Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

“Most of it. Our greenhouses are pretty prolific. My garden is certified organic now, and my cousin owns a sustainable ranch in New Hampshire. He supplies us with meat and poultry.”

  A man who looked to be about twenty approached them as they were talking and tugged on Maria’s sleeve. Although he was shorter than Maria, his hair color matched hers, as did the twinkle in his brown eyes. “You said I could have the leftover donuts, Maria.”

  “I sure did, Pauly. I’ll get ‘em for you in a second.” She ruffled his dark hair.

  Pauly grinned at her, then turned his attention to Sam, extending his hand toward her. “My name’s Pauly. What’s yours?”

  She was already charmed by the young man with Down’s syndrome, “I’m Samantha Latham. I live with my Mom on the other side of town. Do you work here, Pauly?”

  “Yeah, sometimes, when my sister lets me. I help with the dishes and sometimes the baking. I’m pretty good in the kitchen,” he said, full of pride.

  “Well, I’m not,” Sam said, and they all laughed. “Maybe you can show me sometime.”

  “Sure, as long as Maria says it’s okay. Hey, Sis, can I show Samantha the kitchen?”

  Gesturing to the double doors behind her, Maria said, “Go on ahead, you two. Samantha, enjoy your tour. It’s nice to see you—come back sometime. When Eva’s well enough, it would be great to see her again.”

  “Thanks for your kind words,” Sam called over her shoulder as Pauly led her by the hand toward the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  She was about to hang up the phone after listening to its dull tones six times, when her father’s flustered voice answered.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, panicky.

  “Um, yeah. Everything’s fine. She’s napping in her bedroom. I just called to talk.” Sam tucked her legs under her on the couch and fiddled with the remote.

  “Oh.” He took a deep breath, and his chair audibly groaned as he shifted in it. “Hey, listen, can I call you back tomorrow? I’m in the middle of something.”

  Sam clenched her teeth, frustrated. “Why’d you even pick up the phone?”

  “Because I keep worrying something’s happened to you or your mom.”

  “Everything’s fine. Peachy. Me and my mom and her brain damage, we are all doing just hunky-dory.”

  In the pause that followed, she imagined Jack debating whether to chastise her for impoliteness or comfort her. “Just give me a second, okay?”

  “Forget it—I’m fine, really. Call me later, when you’re free.”

  Hanging up the phone, Sam gazed out the window, bored, lonely, and sick of herself. Wallowing in self-pity was exhausting. She thought about Constance, who had conveyed the appropriate amount of sympathy when Sam called to thank her for mailing the textbooks. But there was a wall between them now, and any fool’s hope she may have harbored that Constance would jump on an airplane to be with her had melted like April snow. Open relationships did not lend themselves to grand gestures.

  She’d been in Stowe for six weeks, and she felt so lonely and isolated that she wasn’t sure she’d last another six minutes. It was only noon, but Sam glanced at the bottle of wine she’d picked up during her last grocery store trip. People were supposed to wait until after five p.m. to drink, but that was probably because they had jobs. Sam didn’t have a job.

  People were also probably supposed to drink in the evenings with friends. Drinking was a social thing, she’d always heard. But Sam didn’t have friends.

  The cork made a satisfying pop and the wine smelled great. Well, it smelled like wine—Sam hadn’t lived in the Bay Area long enough to cultivate a discerning palate for wine.

  Two glasses later, she needed a nap. She curled up on the couch and snuggled with a pillow. Her eyes had just closed when Eva’s thin voice called to her.

  For a moment Sam thought that if she were really quiet, maybe Eva would go back to sleep and they could both nap the day away.

  “Sam? Thirsty.”

  So much for wishful thinking. She trudged into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. A monster headache was already forming behind her eyes, so while Eva drank her water, Sam looked around for some Advil.

  Or maybe she should double-down on the drinking and have another glass of wine. It’s not like she needed to be particularly sober to fetch her mother glasses of water or to order a pizza for dinner.

