Sing it, Sam

by Jennifer Ryder

  I shift off the bed, and quickly move a pillow beside him to keep him upright. I slip my hand into his and squeeze gently. He looks so beautiful when he sleeps. At peace. Angelic. It’s a shame to wake him, but I won’t leave without saying goodbye.

  “Dinnertime, Sammy,” Pauline booms as she plonks a plate with a silver cloche on the table.

  Sam jerks. His eyes are glazed over when they meet mine. He blinks repeatedly as if he doesn’t know where he is.

  I squeeze his hand to reassure him. “Hey, you fell asleep. It’s dinnertime,” I say with a shrug.

  Sam grumbles and wiggles farther up the bed, and rubs at his eye with his free hand. “Sorry.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. “It’s all good. I should go anyhow. Hangry dog and all that.”

  “Ha, yeah. Sure.”

  I want so badly to lean in and plant my lips against his, but Pauline is here. I know she found us snuggled up, but kissing in front of her is something else entirely. I’ve heard Pauline is one to gossip, and if that’s true, I don’t need to give her something to talk about.

  “What’s on the menu?” Sam asks, giving Pauline a hard stare. I wouldn’t be impressed if someone woke me like that either.

  “Pumpkin ravioli, green salad and custard and peaches for dessert,” she says, her voice monotone. She’s probably had to recite that a bunch of times already.

  “Pumpkin, you say?” Sam asks, widening his eyes at me and pursing his lips. When he crosses his eyes, I can’t stop the laughter from bursting from my mouth.

  I try to choke down my laughter but end up snorting instead. As tears spring to my eyes, I clutch at my stomach.

  “Goddamn pumpkin,” Sam grumbles.

  “You watch your mouth, boy,” Pauline chastises, pointing her stumpy index finger towards the cloche. “That there is some of the finest pumpkin pasta you’ll ever eat.”

  “No doubt,” Sam retorts.

  I blow him a kiss on my way to the door.

  My laughter echoes through the halls until I leave the building.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I sit down to write after dinner, I have to give myself a stern talking to. My head is scattered, and picturing Brandon and Ally takes more concentration than I’ll admit to anyone in the writers’ group, because again, I’m a fraud. The sad thing is, I’d rather be doing anything else right now. Anything. I know stumbling blocks are all a part of the writing process—at least that’s what they talk about in Facebook author groups—but dealing with it is hard. I want to write, I’m determined to get the words down, but it’s as if my head and my heart are in a silent battle. They’re not speaking to each other, or to my hands that are itching to tap out the words.

  With a huff, I get up and make my way to the kitchen. The kettle groans as I flick it on. Once the water has boiled, I make myself a giant cup of hot chocolate in one of Mum’s old pumpkin-shaped soup mugs. It’s as fugly as anything—grey on the outside and bright orange in the centre. We’re a pumpkin-loving family, which doesn’t necessarily mean we have taste.

  I drop in four marshmallows for a sugar hit. Maybe that’s what I need—a boost. I slather a slice of fresh wholemeal bread with a good spoonful of Nutella. Sitting back down, I tell myself there are no more excuses.

  I have food. Check.

  I have something warm to drink. Check.

  Hmm.

  I might need to pee.

  I toddle off to the bathroom, pee when I probably don’t have to, and return to my chair. Butch growls and jumps up onto my lap. A putrid smell wafts up to my nostrils from him.

  Coughing, I nudge Butch off me. “Mate, you’re disgusting. How am I supposed to write good romance when you’re practically farting in my face?”

  He gives me an unimpressed look, and wanders over to the lounge and jumps up, his belly causing him to falter before he rights himself and settles.

  Okay, back to it. For real.

  Brandon and Ally.

  Hunky Brandon sweeps Ally off her feet. Not literally, but figuratively, although being strong, lifting a lightweight such as Ally would be a piece of cake. I wouldn’t mind being about five kilos lighter myself.

  Goddam it! Focus, Jane.

  I take a few sips of my warm drink, and spoon two of the squishy-soft marshmallows into my mouth.

