Living With Regret (7 page)

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so scared and confused. How does something like this happen, and I don’t remember a thing? So many people have come and gone from this room, but no one has been able to tell me anything. Someone’s got to know something,” I cry.

Sam inhales a deep breath, peering up at the ceiling then back to me. “You don’t remember anything?”

“No,” I choke, wiping fresh tears from my cheeks. “Can you help me? It’s a small town; someone’s had to say something. I don’t even remember going to a party or anything from that night.”

“I wish I could, but no one’s saying much about the accident. No one I talk to anyway. Besides, some things are better left buried. Maybe that’s why you can’t remember.” He stops, running his fingers through his hair. “I want to see you through this, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make this better.”

I nod, taking some comfort from his presence.

He pulls the lone guest chair closer to the bed, wrapping his warm hand around mine again. “Get some rest, Rachel. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

When I was younger, I filled that empty cardboard box with Sam, and once I started seeing Cory, there wasn’t room for him anymore. It’s not that I didn’t want him there … Cory wasn’t willing to share the space. Now, I need Sam again. I think I’ve always needed him, and I can’t believe he’s here now.
Please don’t let this be a dream.

June 23, 2013

“READY TO GET OUT OF HERE, TODAY?”

I stare up at Sam, giving him the most honest answer I can. “I have mixed feelings about it. It’ll be nice to see something besides these four walls, but I know there’s going to be things outside of here—in the car, my house and room—that remind me of him. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

He squeezes my hand. “Do you remember when my dad died?”

I nod. I will never forget that day; it was during Sam’s senior year. The same year our friendship began to dissipate. He hadn’t called in weeks, and when my phone finally lit up with his name, I smiled. I missed him, but he’d made it clear that he thought I deserved better than Cory. His call was the last thing I expected. The reason for his call was even less predictable—his father had a heart attack.

“I didn’t sleep in our house again after that. I couldn’t because it held memories, good and bad. I worked day and night to finish the apartment above the shop. I didn’t cry a single tear … I had it in my mind that I never would, but as soon as I went in the house to get my clothes and furniture, I fell apart. I needed it. I needed the memories.” He pauses, running his thumb over my knuckles. “Let yourself grieve, Rachel, because, in the end, it’s the only way you’re going to heal.”

I know he’s right, but it’s going to be painful. I don’t think I’m ready. It’s easier to stay in a certain state of denial, to let him live in my dreams hoping it might actually be real.

When I don’t respond, he continues, “Someone said something to me not long after that still plays in my head every single day. He said, ‘We’ve all been given a life, but we have to make a conscious decision to live it.’ And you know what? He was right. It’s not easy, but it’s what you’re going to need to do.”

His words make sense. Too much sense. I remember seeing him so stoic at his father’s funeral. All I kept thinking was how if he didn’t cry—let out some emotion—he was going to fall apart in the worst way. I gave him a hug that day, told him I was sorry, but he sort of disappeared after that. I always wondered if he’d let himself feel the loss. I feel better knowing he did.

Just as I’m about to respond, Mom walks in, dressed in a pair of black slacks with a perfectly pressed white silk shirt tucked into them. She’s gone back to looking perfect every day… her life has resumed while mine is stuck somewhere between hell and a hard place.

“What’s he doing here?” she asks as soon as she sees Sam sitting next to me. He has stopped by after work every day since that first day he was here, but he came in earlier today because I wanted him here for this. When I was younger, on the days it was just Sam and I, life was good. I felt safe, and he could always put a smile on my face. Worries didn’t exist, not in those moments. I think, by having him with me, maybe today won’t sting so much. Getting out of here and having to face my old life is going to suck, there’s no doubt about that.

“I asked him to come.”

She opens her mouth but bites back her words, considering them carefully while looking between the two of us. “Sam, can you give me a minute with my daughter?”

He looks at me, concern showing all over his face. Our conversation before she walked in wasn’t light, and we didn’t get the opportunity to finish it. I nod, letting him know I’ll be okay. I’ve dealt with my family’s judgment and guidance for years, and this is the least of my worries today. Besides, there’s nothing she can say that’s going to make me turn him away.

As he stands, his hand squeezes mine. My mom watches the whole thing, her disdain written all over her face. A few weeks ago, her behavior might have caused an argument between us, but my body and heart have been drained of all energy. She can think what she wants to think about Sam, but it really doesn’t matter to me.

I listen for the familiar click, curling the hospital sheets between my fingers. I hate when people pass judgment on others based on their family’s social standing or things they’ve heard around town—something that’s especially bad in our small town. It’s like deciding not to read a book because of its cover … there are so many beautiful, meaningful words I would have missed out on if I’d done that.

“Rachel, what are you doing?” Mom asks, rubbing her fingers across her forehead. I’m annoyed that she is so bothered by Sam being here. There are bigger things to worry about.

“What do you want me to say, Mom? I need him here.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Not with the police coming. Do you understand that you could still be facing charges?” She says the last part like it’s a disease. One she wants to run away from. She hasn’t come out and said it, but I feel like an embarrassment to my family. Being a potential felon doesn’t really fit the prim and proper image my parents created, but that doesn’t matter to me, not when I consider what I did to get myself here.

“They’re not going to tack a charge on for hanging out with Sam Shea.”

She opens her mouth, but as soon as her eyes connect with mine, she stops, her eyes warming. “Your father’s going to be here soon. I just think it might be better if it’s just the three of us.”

“I need him here,” I whisper.

