Sometimes she would ignore the rest of the house, but every week, Mom would go in and vacuum and dust this room, even change the sheets, as if someone actually lived there. But I rarely set foot in here. It felt like a sacred space that shouldn’t be disturbed.
Sam lies down on the bed, in a tucked position. “It’s good to be home,” he says, as if he’s only been away for a few weeks. Then he closes his eyes. He hasn’t said much, but I can still tell there is something different about the way he speaks. Of course he has a deeper voice now, but that’s not what I mean. It’s like everything he says is practiced and careful.
Earl calls for Mom from the kitchen. She turns and looks down the hall, but then back at Sam. She rubs her eyes, like she’s worried she’s hallucinating. Earl shouts again.
Mom sighs. “Will you stay with him?” she asks me. “I need to see what he wants. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She pauses, glances over at Sam one more time. I can tell she probably doesn’t ever want him out of her sight again. But she walks out of the room, leaving the door cracked a smidge. I sit on the floor by the door and lean against the wall, tucking my knees under my arms. Sam’s eyes are still closed, but I know he isn’t asleep. I scrutinize him, like maybe if I stare hard enough I can start to see the boy he was three years ago.
This boy—he’s different. But not just his appearance. That bratty kid is nowhere to be seen. The boy in front of me is quiet, shy. Maybe a little afraid. The Sam I knew loved horror movies. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. I feel a lump in my throat and I swallow.
I know some man had Sam. In Anniston. I don’t know much more than that. Everyone was very deliberate at the conference, and didn’t talk about anything that specific. It was all happiness and excitement and God answering our prayers and miracles.
Finally, Sam opens his eyes. “Beth?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really here. It’s not a dream?”
He sounds so afraid, so unsure of things. That lump in my throat, I feel like it might choke me, so I swallow again, and another time, before I am ready to respond. “It’s not a dream,” I say. “You’re really home.”
He smiles, just a slight smirk. My heart leaps. There is Sam. There he is! But then he closes his eyes, and the old Sam is gone.
I can hear Mom and Earl down the hall, their voices on the phone. I know my friends are probably trying to reach me. Other classmates, too. And Donal. Donal who kissed me earlier, which now feels like a hundred years ago. My phone is likely clogging up with texts, my Facebook wall exploding with messages from friends and even strangers. But I just sit there, watching Sam, hoping we can hold everyone and everything off for a little bit longer. I want to live in this quiet bubble.
A little later, Mom comes back to Sam’s room. She whispers, “Is he asleep?”
Sam opens his eyes and looks right at her. “No,” he says. She goes to the bed and crawls behind him and clutches him, and he closes his eyes and leans back into her. I keep waiting for Mom to cry, but she just strokes his hair, her eyes closed, that contented smile on her face. Mom smiling is such an odd sight that she looks weird, almost crazy.
I leave them and go to my room and shut the door. It’s only eight or so, not bedtime, but I feel so tired from everything that has happened. Like I could sleep for days.
===
I wake with a start, not sure how long I’ve been out. I look at my clock and see that it’s a little after midnight. But I’m not sleepy at all now. I have a feeling I’ve missed something important.
I get off my bed and open my bedroom door. I look down the hall and see light coming from the kitchen. In the other direction, Sam’s bedroom door is shut, but a strip of light still glows under the door. I think about knocking, but then I hear Mom’s voice. I creep closer but I can’t really make out what she’s saying. Then I smell cigarette smoke from the other direction. I walk to the kitchen and there’s Earl sitting at the table. He’s got a cigarette lit and has a glass of brown liquid in front of him. Mom had said no smoking in the house, especially since she’d quit last year. Normally, the smell of smoke bothers me. But Earl deserves whatever he wants.
I sit down and he smiles at me. He looks so tired, his normally thick reddish-blond hair limp, little bags under his eyes, his usually well-trimmed beard a little scruffy. He’s always looked so robust to me, but tonight he seems flattened.
“You should be in bed,” he says.
“I fell asleep for a bit. But now I’m not tired.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Mom’s still in there with him,” I say.
Earl nods, takes a drag from his cigarette, exhales. “He can’t sleep. He didn’t want her to leave him.”
On TV, people always say “I need a drink” after a rough day, so I reach and take a sip of Earl’s and he doesn’t stop me. It burns going down, but I like it. I look at him and he shakes his head. I crack a slight smile. We sit there in silence for a bit, enjoying the peace. I guess the news vans are long gone, or else shut down for the night.
“Your father called,” Earl says.
I try not to look surprised, but I am. I’d almost forgotten about him. After the divorce, when I was nine, he’d moved all the way to Ohio, where my grandparents—his parents—lived. He visited once each summer, for three years running, but that stopped—he always had an excuse. He called at Christmas and sent birthday cards with measly checks inside and swore he wanted us to visit him in Columbus, but no real invitation ever came.
“He wanted to speak to Sam, but your mother wouldn’t let him. Not yet.”
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to ask the question that comes next, but asking anyway: “Did he ask to speak to me?”
Earl looks down at his drink. “I don’t know.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he knows I don’t want to hear any crap.
“Whatever. I don’t care,” I say.
I do care about Earl, though. He’s been in my life for seven years now. And for the last three years, more of a dad than my supposed real father. When he fell in love with my mom, she came with two kids he had to deal with. Then one kid vanished, and his wife turned into a different sort of woman than the one he married—distraught, bitter, sad, obsessed.