I'm Not Sam (7 page)

“She does look a lot like me,” she says. 

I say nothing. 

There are three pages of photos I took at the St. Augustine Alligator Farm back in our 2008 vacation and these seem to fascinate her. The crocks and turtles, the albino alligators, the wild bird rookery, the Komodo Dragon. She’s forgotten Sam entirely. 

I turn to some of the older family photos. My mother and father, my brother Dan, her parents on her father‘s birthday. She doesn’t seem interested in these at all. 

“They’re nice,” she says. “Can we watch the elephants?” 

I’m awakened by Lily’s voice. 

“Patrick? I’m scared.” 

She’s turned on the light in the hall behind her and she’s standing in the doorway in her Curious George pajamas, hands and cheek pressed to the doorjamb like she’s hugging it. I’m still woozy from sleep but through the open window I can hear what’s bothering her. 

Above the chirping of crickets, the wind’s whipping the howling and yipping of a pack of coyotes across the river. They’ll try to take cows down now and then over there and they tend to like to celebrate when they do. There seem to be a lot of them tonight, and the mix is eerie, from the long sonorous wolf-like wail of the adults to the staccato
yip yip yip
of the young. Which sounds for all the world like demented evil laughter.  

Even the crickets sawing away in the darkness sound vaguely sinister tonight. 

No wonder she’s scared. Even to my ears it’s spooky. 

She looks so vulnerable standing there. Shoulders hunched, legs pulled tight together, her thumbnail pressed against her upper front teeth. More like a kid in some ways than I’ve yet seen her. So much less of Sam, so much more of Lily. 

Almost like the daughter we’ll never have. 

“It’s okay. It’s just a bunch of coyotes. They can’t hurt you. They’re way out there over across the river.” 

“Patrick?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know you’re scared but you don’t have to be. To them it’s a kind of music, like singing, only because we’re not them, it sounds weird, a little scary. That‘s all.” 

“Singing?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I don’t like it.” 

“Try to go back to sleep, Lily. They really can’t hurt you. Honest.” 

“Can I…could I stay with you, Patrick?” 

I want her to. I don’t want her to. 

Contradictions slam together. 

“You’ll be fine over there, Lily.” 

“No I won’t.” 

“Sure you will.” 

“No I won’t. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t wriggle around or anything. I promise.” 

I can hear the tremble in her voice. Almost like a desperation there. She really is scared. 

“Okay,” I tell her. I scoot over to the far side of the bed by the window. She scampers to the bed as though the floor’s on fire and hops in. Throws the light summer bedcovers over her shoulders and snuggles up next to me. She’s shaking. 

It’s automatic. I put my arm around her and then her head is resting on my shoulder. 

I haven’t done anything like this for days. 

It makes me almost light-headed. 

It’s as though this is Sam again, as always. As though nothing’s changed. But one thing reminds me that everything’s changed. 

Her hair. 

When Sam comes to bed and we hold one another close like this I’m always aware of the faint traces of shampoo in her hair, Herbal Essence or Aussie Mega. It’s a clean smell, as familiar to me as the scent of her breath or the feel of her skin beneath my hand. 

Lily hasn’t shampooed today. 

It’s not a bad smell, just flat and slightly musky. But it’s not Sam’s smell, not at all. 

I’ll have to remind her in the morning. Shampoo your hair. 

Meantime, if I close my eyes, the rest of her is Sam. My hand on her arm, her cheek on my shoulder, her leg against mine. 

Lily keeps her promise. She doesn’t wriggle. 

But it’s a long time before I’m able to sleep. And it isn’t the coyotes. 

In my dream I’m telling somebody or other at somebody’s dinner table how extraordinary I think it is that I’ll die someday, just disappear tonight or tomorrow or whenever, and I’m wondering out loud just what will disappear along with me when I do. I awake with a raging hard-on tenting up the covers and a sense of puzzlement that one should somehow coincide with the other. 

Mercifully Lily’s already up. 

It makes no real sense and actually the thought’s briefly annoying but I’d rather she not see this. So I peer out into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear before I head for the bathroom. Then standing there peeing I wonder if she’s
already
seen it. It’s possible. 

The call from Doc Richardson comes at nine-thirty. 

“She tested out just fine, Patrick. Is she still…?” 

“Yeah. She’s still Lily.” 

I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. If it were a brain-thing it might be treatable. But then again… 

He sighs. “Well, there’s nothing physically wrong with her. Everything looks perfectly normal. Have any other personalities appeared?” 

“No.” 

“And no sign of Sam at all, I assume.” 

“None.” 

“Then I think you need to have her see a therapist. I’m out of my league here. But I know a good one. Have you got a pen?” 

I write down the woman’s name, address and phone number. I do it mostly for the doc’s sake. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to use the information. Call it pride or stubbornness -- I want to see this through on my own if I can. I’ll keep it by the phone as a last resort. 

“Thanks for what you did at the hospital, Doc.” 

“My pleasure. Hey, they owe me. Good luck with the therapist. And keep me posted, all right? You know I‘m very fond of Sam.” 

“I know. I will.” I thank him and hang up. 

I’m thinking that with or without a therapist, this could take a while. 

Lily’s on the couch, nibbling from a box of raisin bran. Her left arm’s poking out of a paisley scarf. Her sling. Herman the Human Cannonball is about to be launched by the gang over at Sesame Street. 

“Lily, as soon as the show is over I want you to run a tub for your bath, okay? And be sure to wash your hair. You forgot yesterday.” 

“Okay.” 

She doesn’t seem the least distressed so I’m guessing she missed the woody. 

I go back to the phone and speed-dial the coroner’s office. 