  All her hard work, her Ivy League degree, her practical research. Her new wardrobe. And what was it for?

  She opted for the Advil and guided Eva to the living room so they could watch television together.

  A week later, Sam was bored of drinking by herself. She’d been burning through about a bottle of wine a day, and while the hours might be passing by more quickly, being tipsy didn’t make her enjoy them more.

  She thought about Constance, about her summer fling in college with Carrie. About Natalie.

  Wine wasn’t helping, but she bet she knew what would: sex. She craved adult conversation, but more than that, she wanted to escape the numbness she’d felt ever since she’d returned to Vermont. She wanted to touch and be touched.

  It was a damn shame she didn’t have even one ex-girlfriend or former hook-up in Stowe—someone she could call, even if she sounded desperate. But she was pretty sure that she was the only lesbian in this one-horse town.

  It was three in the afternoon, and she’d only had two glasses of wine. She could definitely be sober enough to drive somewhere by the time she put her mother in bed.

  After dinner that night, she and Eva watched “Wheel of Fortune,” a game show Sam detested almost as much as “The Price is Right.” She wasn’t sure why, either, since she typically loved word games. It was probably Pat Sajak’s hair. When the show was over, she explained the movement patterns of the different chess pieces to Eva, but her mother’s head drooped when Sam moved her first pawn. Her eyes closed as soon as Sam tucked her in, and soft snores came from her lips before Sam shut her bedroom door. Eva would sleep soundly for many hours.

  She hurried into her room, changed her clothes, snatched up her keys and wallet, and locked the front door behind her.

  The deep bass drum thumped inside her chest, rattling her insides like an earthquake, or so she guessed—she’d left the Bay Area before she’d had an opportunity to experience one. The swirling lights and twirling glow sticks played tricks on her eyes, but she threw back the remains of her second beer anyway. Ordering a third, she toyed with the bottle as she prowled her way around the dance floor. Of course, Burlington completely lacked a lesbian bar, but she figured clubs were pickup scenes for all orientations if you were savvy enough to read the signs. She propped her boot up on the rung of a barstool and took a swig of her Magic Hat. Hoping to clearly communicate her interest in women, she’d dressed a little tougher than usual, sporting a black muscle shirt, tight ripped jeans, and heavy boots. A group of girls danced with each other a few feet away from her, but they were performing for any guys who might like a bit of a show. A lone blonde leaned against a pillar across the dance floor from her. She was cute, maybe five feet six in heels, wearing a slinky purple halter dress. Their eyes met, and Sam smiled. The blonde looked her up and down before rolling her eyes and turning away. As Sam guzzled more beer, a Goldfrapp song replaced the horribly remixed Rihanna that had been giving her a headache.

  She walked again, stopping when she’d gone a quarter of the way around the club. To pass the time, she studied the couples on the dance floor and made guesses about which ones would be compatible in bed, based on how they moved against each other to the music. Dragging her eyes off the gyrating bodies, she locked gazes with a tall man about her age who was studying her intently. Before she could signal that he wasn’t her type, he sauntered over, leaned in, and whispered, “It’s nice to see family here. My name’s Mark.”

  It was really too bad Sam couldn’t get a refund on he
r gaydar, because it never worked.

  “The redhead in the corner’s been staring at you,” he said.

  Rotating as casually as she could, a quick look confirmed his words. She gulped. Well, this is what you came here to do, she thought. She thanked Mark, strode back to the bar, and ordered two more Magic Hats. Collecting the bottles, she weaved her way toward one of the best-looking women in the place. Her red hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders. Black pants and a low-cut satin blouse clung to soft curves. A silver necklace dipped in between her breasts, which were rising and falling softly. A slow smile turned up the corners of the woman’s full lips as Sam placed a bottle of beer on the table next to her. “You thirsty?” she asked in lieu of introductions.