She shakes her head. “Your father—”

“I’ll take care of him.” All the little fears I once had have been forgotten, because I’ve faced my greatest. I didn’t even know what my greatest worry was until just days ago. It shows how quickly things can change, and how those things change people. Before this all happened, I did whatever I had to do to keep my parents happy, especially Dad. Things like that just don’t matter anymore.

When Sam walks back in, he ignores the way my mom’s nose wrinkles as her whole body recoils. It only worsens when he takes the seat next to me and rests his hand on my forearm. He’s been doing that since he arrived earlier. Talking to me, lightly touching my arm or squeezing my hand. It feels nice … it’s helping keep at least a part of my mind off of what’s to come today.

All that comfort fades when Dad joins us. Mom may not be Sam's biggest fan, but my dad flat out doesn't like him. He's never really talked to him, but his perceptions of him aren't good. He’s the type of guy who hates foreign cars even though he’s never driven one. The minute he spots Sam, I know this is going to be a battle.

“Sam, I think it’s time for you to go home. This is a family thing.” He stands at the end of my bed like a statue of authority. I'm almost scared into submission, but the thought of being here alone with my parents fuels me.

“He’s not going anywhere,” I say quietly, pleading with my eyes. If we were just at home, he'd push the subject, but I know he won't here. There are too many people within earshot. His reputation, and everything he’s built from it, means too much to him.

“I’m not leaving her,” Sam adds, squeezing my hand tightly. Sam pretty much despises my dad and everything he stands for. He’s also one of the few people in town my dad doesn’t have any hold over. Not much scares Sam.

Not surprisingly, Dad ignores him, and the way his jaw works back and forth tells me he’s not ready to give up just yet. I’m not going to either. “Do you have any idea how important today is? You could still be in a lot of trouble, Rachel.”

I’m being released from the hospital shortly, and my first stop will be the police station. Dad says I probably won’t be booked on any charges because my blood alcohol content was under the legal limit. I’m ready to get it over with, and if I am to be punished, I’m ready to take what God has coming for me. It doesn’t mean I’m not scared.

“That’s exactly why I need him here. This day isn’t about you. It’s about me, and I want him here.”

He shakes his head, glancing to Mom then back to me. “Fine, but when they dismiss you, he needs to go home,” he says through gritted teeth. I don’t miss how he doesn’t seem to care that Sam can hear him. I don't miss the fact that he didn't ask how I was doing when he walked in. I'm about to be thrust back into a life that only half exists; I realize that now more than ever.

“Keith,” Mom says, placing her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Let's go get some coffee. Rachel doesn't need all of us in here watching over her.”

Dad runs his hands through his hair, staring Sam down for a few seconds before answering. “We can grab a quick cup. I want to be up here in case that officer decides to stop by.”

Mom grabs hold of his arm and gives him the look of adoration that always melts his ice-cold exterior.
If only she did that a little more often.
They disappear out the door without another look in my direction. It’s a few minutes of freedom that I’ll gladly take at this point.

“Is that your going home outfit?” Sam asks, pointing to the royal blue velour sweat suit Mom brought for me. I know he’s just trying to lighten the mood we created before.

“Classy sweats. Mom picked them,” I say, pulling on the zipper.

“Yeah, getting caught leaving here in regular sweats would be horrible.” He laughs, but I can’t join him, not with all this stuff going on in my head.

He reads me like a children’s book, folding his fingers over mine. “Everything's going to be okay. You know that, right?”

I shrug, feeling tears well in my eyes. “Nothing can ever be the same, so right now, I have a hard time believing that.”

“I'm only thinking about today. You’re going to get out of here, and tonight, you’re going to sleep in your own bed without all these machines around you.”

“Do you really think I deserve something to look forward to? Because I don’t.”

Sam leans in, grasping both of my hands in his. “Don’t talk like that. You’re lucky to be here … don’t take that for granted.”

I try to pull my hand away, but he tightens his grip. “You’re wrong. I don’t deserve it, Sam. I just wish I could remember something because I never drive after I’ve been drinking. Never. If I could just remember, to make sense of it all, I'd have some peace, but this sucks. This whole thing sucks.”

“I wish there was something I could do to make this better for you.”

It’s a struggle to even swallow, much less talk. “I wish it would have been me instead of him.”

Sam shakes his head, squeezing my hand a little tighter. “I swear if you don’t stop talking like that, I’m going to walk out that door, Rachel. Neither of us knows what caused that accident, and I’m not going to let you beat yourself up about something that’s probably not even your fault.”

It’s hard to look at him when he’s angry. The vein in the side of his neck sticks out, pulsing with every word. His cheekbones turn a couple shades of red. It’s a sign that he’s not saying everything he wants to say to me. He’s been doing that since we were kids.

“But if I wasn’t behind the wheel of the car—”

“Stop! And what if things had been different? What if he was driving the car, and he was here right now? Would you want him to think like this? Would you want him to live like this?”

“No,” I say honestly, tears brimming. Sam doesn’t pour sugar on anything. It’s his best and worst quality.

“There’s a reason you’re here. You may not be able to see it now, but you weren’t left to live a pathetic life. And I’m not going to let you.”

I nod, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“And just as a side note, I wasn’t really going to walk out the door a minute ago.” He smiles sadly, gently brushing his thumb across my cheekbone to clear away fresh tears. It’s hard to not feel at least a little better, especially when he’s being normal Sam.

“I knew you were lying.” I sniffle.

“No, you didn’t. You should have seen your face.”

“Whatever.”

He laughs. It’s deep, and his eyes sparkle at the same time. Nothing more genuine than that. There aren’t very many people who’ve heard it; he shows the masses his darker, mysterious side—the one that hides who he really is.