“I . . . I don’t feel . . . okay.” Sami sat down on the edge of her lower bunk. All around her the walls seemed to be closing in.
“You look sick.” One of the girls came close and felt her cheek. “Maybe you’re allergic to this kind?”
Sami hadn’t wanted to tell them she’d never had a drink. But maybe the girl was right. Sami had dug her elbows into her knees and let her face fall in her hands. Her heart raced and nausea welled up within her. The worst nausea she’d ever felt. “I . . . think I’ll stay here.” She waved off her friends and when she was alone she went to the bathroom and threw up. Even then she wondered if she would die, the pain in her chest, the way she couldn’t catch her breath. How terrible, she told herself. If she died here alone in her dorm with vodka in her system. Her grandparents would be so ashamed. Not until the morning did Sami feel like herself again.
She hadn’t had a drink since.
Sami blinked back the memory. She was almost to her car. The drinking episode had convinced her she was allergic to alcohol. That’s what she told her friends. The next week when they offered her a drink she blamed the allergy and stayed sober. She became the responsible one, the designated driver. But the symptoms hit again later that freshman year when the girls tried to sneak out of their dorm well after curfew to meet up with some boys across campus. And again at a party when the guy she was talking to led her to a back room and started kissing her.
“No.” Sami pushed him back. In the dark she could hide her sweaty forehead and racing heart. But the symptoms were gaining on her. She glared at him. “I don’t even know you!”
Only then did she understand. She was having panic attacks. She wasn’t allergic to alcohol or boys or breaking curfew. She was allergic to being bad. Her grandparents had so thoroughly instilled in her the right way to behave that choosing any other option made her physically sick.
Sami reached her car, but the traffic was so bad she decided to walk. She was already late. A few minutes more wouldn’t make a difference. Her memories kept up with her like before. She met Arnie in the spring semester her freshman year. He was a junior, focused and determined.
Once they started dating, Sami’s panic attacks disappeared.
“I like that you’re a good girl,” he had told her. “I don’t need any trouble.”
After their third date, Arnie kissed her before saying good night. A sweet, simple kiss. It felt nice. Her heart didn’t race even a little. The second time, she took the lead. After a few minutes she leaned back against the door, breathless. “I won’t sleep with you.” She’d blurted out the words before she could change her mind. “It’s a promise I made.”
She didn’t tell him the promise was to her grandparents, not to God. It didn’t matter. Arnie only smiled and kissed her cheek. “That’s fine. The last thing I need is a kid before I finish law school.”
The truth was, Arnie already had his eye on politics. He had no interest in filling a closet with skeletons. The chaste arrangement was a win for both of them. Arnie turned out to be a good friend, helping her study for tests and regaling her with stories of his debate team victories. They didn’t kiss often, but he made her think. Sami felt smarter around him. All her free time was spent with him. When he graduated, he moved straight into law school. She finished her bachelor’s degree a week before he passed the bar.
Her life had played out like a résumé since. She joined Finkel and Schmidt as an intern her senior year, and a month after graduation the firm brought her on full time. That summer she moved out of her grandparents’ house in Woodland Hills and into a small two-bedroom walk-up with another new hire at the firm, a girl from Nashville named Mary Catherine Clark.
Sami smiled as she neared Third Street.
Mary Catherine was a red-headed free spirit who rode her bike to work along Ocean Avenue, wind-surfed the breakwaters at Will Rogers Beach, and couldn’t wait for Sunday church. She ate frozen dinners and stayed up late drinking coffee past midnight. They couldn’t have been more different, which was what Sami loved about her. Mary Catherine made her laugh and reminded her every day of the most wonderful truth:
She had somehow escaped the years of living with her grandparents.
Not that she didn’t love them. They meant well, Sami believed that. She had just never really learned to live under their roof. They didn’t mind her separation from them. In their eyes, dating Arnie Bell was the best thing Sami had ever done. By now Arnie was a third-year lawyer at a storied firm on Santa Monica Boulevard. He’d be making six figures in no time. Running the country one day, no doubt. That’s what Sami’s grandmother said about him.
The restaurant was just ahead. Trastevere. Sami could see Arnie sitting at their favorite corner table, looking over his shoulder, slightly irritated. Poor Arnie. He hated being off schedule. She giggled to herself, thinking about something her roommate had said the night before.
“Arnie needs a few surprises to shake him up a little.” Mary Catherine had grinned at the idea. “Like maybe let a mouse loose in his Acura. You know. See what he’s made of. He’s too safe for you.”
Despite her friend’s objections, Sami liked Arnie. He was good for her. He had the same desire to be successful, the same sensible spirit. He was loyal and dependable—no weekend motorcycle trips for Arnie Bell.
No panic attacks.
Which in a world of uncertainty was a good thing for Sami. But sometimes she wondered if safe would be enough. As a kid she was terrified of two things: heights and living on her own, away from her grandparents. Now her high-rise office and her apartment were two of her favorite things.
Which sometimes made her wonder if she was missing out on something even more exciting. Something she hadn’t yet considered. Like sky-diving.