“Miriam, hi. It’s Patrick Burke. Listen, I wasn’t being completely truthful when we spoke. In fact I wasn’t telling you the truth at all -- I don’t know why. There’s no flu. Never was. Physically, Sam’s fine. This is…something else…” 

“You mean like a breakdown?” 

“I guess that’s what you’d call it, yes.” 

“God, I’m so sorry, Patrick. Are you all right? I mean…” 

“The two of us are fine, Miriam. Well, we’ll
be
fine once she gets through all this. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give her a leave of absence for a while.” 

“Absolutely. You take all the time you need. Your wife works like a soldier. She deserves it. Can I speak with her? Would that be okay, do you think?” 

“I don’t think so. She’s pretty fragile at the moment. Maybe in a week or so.” 

“Is she seeing somebody, getting therapy?” 

“Yes.” 

Two lies inside of twenty minutes. Not bad, Patrick. I give her the therapist’s name just to seal the deal. 

“Good. Well, give Sam my best, will you? From all of us. And if there‘s anything I can do…” 

“I will.” 

And that lie makes three. 

I’m at the drafting table working on Samantha duking it out with The Torque, trying to keep her from going all svelte on me again, when I’m aware that the television’s gone off and there’s water running in the tub. A little while after that I can hear her splashing around in there. She’s left the door open. 

“Lily?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Close the door. And don’t forget to wash your hair!” 

“You do it” 

“What?” 

“You do it. I get soap in my eyes.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“I do too. You do it, Patrick.” 

She’ll be naked in there. 

I tell myself that I’m being silly. That’s my wife in there and I’ve seen her naked thousands of times.
Get a grip, Patrick.
 

“All right. I’m coming.” 

I finish crosshatching Torque’s ugly mug, get up and walk to the bathroom. 

She’s sitting in soapy water up to her breasts, small peaked islands in the waves. Beneath the water I can see her pubic hair. She hasn’t depilated in a while so it drifts like tiny dark strands of seaweed. Her left thigh is under water but her right leg’s bent so she can get at the toes, which she’s soaping vigorously. It tickles. She giggles. Her thigh gleams. 

There’s a small line of soap like soul patch on her chin so I wipe it off with my finger. 

“You ready?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Duck under.” 

She tilts her head back into the water and comes up sputtering, wiping her eyes. Meanwhile I’ve got the shampoo off the shelf. I pour some into the palm of my hand and smooth it into both hands, kneel beside the tub and work it into her smooth fine hair. She smiles at me. 

“Don’t get it in my eyes, Patrick.” 

“I won’t.” 

And I’m careful not to. But I can’t help thinking of our last real night together, starting with our shower, starting with me shampooing her hair just as I‘m doing now. 

Then telling her
turn around, I’ll do your back. 

She does. I wash her back, her ass, her breasts, her stomach. She raises her arms and I wash her armpits, her arms, then her back and ass again, into the crack of her ass, into her cunt. She soaps her own hand and reaches down to me. 

This is not a good place to go. 

She’s looking up at me with those very innocent eyes. 

I turn on the water behind her. Fiddle with the hot and cold until it’s luke. 

“Okay, rinse. Close your eyes.” I’m trying to keep the thickness out of my voice. 

I cup my hands, collect the fresh tap water and pour. Collect and pour. Over and over again until her hair is clean and shiny. She stands up, raises her arms and smoothes her hair back off her forehead. The gesture is so
Sam
it floors me for a moment but only for a moment because with her arms raised I can see the dark stubble in her armpits. Three days growth now. Sam shaves every day. 

I wonder if Lily’s noticed. 

While she’s toweling off I go into her room and retrieve yesterday’s tee shirt, socks and panties. 

The panties are stained again, worse than before. 

I’ll have to talk to her. 

“Dad?” 

“Pat? Hey, how are you? 

My father is Daniel Patrick Burke and he and my mother are the only people in the world allowed to call me Pat. 

I don’t phone him nearly enough. But he’s good about it. I think he understands. 

“I’m okay. How about you?” 

“Not bad. Got a little golf in this morning. I’ll never be any good at the damn game but it gets me off my butt now and then. My partner was Bill Crosby. He asked about you, sends his best.” 

Bill always does. Like my father he’s a retired schoolteacher. Only my father taught math in Tulsa while Bill taught history in the Bronx. Bill’s a little rougher around the edges. 

“Tell him I said hi.” 

“I will.” 

There’s a pause on the other end and I hear the flick of a lighter. My father’s Zippo. My dad’s got emphysema. He shouldn’t be smoking at all but he figures half a pack a day will buy him a little more time than two packs would. He’s content to leave it at that for now. 

“How’s the weather been?” 

“You know, sunny Sarasota. Weather’s fine. I just wish the snowbirds would hurry up and go home. You can’t get a parking space anywhere in this damn town. I went to visit your mother yesterday and then decided to grab a bite to eat. I had to walk five blocks to the Bonefish Grille and then waited half an hour for a table. Sometimes I think everybody down here’s from Minnesota.” 

So here comes the inevitable. The dreaded question. The reason I don’t call too often. But I have to ask. 

“How’s Mom?” 

I hear him pull hard on his Winston. 

“She asked me who I was, Pat.” 

He lets it lie there a moment. On this end, I’m frozen. 

“Sometimes she knows me and sometimes she doesn’t. I wanted to take her out for some ice cream. You know she loves ice cream. They tell me that’s typical. That with Alzheimer’s the sweet tooth goes last. But she gets so confused, you know? She wanted to get a sweater even though I told her she didn’t need one. She couldn’t find her own clothes closet. She went looking in the bathroom.”