  I know what I need to do. Jump straight into a scene. One where the two of them are slowly getting to know one another and venturing into ‘dating’ territory. A scene where Ally hasn’t given up too much about herself and is still pondering how a hunk like Brandon is single. Similarly, in this get-together, Brandon is still very much guarded about protecting his daughter, not wanting to introduce a woman to her without being sure that it’s worth the upheaval to his baby girl.

  Maybe he offers to cook for her. Everyone wants a dreamy guy like that. Good with his hands and knows his way around a kitchen. Personally, I love reading about guys like that.

  My fingers dance over the keyboard as I describe how they eye each other over a romantic candlelit meal, set by the fire in Brandon’s quaint timber-clad house, which has been in his family for four generations. His home is old and weathered, but he tends to the repairs, shirtless, on occasion. Because, of course he does.

  Butch whines and nudges the bare strip of ankle above my sock with his wet nose. I jump a mile high. I was really lost for a moment there. When I look down, my furry friend is sitting, nose high in the air, eyes focused on me.

  I lean down and scratch him underneath his chin. “If I hear so much as a squeak from your butt, you’re outside for the night. Got it, Farty McFartyPants?”

  His tail wags like crazy. He knows full well my threats are empty. I pat the top of my thigh twice, and he bounds into my lap. “Okay, where were we, Farty?”

  Staring at the document once more, I read the last few paragraphs before getting back into it.

  After dinner, Brandon produces a plate of fluffy golden yellow scones.

  Gah! I’m making him too perfect. He has to have some flaws. Like a pumpkin. They’re not all perfect on the outside. Some of them get scarred from the birds. Some don’t gain the glossy skin all over from being too sheltered. At the end of the day, it’s what’s inside that counts.

  Goddamn it.

  Pumpkin.

  What the hell is happening to my creativity?

  I try to snap out of it, to think about anything else they could have for dessert. Scones with cream. Golden syrup pumpkin dumplings. It’s as if I have yellow-coloured glasses on. My characters are doomed. Either that or they’re destined to eat the vined vegetable at every turn.

  Maybe this is karma for having a laugh at Sam earlier. It brings a smile to my face when I think of his reaction while reading this.

  I laugh to myself, and then wonder what Sam is up to. I’m guessing he’s snoozing, but is he? Whenever I take a nap late in the evening, not that it happens very often, I have trouble getting back to sleep. Is he just lying there staring at the ceiling? If he is, that’d really suck. Is it eerily quiet there at night? Do residents get up and roam the halls in the dark or do they stay in their rooms until sunrise?

  If I had his number, I’d text him. Why don’t I have his number exactly? I’ve kissed him twice yet have failed in the fundamental step of asking him for it. And here I am thinking I can write romance. And date.

  With that thought, I close down my computer and grab my phone. I send Ben a text.

  Me: Hey Ben, just wondering if you could text me Sam’s number?

  It doesn’t take long for my phone to ding with a message.

  The Sheriff: Hey Jane :) He’s really shit at responding.

  Okay … Is Ben weird about giving me Sam’s number? Is he worried I’ll disturb his sleep? I check my watch. Well, I guess it is after ten. I probably shouldn’t have texted Ben. Did I wake him?

  Me: I promise not to text him at crazy hours LOL. Like now for example

  A few minutes later, Ben sends me Sam’s number, followed by a messa
ge to sleep tight.

  I wonder about Ben. He said he operates cranes, but he didn’t seem too thrilled about it. Is he stuck in a job he doesn’t love? Why? I do know that he seems to be doing everything he can to help his brother.

  I would’ve loved to have had a brother, or a sister, for that matter. I had plenty of friends growing up but having a bond with a sibling is something I’ve always yearned for. Thank goodness for cousins. I just wish everybody in my family didn’t feel the need to leave town.

  I send him a message back to return the kind gesture.

  Me: You too, Sheriff :)

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “When you’re settled in, I need you to get started on the compiling the information packs,” Kathleen says, pointing to the stacked boxes. “Sally-Anne has a migraine and won’t be in. I was hoping to have an extra set of hands, but what can you do?” She mumbles something under her breath about ‘getting good help’.

