Friday Edition, The (28 page)

It was 12:15 p.m. when Sam arrived at the
Grandview Perspective
for the first time in almost a week. Everyone, apart from Nick Weeks, greeted her warmly. He was talking to David Best when he saw her descend the steps to the newsroom. “Shit,” he said. “She’s back.”

David glared at him. Sam greeted them as she passed David’s desk. She walked to Wilson’s office and poked her head inside. He was in front of his computer typing. He saw her and smiled. “Come in,” he said, removing his glasses.

Sam walked to the desk. She noticed that his tie was loosened slightly against his shirt and his sleeves were rolled up comfortably to his elbows. The dark blue in his shirt and white cuffs made the gray in his hair the color of iron.

“Welcome back,” he said and smiled. “How’s it going?”

“It feels good to be back. Everyone’s been so nice.”

“It’s a good group of people, Sam, and they want you to be okay and they want you to be here.”

He took a moment to study her. Her blond hair fell softly around her shoulders and the cream-color blazer she wore over a black pantsuit brought out the highlights. Wilson noticed for the first time that Sam was wearing lipstick. It made her face come alive. “How do you feel?”

She smiled, but it was weak. “Better,” she said. “I slept most of the night, the first time in nearly a week. But I woke up thinking about Brady. I hate to think how this will affect him.”

“He’ll make it through,” Wilson said, his voice reassuring. “Brady’s a lot stronger and smarter than most people give him credit for, Sam, including us. He’s proved that over the last few days. His own father has never given him the credit he deserves. That’ll come back to haunt him.”

Sam nodded and ran a finger along Wilson’s desk. “I’m trying to keep what I’ve learned out of my mind. It’s the only way I can deal with it for now. I don’t want to think about it. It hurts me and I’m scared.”

“I know, Sam, but be strong. You know now what you have to do. I’ll help you, if you want, but I think you can do it on your own.”

“Guess I’d better stop wasting time,” she said.

“Take your time,” he said. “You’ve got the next few days to write that story.”

When Sam got to the door she turned to look at Wilson. He was busy typing.

“Wilson.”

He looked at her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“For caring enough to help me this weekend. I’m grateful.”

“I can help you, Sam, when it comes to writing the article. But when it comes to doing what you know you have to if you want to get your life together and April back, it’s up to you.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

Moments later Sam was staring at an empty computer screen. She had several reporter’s notebooks in front of her filled with copious notes she had taken during her investigation. But now that it was time to write she was blank about where to begin. Everything was coming at her at once. She felt overwhelmed by everything that had happened since Christmas Eve.

She sifted mindlessly through her notebooks. She set her hands on the keyboard to begin to write a lead. She had been a reporter for nearly eleven years, but now she felt like a cub reporter about to write her first major news story. Her hands were shaking.

She tried writing several leads, but none satisfied her. She killed each file and started over several times. Suddenly she wanted a drink, enough that she salivated.

She buried face in her hands. “Please,” she whispered. “I can’t fall apart now.”

“Sam, are you all right?”

Startled, Sam looked up into David Best’s eyes.

She smiled meekly, embarrassed.

“I’m fine, David, thanks.”

“Just checking,” he said.

She watched him walk to the kitchen before she returned her attention to her computer screen. It was still empty. She looked around the newsroom. No one was looking in her direction. She opened her middle desk drawer slowly and searched the drawer until she found the small, flat, silver thermos.

She pulled it from the drawer and quickly set it between her legs. She scooted her chair close to her desk, feeling terribly guilty. As her gaze flickered toward Wilson’s office Sam slowly opened the thermos. She reached for her empty coffee mug and brought it to her lap and poured. The thermos was empty. She couldn’t decide if she was more angry or relieved, relieved because she didn’t have the willpower to resist the drink and angry because she needed it. It was only when she returned the thermos to the drawer that she saw the white business-size envelope.

She pulled it from the drawer to study it. Nothing was written on the front, but when she turned it over to open it she saw the handwriting. She knew what it was. “Oh, Robin,” she said faintly and ran her hand along her sister’s familiar handwriting. Tears began, but she cleared her throat and swallowed hard, insistent they would not come now.

The envelope belonged to Robin. She had received it when she attended her first AA meeting. Robin had scribbled the name and number of a woman who was leading the group that day, the one Robin wanted to sponsor her. Her name was Ruth.

Sam ran her hand over Ruth’s name and number. She thought of the afternoon before Thanksgiving when Robin came to her office with the envelope, weeks before she died. Robin had kept the envelope all these years, even though she didn’t need it. Robin had asked Sam that day to read the information inside. Robin also invited her to a meeting, but Sam declined, reminding her that she had already attended her one meeting for the year.

Sam was angry with Robin that day for implying she had a problem with alcohol. It embarrassed her now as she thought of that day here at her desk. Her defenses shot up immediately. “
I
don’t have the problem with alcohol that you and everyone else likes to think I do.”

Storyteller.

Robin’s voice came ringing like a crystal bell. She called Sam that because that’s what she was. Only that and nothing more.

A liar.

Sam was sorry now for being so furious with her sister. There was nothing she could do now to change that afternoon.

Except one.

She opened the envelope slowly and pulled out the first brochure. The cover read:

Is AA for Me?

She opened to the first page and began to read.

