I return to my office and see child after sick child. At three months I am barely showing, but on my thin frame it’s enough for many of these balding and listless children to comment on it, pat my belly and ask if I have a baby in there. Yes, I reply, there’s a baby in there. Do you want to feel her kick? I ask even though it’s way too early for that. And I let their little hands rest on my belly.
I’m finding it difficult for the first time to do my job; my dread grows from the minute I step through the hospital door. And there is guilt, too—not an emotion I am overly familiar with. Because I know that if John had lived, this child would not have. It was in our agreement: no children. How can you weigh one life against another? Yet that is what I have done. And decided.
32
Samantha
“I CAN’T HELP BUT THINK that people are laughing at me, and I resent that,” I tell Peter. It’s after dinner and we’re lounging in our living room. That’s a grand name for the ten-by-ten-foot box that barely holds our sofa and CD collections. “I want to be taken seriously for the first time in my life, and it just ain’t happening.”
“For starters, lose the pigtails,” Peter says. “People will naturally disrespect you if you don’t act a little less like an ingénue.”
I try not to show how stung I am by his remark. I really need to be less thin-skinned. Certainly in my job there’s no room for hurt feelings. Then I have an idea.
“You be Deborah,” I say. “I’m interviewing her tomorrow, and I’m a bit weirded out by the prospect. Let’s do some role-playing.” I move to a chair that is facing Peter as he sits on the couch. “Go on,” I say. “Hit me with the worst you’ve got.”
Peter thinks for a moment. Then he dramatically arches an eyebrow. “Child, how dare you step on my precious carpet!”
“Seriously, dude,” I say. “I’m asking for your help here.”
“Okay, okay,” says Peter. He pauses, obviously considering what I’ve told him about the case.
“Why question me again?” he barks.
I’m startled, but I try to come back fast. “Because I have more questions,” I say.
“These sound like the same questions to me,” he says. “Doesn’t the Palo Alto police force have a more . . . mature . . . officer they could send?”
He manages to say this with the exact right mixture of scorn and anger to rile me.
“I’m it, baby,” I say. “Get used to it.”
Peter frowns. “Not professional. Try again.”
His curtness is getting to me, but I comply. “I am the detective assigned to this case,” I say.
“Most detectives would have collected all the information they needed in the first interview,” Peter says next. “Why do you keep calling me in? It’s sheer incompetence. Or laziness. Or lack of purpose.”
He spits out those words, putting special emphasis on the last phrase. Lack of purpose. It hits me in the gut.
“I’m doing the best job I can,” I say, and immediately regret it. I sound weak, almost pleading.
“‘I’m doing the best job I can, ’” Peter mimics. I’m uncomfortably aware of how accurately he has captured my pathetic facial expression, my tone. “Well, your best isn’t good enough,” he says.
“Answer my questions or . . . or . . .” I say. I can’t think of what to threaten him with, my arsenal is so poor.
“Or you’ll quit?” asks Peter. “That would be pretty much par for the course. We’d get to close another chapter of Sam Adams’s not-so-young-anymore life.”
Silence. I find I can hardly breathe. Peter is sitting back with a smile on his face. He knows he’s scored.
“Peter?” I ask finally. “Where’s all this coming from?”
“What?” he says, opening his eyes wide. “I’m Deborah. Being a bitch. Like you wanted me to.” He is still smiling.
“No, you were being Peter. And I had no idea you were this angry.” I am genuinely shaken.
“Deborah’s the angry one,” he says. He won’t look at me.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “And the scariest part isn’t that you meant what you said, but that you were enjoying yourself. That hurt, dude. Seriously.”
Peter doesn’t say anything. We are both exhausted and ashamed. Bad idea on my end, to open the door to honesty. Destructive stuff. Such behavior, such words, even if said in jest or role-playing, have the potential to poison.
33
Samantha