  “Thanks.” Rather than drinking, the woman held the bottle to the side of her neck. “Hot in here,” she said, closing her eyes and clearly enjoying the sensation of cool glass on overheated skin. When she removed the bottle and drank, drops of condensation snaked around her long neck, over the swell of her breasts, and down her shirt. It wasn’t until the woman came up for air that Sam found her voice: “Dance with me?”

  “I’d rather take you somewhere else.” She stood, extending her hand. Sam’s body hummed at the arousal in her eyes and the authoritative tone in her voice. Mutely accepting the warm, soft fingers between her own, Sam led her toward the door.

  “Where do you live?” she asked, holding open the passenger-side door of her car.

  “Oh no, honey. We go to a hotel for this.” She buckled her seatbelt and fluffed her red hair, which cascaded down her shoulders and managed to draw all of Sam’s attention to her very full cleavage.

  Sam hadn’t budgeted paying for a hotel, but that’s what credit cards were for, she supposed.

  The next morning, Sam sat bleary eyed at her kitchen table, her left hand supporting her heavy head, staring at a form she’d filled out the day before. She accepted the awful hangover as her penance for leaving her mother unattended all night.

  The pen in her hand felt like a dagger in her heart as she signed the paper. Fighting the urge to crumple it and throw it across the room, she bit down on her lip and carefully folded the form bearing her signature into thirds. It slid into the envelope like a key locking a prison cell. The legs of her chair ground against the hardwood floor as she pushed back from the table and strode from the house down the driveway and to the mailbox. She unceremoniously tossed the envelope inside, slammed the flap shut, and raised the mailbox’s flag. Crossing her arms, she pursed her lips at the unyielding house that seemed to swallow up the very universe. Tears of anger and depression burned her eyes, and she swiped in disgust at her cheeks with the back of her wrist.

  Unable to bear returning to the living room that had become her whole world these days, she dropped onto the grass and leaned her back against the mailbox post. She pulled out her cell, hit the number two on her speed dial, and pressed call, not really caring that it was only seven in the morning.

  “Samantha? Everything okay? It’s early.” Her father’s voice sounded gravelly with sleep.

  “I just withdrew from med school.”

  In the pause that followed, Sam envisioned her father sitting up in bed, adjusting the covers and slipping his glasses on. “For how long?”

  “Indefinitely. I shouldn’t move Mom away from Stowe, and even if I could, I can’t care for her and be a med student.”

  “Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

  She knew he meant it, but the words felt thin, as if they’d been evacuated of meaning. It was beyond frustrating. The one person who should have understood what she was going through—he had gone to med school himself, he knew his daughter had always dreamed of going, he knew what it was like to live with Eva, to live in Stowe—and all he did was make her feel more alone. She gave him an update on Eva’s condition and hung up, entirely dissatisfied with the call.

  Running her hand over the grass, Sam composed an e-mail in her head to Dr. West, regretfully telling him that he’d put his trust in the wrong person, that she’d never be the brilliant doctor and researcher he had hoped she would, that she was sorry for wasting his time.

  Once she had fully drafted that version, she imagined deleting it, starting over, and writing something more measured.

  She sighed. There was really only one other person in the world who might understand how hard this moment was for her.

  Given the time difference between Vermont and San Francisco, she should wait a few hours. Hell, she’d gone almost an entire year without talking to Natalie. Surely a few more hours wouldn’t matter much.

  But everything felt so desperate, so dire, that she didn’t care. After placing the call, she closed her eyes. It was cold out. Even in the late spring, Vermont mornings were never warm. The chill matched Sam’s mood, which her conquest the night before hadn’t improved.

  Natalie picked up on the second ring. “Sam? Are you okay? It’s three a.m.”

  “I know. Can we talk?” She hated having to ask.

  “All I’ve wanted to do for months is talk to you. God, I miss you.”

  “My mother had a brain aneurysm and it ruptured.”

  In the silence that followed, she pictured a series of painful emotions transforming Natalie’s face. “Oh my God. Poor Eva. Is she okay?”