Answer each question ‘yes’ or ‘no’ the instructions said. Enough ‘yes’ answers will tell you if AA could help you. Sam hesitated before turning the page, unsure whether she wanted to know what the answers might reveal. But Sam thought of April in Washington. She knew she had to do something to change. She took a deep breath and flipped the page to the first question:

“Have I tried to stop drinking for a week or more but could not do it?”

She knew the answer and quickly turned to the next page.

“Have I wished people would stop talking to me about my drinking?”

She hurried on to page four.

“Have I changed drinks to try not to get drunk?”

Sam recalled times she had made her drinks weak, or tried to drink just wine, or just drink on the weekends. Or, or, or. It was always something.

She flipped to page five.

“Do I ever need a drink to get going in the morning?”

Sam remembered what Ruth had often told Robin.

“If we need a drink to start the day, then drinking is a problem.”

Page six.

“Do I envy people who can drink without getting into trouble?”

Page seven.

“Does my drinking cause problems at home?”

Sam swallowed hard, remembering the night she forgot April’s Christmas play. Sam caught the last few minutes of the play. She remembered that April had a smile on her face that beamed as wide as the moon.

“Dear God,” she said as she turned to page eight.

“Do I try to get extra drinks?”

Page nine.

“Have I tried to stop drinking but still got drunk?”

Again Sam remembered what Ruth often said to Robin:
“You’re just kidding yourself, my dear, if you think you can stop with only one drink.”

She turned to page ten.

“Have I missed work because of drinking?”

The day she resigned from the
Denver Post
came to mind as she turned to page eleven.

“Do I have blackouts, times I cannot remember?”

Again she thought of what Ruth said.
“In AA, we learned that blackouts are a sign that we have a drinking problem.”

Sam was ready to turn to page twelve when Anne buzzed her.

“Sam, there’s a Father Ken here to see you.”

“Father Ken?” Sam whispered to herself. “Do I know a Father Ken?”

“Sam,” Anne said. “Are you there?”

“Yes, Anne, I’m here, I’m on my way up.”

Sam covered the AA brochure with a manila folder and headed for the lobby.

“Hello, Samantha,” he said when she reached the front desk.

Sam noticed his white collar, but she did not recognize his face. He had the most gentle, soft-spoken voice she had ever heard. There was something rich and calming about it that put her at ease. She remembered feeling the same way when she met Rey for the first time. Father Ken was a burley, tall man, fortyish, with a thick head of auburn hair and full beard to match.

“Have we met?” Sam asked shaking his hand.

“I came to bring these back to you. And yes, we’ve met, though I suspect you may not remember. I called your office several times last week, but they said you were out,” Father Ken said.

“Yes … yes,” Sam said, trying not to stammer. “I … I was having some problems.”

“Yes, I know,” he said and saw the look of uncertainty in her eyes.

“We talked last week,” he said calmly.

Sam frowned. “We did?”

Nick Weeks entered the reception area and Sam did not want to continue the conversation with him in the lobby.

“Please follow me, Father.”

Within moments they were downstairs in the conference room behind closed doors.

“You said we spoke? When?” Sam asked.

“Last week,” he replied.

“Last week? I don’t remember speaking with you.”

Father Ken laughed gently. There was something reassuring in his laughter.

“You were having a very rough time, Samantha.”

Sam looked at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty.

“I was having a hard week, but how did you know?”

“You were in St. Bernadette’s.”

“When?”

“Thursday afternoon.”

“Thursday afternoon?” she echoed.

She tried to think back, but nothing came to mind. She remembered the last question she had just answered on the AA quiz. “What was I doing there?”

“You were sitting in the last pew in church when I found you.”

“I … I was?”

Father Ken nodded.

“You came in the front door and Sally, our office manager, was on the altar fixing a floral arrangement when you entered. She said you stood by the door a moment, as though you weren’t sure you wanted to enter.

“Sally said you began to walk to the back of the church, but stopped halfway and looked at the altar again. Sally told me you stayed right there for several minutes. She said it made her wonder if you’d been in our church before.”

Sam nodded feeling numb. “I used to go there as a kid. Is there still a small room in the back of the church for candles where people can light them and pray?”

“Yes, it’s still there, Samantha.”

She sat back against the chair. “That must’ve been where I was going. When I was little I’d pray in there…” Sam’s voice faded and she smiled slightly, almost embarrassed. “For the longest time, I always thought God heard my prayers,” she went on, “but when I got older, I realized how foolish I’d been and stopped going to church and praying.”

Father Ken rested his hand lightly over Sam’s. It was warm to the touch and eased the anxiety churning inside her. “God is never far away from any one of us,” he said, reciting his favorite Biblical verse. “In Him we live and move and are.”

“It doesn’t seem like He’s ever been living and moving within me. Is that prayer petition book still there?”

Father Ken nodded.

“Well, I wrote in it once that my mother would come home from Chicago. She finally did and then she killed herself on Christmas morning.”

“I know,” Father Ken said gently. “You told me.”

Sam glared at him in amazement. She put a hand on her chest. “
I
told you? When?”

“Thursday. As I was saying, Sally watched you until you entered the prayer room. And that’s when she came to get me.”

“And when you found me, I was already out of the prayer room and sitting in one of the pews?” Sam asked, trying to piece together a day she didn’t remember.