Sami rushed up to the table, breathless. “Arnie, I’m sorry.” She kissed his cheek and took the chair across from him. Arnie was a few inches taller than Sami, with thinning brown hair that wouldn’t be around for long. He’d been a sprinter in high school, but his best athletic days were behind him now.
“I was beginning to wonder.” He smiled, but his eyes held a hint of disdain. “You’re never late.”
“The Atlantis account.” She gave a slight shrug. “I got distracted. Took longer than I thought.”
“Well.” He fluffed his napkin across his lap and his eyes lit up. “I have good news!”
Sami hesitated. Okay. So they were done talking about Atlantis. She slid her chair in and set her purse beside her. “Tell me.”
“You won’t believe this.” He smiled, clearly satisfied with himself. “The senior partner told me today they’re looking for me to take on a case by myself next month.” He raised his brow in her direction, waiting for her response. “Can you believe it?” He leaned closer. “Samantha, this is huge. It usually takes five years of assistant work before new lawyers get their own case.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “This case is one of the most difficult in the medical malpractice division of the . . .”
Sami stopped listening. The blue sky through the front window of Trastevere distracted her and made her remember that summer. Sitting at Tyler’s games his senior year, watching him pitch and believing there would never be anyone else for her as long as she lived.
“Samantha?” His tone changed. “Are you listening?”
“Yes. Definitely.” She sat a little straighter.
“What did I say?”
“You’re working on a big medical malpractice suit next month. You’re handling it by yourself.” She leaned closer to him. “That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you, Arnie. Really.”
“Thank you.” He looked hurt. “But I was telling you about Manny being jealous. He’s been at the firm longer and he hasn’t had a case of his own yet.” He paused, studying her. “Did you hear any of that?”
Sami glanced around, looking for some way of escape. A nervous bit of laughter slipped between her lips. “It all sort of blends together sometimes. The law stuff.”<
br />
His shoulders and face fell at the same time. “That bothers me. I mean, we’re talking about my future here.” He caught himself. For the first time since she sat down he reached for her hand. “Our future. Samantha, this is very important.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“Anyway.” Arnie seemed to take longer than usual to gather his thoughts. “Manny talked to me at lunch about it and I guess he’s going to the partners tomorrow morning and . . .”
Samantha. The name grated on her now. Arnie had called her that from the beginning. He thought it sounded important. Academic. She was raised with the name. Samantha was how she had thought of herself until that summer. Only two people had ever called her Sami: Mary Catherine.
And Tyler Ames.
Otherwise she was Samantha Dawson. When Tyler was in her life her grandparents frowned on the fact that he called her Sami. “It’s insulting to be called something other than your given name,” her grandma had told her. “Sami sounds demeaning. Especially when Samantha is such a beautiful name.”
Sami had seen her grandmother’s point. Back then she liked the name Samantha. It worked well with professors and her boss at Finkel and Schmidt. There was an elegance about it, a sense of success and professionalism. But it didn’t fit her the way Sami did.
And while she would always introduce herself as Samantha, privately she thought of herself as Sami.
The way Tyler had seen her.
“Samantha?”
She jumped. “Hmm?”
Arnie looked shocked. “What’s wrong with you?”
Before she could answer, Jean, the waiter, appeared with his perpetual smile and broken English. “Hello! How you are today?” Jean was their guy. Every time. He seemed to sense things weren’t great between them. “I give you time? Yes?”
“A few minutes, Jean.” Arnie’s smile looked stale. “Please.” Jean nodded and waved, backing up from the table and hurrying to the adjacent one. When he was out of earshot, Arnie sounded disappointed. “Could you try to listen to me? I mean, first you’re late and then you’re”—he waved his hand around—“I don’t know, distracted. Like you don’t care.”
“I’m sorry.” Sami gave a quick shake of her head. “Really.”
“You understand how big this is, right?” His tone softened. He took her hand again. “The firm is very political. In a few years—if I’m interested—there’s talk of me running for office.” Arnie leaned in and gently kissed her lips. “We’ll be married by then, of course.” Clearly, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. He touched her face and smiled. “I’ll need your support, Samantha. Fully.”
“Of course.” She covered his hand with her own. “Just a long day at the office.” Her smile came easily, even if she didn’t feel it. “You have my support. You know that.”
The rest of the meal she listened better, interjecting her approval or affirmation where appropriate. She was happy for Arnie and his career, his dreams, and even his political aspirations, if that’s what he wanted. But every so often, despite her best efforts to stay focused, Sami caught herself looking at the blue sky and thinking about a boy who lay broken in a hospital somewhere in Pensacola, Florida. A boy who traded everything for the dream of playing baseball.
Even her.
3
CHERYL CONLEY DREADED ANY call from Merrill Place Retirement Center, but especially tonight. The call came just after eight o’clock, when she and her husband had settled down in front of the TV with their granddaughters for a much-anticipated showing of Disney’s Tangled. Saturday was their night to babysit the girls, something they looked forward to all week.
Cheryl took the call in the next room. Her mother had been in the retirement center’s Alzheimer’s unit for the past year. Lately she’d been on a steady decline. “Hello?” She held her breath.
