He starts another series of reps, imagining the live studio audience cheering his bravery for surviving an entire week without Annie. One week, that’s how long Sam’s been in this room. He’s been keeping track on the hand-drawn October calendar Annie made, which he found folded inside the academic paper Albert also brought up from downstairs. Pink-and blue-shaded boxes, “Visits to Yo Mama!” written across the top in Annie’s perfect handwriting. Each morning Sam makes a light mark, keeping track of another day.
Annie’s one of the smartest people Sam has ever met, which means that it’s only a matter of time before she knocks on the door of Sam’s (lonely and apparently deranged) landlord to ask if he’s seen Sam. Or maybe she won’t even have to knock. Maybe she’ll drive by and see Sam’s car in the driveway—because where else would it be? She’ll do the smart thing and call the police, who will confirm that it’s Sam’s car, and then open the door and ask if he’d like to go home.
Then again, maybe she’s not looking. Maybe, instead, she’s discovered the variety of ways he’s been lying to her. Chances are she’s going to open the credit card bills that are likely arriving in their mailbox, addressed to her missing husband. He hates himself for chickening out and not telling her the truth like he’d planned. The events of that evening have been on repeat in his head—the speech he’d rehearsed all day, preparing to spill everything. The made-up money. The credit card debt. The fact he hasn’t visited his mother. And then the invitation from “Charlie” arrived, which Annie had obviously sent from their driveway, inviting him to trade in all his worries for an evening of incredible sex. How could he say no?
His triceps are stinging as he slides his casts to the edge of the ottoman and then onto the floor. Using his hands, he pulls himself around the room, from one stupid end to the other, dragging his useless legs behind him. He passes the door to the hallway (locked!), the wall with the window (boarded up!), pausing after the tenth lap to catch his breath. When he rotates the chair and begins to move again, he notices a flash of silver on the floor underneath the nightstand. The toilet flushes upstairs, and he checks the clock on the floor: 8:46 p.m. Albert will be down any minute to put him into bed. Quietly, Sam scoots himself forward to the nightstand. He reaches down.
A four-inch putty knife. The sharp metal edge is sticky with wallpaper paste; the sturdy wooden handle is emblazoned with the logo of the hardware store on Main Street. HOYTS HARDWARE: OPEN EVERY DAY ’TIL 6!
He hears Albert’s tread on the stairs, and slips the putty knife under his hip, then scoots his chair back in place next to the table. He gets his legs onto the ottoman just as the door opens. Albert enters backward, pulling the cart behind him.
“Good evening, Doctor,” Albert says, pressing the brake on the cart. “You’re looking robust.”
Sam smiles. “Feeling great,” he says.
“That’s what I like to hear. Time to get you into bed.” Albert approaches him, arms outstretched.
“Would you mind . . .” Sam gestures toward the bottom of the cart.
Albert stops abruptly. “Already? You went an hour ago.” He shakes his head as he gets the bedpan. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you that extra glass of milk so late in the day.” He places the bedpan on Sam’s lap. “I’ll wait outside.”
Albert closes the door behind him, and Sam waits a moment before easing the putty knife from under his hip and sliding it down the front of his sweatpants. His hands are shaking as he picks up the bedpan and waits.
“All good?” Albert says, opening the door an inch.
“False alarm, I’m afraid,” Sam says.
“Probably stage fright,” Albert says, entering. “I’ll leave it here on your table.”
Albert pushes Sam’s chair close to the bed, hoists him up, setting him gently onto the mattress. “Either I’m getting weaker or you’re gaining some weight,” Albert says, standing up and massaging his lower back.
“It’s all the good food,” Sam says.
Albert laughs and pats Sam’s arm. “You keep it up, you’ll be able to get up and walk right out of here in no time at all.”
As Albert grips the handle of the cart and heads toward the door Sam chuckles, feeling the hard edge of the putty knife against his thigh. “Won’t that be something?”
Chapter 38
Thistle, I scrawl.
Lavender.
Oil of—
A thick black box appears on the screen, covering the rest of the list.
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I close the website and shake my head. The Pigeon was right: consumerism is destroying our culture. She wrote that on Facebook yesterday, posted it under a photograph of a large pile of plastic floating somewhere in the Pacific. Only someone without a soul could see that and not respond with a frowny emoji. (I recently read online about a growing movement of people who believe emojis were created to stifle humans’ ability to express emotion, which is certainly something to consider.) I return to the search bar and am typing in What is thistle? when the alarm on my watch beeps. I drop my pen and reach for my blue apron. Back to work.
*
“Come in,” Sam calls when I knock.