  Maybe Sally-Anne’s absences are getting to her. I don’t blame her if they are. “Sure thing,” I say in a squeaky voice. “I’m looking forward to see the new printouts.”

  She draws her brows together and rubs at her chin as she eyes the boxes. “Well, I’d like them done ASAP so reception looks less like a stockroom. I have appointments today, and I need the place looking sharp.”

  God, she says it like the place is a pigsty every other day.

  “Sharp it is,” I tell her with a reassuring smile.

  Kathleen places her hand on top of her head, and then at the base of her neck. “Goddamn it! Where are my glasses?” She looks up towards the ceiling and frowns. “Gloria,” she curses and rushes from reception, mumbling to herself about ‘not needing this’ and something about the coroner.

  I’ve never seen her this stressed. I feel bad for her.

  I settle at my desk, scoop my phone from my bag and decide to send Sam a quick text.

  Me: Hope to see a bit more of you today :)

  Three dots blip below my text bubble before it comes through.

  Sam: I’ll be sure to flash you in the hall

  I laugh out loud.

  Me: Do you even know who this is?

  The three dots tick over once more until my phone dings.

  Sam: Sure, I do. The sheriff thought I should know. Very big brotherly of him.

  My heart melts. They really look out for each other. As I articulate my response, my phone dings partway through.

  Sam: I wasn’t kidding about the flashing BTW :p

  I laugh out loud and bring the phone to my chest, hugging it as I would Sam. I don’t want to encourage that kind of behaviour around here, but the thought of seeing more of Sam has my head swirling.

  “Jane,” Kathleen barks, causing me to drop my phone. It slams down on my keyboard.

  “S-sorry,” I blurt out, opening my drawer and shoving my phone into it.

  She purses her lips. “If you focus, Jane, you could get this done by morning tea. Do you think you can apply yourself for a couple of hours, or is that too much to ask?”

  Wow, she’s super stressed. And I’m in the shit. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I’ll get right to it.”

  Her phone chimes in her pocket. She pulls it free and swipes the screen, staring at it for a moment.

  “Can you please push back the meeting with Angus Whitehead by half an hour?” she asks, not looking up from the device.

  “Of course.” I open up her calendar in Outlook and scan over her schedule. Ernie from the coroner’s office is at two p.m., followed by Angus at 3.30p.m. The title of the meeting is Beatrice Ferguson.

  My heart sinks. I’m guessing this is her long-lost family coming in to get her personal things. I change the appointment with Angus to four p.m. “It’s changed,” I mumble and swivel in my chair to face her. “Kathleen, is everything okay?’

  She lets out a shaky breath. “Everything’s fine. There’s just … when a resident passes, there’s a reasonable amount of administration involved.”

  I paste on a smile as thoughts of death cloak me. “If I can help with anything, please let me know.”

  ***

  I buckle down and get the information packs done by ten-thirty. I even have time to copy and scan Mrs Ferguson’s medical file. It seems to calm Kathleen somewhat, as a smile manages to break through when she dismisses me for morning tea.

  When I stroll down the corridor on my break, what I find has my feet rooted to the ground. My heart blooms in my chest with each shuffle of Sam’s feet behind a walker. A walker.

  His back is facing me. Paige is close by his side, her height an obvious advantage in assisting him. She mumbles what I assume to be words of instruction or encouragement.

  I lean up against the wall and watch on in admiration as he shuffles a couple of metres to his doorway. They disappear from view.

  I close my eyes and silently thank the heavens for the progress Sam is making. When I compare the Sam who used to stare at the walls, never venture out, or socialise, to the Sam meandering the halls, in a walker no less, I wanna pinch myself. Witnessing Sam on the improve fills me with such pride. If something I did or said has helped him try, then that’s just all kinds of awesome.

  I bring my head back down to reality and walk closer to his room. Paige emerges from the doorway and smiles as I approach.