“Ms. Conley, it’s Harrison Myers over at Merrill Place. Sorry to bother you.” He sighed. “Your mother isn’t doing well. I thought I should call.”
“What happened?” Cheryl sat in the nearest chair and rested her elbows on her knees. Dear Jesus. Not again . . .
“I found her at the front door trying to leave. She was in her nightgown and a wool coat. She was pulling an overnight bag packed with most of her things.” Frustration sounded in his voice. Harrison had been manager of Merrill Place for ten years. He practically lived there. If he was worried, then things were bad.
“You really think she was going to leave?”
“Definitely. If the door hadn’t been locked, she’d be halfway down the boulevard.”
Heartache welled up in Cheryl. Her mother had always been so strong, the pulse of their home. Even after Dad died twenty years ago, her mom had been sharper than women half her age. How could her mind fail her like this? “Did she say anything?”
“I couldn’t understand most of it. Something about finding Ben.” He hesitated. “She’s said that before, of course.”
Cheryl closed her eyes. Ben. Her older brother. “At least that makes sense.”
“You want to come down and talk to her?” The manager hesitated. “I mean, she’s your mother but I understand she doesn’t . . .”
“Know me?” Every time Cheryl thought about the fact, her heart broke a little more. “No. She doesn’t.” She stood and paced a few steps. The sentence was never easy to finish. She thought about her granddaughters in the other room. “You think it would help? If I was there?”
“Maybe. Either way we need to agree on a plan.” Harrison sounded weary. “When patients get like this, we have to move them. She needs much higher-level care. There’s a facility in Destin.” He hesitated. “And yes. I think if you came it could help.”
“Okay.” They had talked about it before. Destin was nearly an hour from Pensacola. Too far for Cheryl to drop in throughout the week. Too far for a night like this. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.” Relief punctuated his words.
Cheryl walked to the back of the house where the girls were cuddled, one on each side of their grandfather. They were four and six this year. Every hour with them was priceless.
She smiled at them. “Meemaw’s got to go out for a little bit. Check on Great-Gram down the street.” She walked to the bookcase and pulled out Dr. Seuss’s The Sneetches and Other Stories from the middle shelf. A quick look at Chuck, her husband of forty years, told him all he needed to know. He would help delay the start of the movie. “Papa will read while I’m gone.” Cheryl patted their blond heads. “I’ll be back soon.”
“You need me?” Chuck took the book, his eyes warm with empathy.
“Stay here.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Pray.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Always.”
The drive to Merrill Place was less than ten minutes this time of night. Most of Pensacola was at the Blue Wahoos baseball game. It’s where she and Chuck would be if they weren’t watching the girls. Cheryl felt her heart sink. Her poor mother.
She rolled down the window and let the ocean air clear her mind. The night was cooler than usual for August, the stars overhead brilliant. Father, what’s happening? My mother is getting worse. I’m out of ideas. Help us . . . please.
No answer came, no immediate sense of direction or help. Cheryl prayed until she arrived and then she found Harrison Myers in his office. “I got here as fast as I could.”
“She’s in her room.” He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to her. “Here. Information about the center in Destin.” A shadow fell over his kind brown eyes. “We can’t help her much longer. Not if something doesn’t change.”
Cheryl took the packet. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the door. “I’ll go see her.”
Mr. Myers folded his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” They shared a sad look and then she walked from his boxy office down the white tiled hallway to her mother’s room. Room 116 at the end of the building. Cheryl never got used to the smell. Death hung i
n the air, the way it always did in places like this. Heaven’s waiting room. A reminder that every day brought them closer to the last.
Without making a sound, Cheryl opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed. She still wore her wool coat and she looked restless. Her knuckles were white from clutching the edge of the bedspread. As soon as she spotted Cheryl her eyes immediately filled with fear. “Who are you?”
“Hello.” She felt the nervousness in her smile. Some days were worse than others. Her mom might scream or even throw things at her. Tonight she looked borderline crazy. Cheryl took a few steps into the room. “It’s me. Cheryl.”
“What?” Her mother folded her arms tightly in front of her and looked around. “Where’s Ben?”
“He’s not here.” She had long since stopped arguing with her mother, stopped trying to set her straight about the details of life. “He couldn’t come.”
“I walked to his house.” Her eyes darted to the window. “Isn’t this his house?”
“No.” Cheryl moved slowly to the chair by her mother’s bed and sat down. She used her most kind voice. “This is your house.”
“No!” Her expression became horrified at the possibility. “This is not my house.” She squinted at Cheryl. “Are you the housekeeper?”
Cheryl took a slow breath. Help me, God . . . I need Your help. She worked to stay calm. “Can I tell you a story?”
Some of the anxiety left her mother’s tense shoulders. “A story?”
“Yes, a lovely story about Ben.” Cheryl slid to the edge of the seat, her eyes locked on her mother’s.
“Ben?” She relaxed a little more. “You know him?”
“I do.”
Her mother nodded, her eyes distant. She eased her legs up onto the bed and slid back on the elevated stack of pillows. She seemed to consider the idea. “Yes. I’d like that.” Her white hair was messier than usual, adding to the slightly deranged look in her eyes. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her sheet. “Go ahead.”
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