  “Depends on how you define ‘okay’. She’s alive. There’s a lot of brain damage.”

  “Sam, please tell me everything.”

  After filling her in on the highlights of the past couple of months, Sam said as casually as she could, “I withdrew from med school. I wondered if you could pack up my stuff and mail it to me. I’ll send you a check; it’s mostly clothes and books.”

  “Of course; I still have Eva’s address. But Sam, don’t act like this doesn’t matter to you. You don’t need to be brave with me.”

  It might have been just what Sam wanted to hear, but that didn’t mean she was really ready to talk about this. “I don’t know if you have a car or not, but do you want mine?”

  “But you love your Jetta.”

  “Well, then I’d love for someone I know to take good care of her.”

  “Hang on a sec—”

  She heard shuffling and then typing.

  “—okay, Kelly Blue Book says the value of your Jetta is four thousand. So that’s what I’ll pay.”

  “That’s ridiculous—you don’t even know how many miles are on it.”

  “I know how many miles were on it when we were in college and I can extrapolate. I did take math and statistics at Yale.”

  “How about you pay me two—”

  “Four thousand, or else you can find someone else to buy it.”

  Sam sighed. She didn’t really have it in her to fight about this, especially when she suspected she’d lose anyway. “You drive a hard and very backward bargain, Natalie Romano. Done.”

  “See? I have real world skills.”

  “Speaking of, how are your classes?”

  “Do you really want to talk about school?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t want to talk about your love life.”

  “How’s Constance?” Natalie countered, and Sam supposed she deserved it.

  “I wouldn’t really know. Classes?”

  Three time zones might have separated them, but it was as though they were in the same room, and Natalie intuitively understood Sam’s desperate need to hear about someone living a normal graduate student life.

  “I was fortunate enough to land an appointment as a graduate student instructor, Berkeley’s equivalent of a teaching assistant. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I go to lecture, and on Fridays I teach section. The class is called Race, Ethnicity, and Public Policy. Teaching’s great, although it’s pretty shocking how many of my students are shameless grade grubbers. They really just want degrees that will land them six-figure jobs. I try to focus on the
couple of students who care and give my best to them.”

  Sam struggled to swallow the jealousy that seeped through her, but the thought of teaching undergraduates—even ungrateful ones—made her ache with longing. “Have you figured out what you’re doing for the summer?” she asked.

  “I leave for Japan tomorrow to teach ESL classes for the summer. I don’t get back until the day before classes resume here. It’ll be great to get away for a while, and the job shouldn’t be too demanding. It should leave me with plenty of time to work on my law school applications if I decide to apply.”

  “Law school?”

  “Eh. Who knows? I really like the law, but the price tag is a bit hard to swallow.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. Evidently, Natalie was as close to figuring out what career she wanted as Sam was to graduating med school. So much had changed for Sam, it seemed almost unfathomable that nothing at all would have changed for Natalie.

  “If you leave tomorrow, how exactly are you going to ship me my stuff? I assume you planned on packing and such today.”

  “Uh, well. I was going to ask my father—he’ll totally do it.”

  “That’s okay—I’ll find someone else,” she said, sighing.

  “Seriously, please, Sam. He can’t believe he hasn’t met you, and he feels like he owes you for taking me in during Thanksgiving and generally keeping me in line during college. He would be grateful for the chance to do something nice for you, especially given the circumstances. Besides, that man packs a box like nobody’s business.”

  “I guess I don’t really have a lot of other options. I’ll mail him the key, and a very nice thank-you card.” Add Mr. Romano to the list of people she was going to feel indebted to in the aftermath of her mother’s aneurysm.

  “Sam,” Natalie started, and Sam knew what was coming.

  “Please don’t. I can’t talk about you and us, or me and Eva. I just can’t. It’s all—”

  “I get it. I do. I just…I’m glad you called. If you want to talk, or not talk, please always call.”