head at herself, Sam plopped down next to her friend, who didn’t look up. Her head was in her hands, and her long hair obscured her eyes.
“Hey, Lumberjack, can I hit you up for some firewood?”
When Natalie didn’t move, Sam realized that perhaps Natalie was suffering from something other than a hangover and a really bad fashion choice. She tentatively reached out a hand, then found the courage to rest it on Natalie’s shoulder. “Natalie?”
Natalie sat up enough to slump against Sam’s side, resting her head on her shoulder. Sam put her arm around trembling shoulders and stroked her hair. For long minutes, tears streamed off Natalie’s cheeks onto Sam’s leather jacket, and her breath came in gasps.
“Guess this is what it feels like to be dumped.”
A small part of Sam wanted to laugh, but mostly her heart broke right along with her friend’s. This, then, had been the relationship Natalie had refused to discuss—the one which had lasted six months. In the two years they had been friends, she’d never seen Natalie cry before. She wished in that moment that she kept a hanky in her jacket so that she could be very suave and offer it to her damsel in distress. Alas, she only had a single Kleenex, and it had been used. Instead, she pulled one of her sleeves down until it covered her palm, and offered it up.
Natalie looked at the proffered sleeve and laughed weakly.
“What’s the jerk-face’s name, so I can go beat him up?” Sam asked in her best tough-guy voice.
Natalie’s half-hearted smile turned into a rueful one, and she looked away as though she couldn’t bear to see Sam’s face. “Vivian. Her name’s Vivian.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. Or think. On the one hand, she was gratified that her instincts on the matter were correct—that Natalie did in fact like girls. But on the other hand, she couldn’t stop thinking Why wasn’t it me? No coherent response came to her for a long time. When the sun ducked behind a cloud and Natalie shivered, Sam finally said, “Guess that explains the outfit.”
The tension broken, Natalie managed a shaky laugh and a glance at Sam, who hoped her face registered none of her ambivalence, only support.
“Well, we have to celebrate your first lesbian heartbreak, Ellen. This might derail your career for a bit, but don’t worry, you’ll come back with a vengeance and eventually end up hosting the Oscars. Let’s go for a hike, since you’re clearly dressed for it, and then let’s go out and get you wasted.”
Sliding on a dark pair of sunglasses, Natalie wiped her cheeks one last time and nodded. “How about a hike, and then a movie at your place instead? I’ve had enough to drink lately.”
“Deal.” Sam rose and offered her hand to Natalie. As they drove, her mind churned over and over this news. True, Natalie’s first romantic affair with a woman wasn’t with her, but what did it matter: Natalie liked women. Had fallen for one. Had sl
ept with one.
She shook off the mental image.
If she’d dated one woman, she’d surely date another. Finally, after a year and a half of longing that haunted their otherwise beautiful friendship, Sam believed they had a chance at a real relationship.
They drove, picked up ice cream, and then hiked around Sleeping Giant Park, just outside New Haven, for the last couple hours of sunlight.
As they sat on the bank by a little stream, Natalie filled Sam in on the details of her failed relationship. “One night, at the end of Stop Kiss rehearsal, one of the actresses, Piper, kissed me. She was fun, and we made out for a while. It never really went anywhere. But I discovered I liked kissing girls.” She looked at Sam, who looked away, afraid of what her eyes might show.
Instead, she watched the ripples of the water as it encountered branches and rocks along its way and pretended for the briefest of moments that she was Piper, that she had it in her to just walk up and kiss Natalie.
Natalie continued. “I had always thought Vivian was gorgeous. She’s a senior in the Politics department. One night this fall, we ran into each other on our way to a frat party. It started raining, and we passed the frat house and just kept walking. We were soaked and it was late and somehow, we were kissing. She invited me to her room, which was mind-blowing. But she threw me out before daybreak. She didn’t say, but I’m sure she was worried about what people might think. Still, she kept inviting me over, and somewhere in there, I fell for her. Hard.” She rose and walked onto a log fallen over the stream, pacing back and forth on the slippery wood. “God, Sam, the things that woman does to me. She’s smart and sophisticated in an Upper East Side kind of way. She takes me to art galleries and jazz clubs in New York and out to fancy restaurants. She makes me feel…so much. Alive and happy and miserable and horny. God, I’m turned on every minute I spend with her. I feel kind of like a puppy. Well, felt. Now I just feel like a whipping post. She’s got someone else to wine and dine now—some other leggy blonde with square glasses. Clearly, she’s got a type.”
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