  “He’s doing well,” she says in a quiet voice.

  A burst of heat pinches at my cheeks. “Awesome,” I gush.

  “We just need to work a bit more with his fine motor skills.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Activities with his hands—threading beads onto string, drawing, squeezing a rubber ball. Anything that helps with coordination of eye-and-hand movements.”

  It dawns on me that my craft activity scheduled for tomorrow would be perfect. “Ha. Maybe I should get him to come scrapbooking.”

  “Yeah,” she replies, sarcasm evident in her tone. “If you can drag him there, then I’m all for it.”

  I shrug. “I’ll give it a go.”

  Paige continues down the hall and I make my way into his room.

  Sam is flat on his back on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. Beads of sweat mar his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed dark red. His chest rises and falls as he noisily draws breath.

  “You okay?” I ask, rushing to his side.

  “Don’t panic,” he grumbles. “Just getting used to the walker.”

  I snatch up his hand and flip over his wrist, flattening my fingers against his skin. His pulse beats hard and fast beneath my touch. How can his body react like this to such a small amount of exercise?

  “You’re panicking, Janie. I’m fine.”

  I let out a heavy breath. Paige wouldn’t have left him alone if he wasn’t. Why am I so protective all of a sudden? “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m quite the marathon runner. Just puffed.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  After a series of deep breaths in and out, the redness in Sam’s cheeks fade to a peachy–pink. I scoop up his drink bottle and bring the straw close to his lips.

  He gulps the water down and lets out a loud ‘ahhh’ afterwards. “What, no Gatorade?” he asks with a wink. “Need to replace all the lost electrolytes.”

  Funny man. “Nah. We’re all out.” I chuckle and put the drink aside.

  I take his hand in mine and squeeze gently. We stare at each other for a while. It’s then I realise that Sam hasn’t blinked for a good ten seconds or more. I widen my eyes, trying to beat him at the game I figure he’s playing.

  Still not having blinked, he widens his eyes. “I’m world champ at this,” he boasts.

  I draw in a deep breath and grit my teeth, fighting my body’s will to close my lids.

  “You’re an amateur,” Sam blurts out.

  Holding his gaze, I move in until his breath heats my lips. I take his lower lip between my teeth, giving it a gentle suck before he groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Our lips make a slurping sound as I pul
l back. You’ll get busted again, Jane.

  “You don’t fight fair,” he says and wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest.

  “Distraction is the oldest trick in the book,” I tease. I squeeze his hand, still grateful to be holding it. Sam clenches his jaw and glances down at our joined fingers.

  “Does it hurt when I hold your hand?” I ask and try to free it from his grip.

  He holds me tighter. “Yeah, but it’s worth it.”

  He winks.

  I swoon.

  “Sometimes I get spasms, in my fingers and toes. They feel like lightning bolts.”

  “Ouch,” I say and pout. I lift up his hand and place a kiss to the tops of his knuckles. Remembering where I am, I sit farther back on the bed. If the boss lady drops in, there needs to be some distance between us.

  “What you doin’ later?” Sam asks, sitting up on his elbows.

  “Later?”

  “Yeah, as in, later later. When you knock off work.”

  My heart sinks when I think of him here alone, bored out of his brain, eating and then falling asleep, probably to reduce the amount of time being bored.

  “I wish I could come by and hang out, but I have to get everything set up for the workshop tomorrow. I would’ve done that today, but Kathleen has had me frantic doing other stuff as Sally-Anne called in sick.”

  Disappointment flashes across his face. “Okay. No worries.”

  “Sorry.” I’m not happy about it either.

  “It’s cool. What’s the workshop, anyway?” Sam asks.

  I tilt my head to the side. “Don’t you read my fancy posters around the place?”

  He shrugs. “My memory is shit at the best of times.”

  “Well, let me help you out, then. The scrapbooking workshop.”

  “Jesus,” he says under his breath. “You mean that wasn’t a joke?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Mrs Cassidy has been asking for months, from what I’m told. I thought it might take her mind off her cat, anyway.”