“What?”
“Her phone went straight to voice mail. Things never change. The boyfriends always come first.”
“Relax. It’s not even noon yet.”
“She usually gets home by ten.”
“Well, maybe this guy’s special.”
“They’re all special.”
That’s when her phone rang.
It was all so strange, almost as if we’d been walking along in one direction and all of a sudden we were going in another and we were suddenly on an unfamiliar road, finding our way in the dark, and we didn’t know where we were going anymore. We’d been so sure of ourselves, but now we were lost. Lost like we’d never been lost before. I heard Sam’s voice as she answered the telephone—?“Yes, this is Samantha Diaz . . .”—?and I watched as Sam kept nodding, and then the tears came flooding down her face and she kept whispering in disbelief, “But how, when, no no.” And then she looked at me with those pleading, hurt eyes, asking me to tell her that this wasn’t real, that it wasn’t happening, and she whimpered, “Sally, Sally, Sally. She’s dead, Sally, she’s dead.”
I remembered what Dad said when we’d picked Sam up from Walgreens that night. “I gotcha,” I whispered. “I gotcha, Sam.” And I held her.
Sam and Me and Death
WHAT DID I know about death? Hell, I didn’t even know very much about life. Sam sobbed on my shoulder as I called Dad. “Are you almost home?”
“I’m at the airport.”
I was trembling, and crying too—?though I didn’t know why I was crying. Yes, I did know. I was scared. I was so scared. And I couldn’t stand it. That the hurt in Sam was so bad.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sylvia, Dad. She and her boyfriend . . .”
“She and her boyfriend what, Salvie?”
If I said the words, the whole thing would be true. And I didn’t want it to be true.
“Salvie?”
Then I blurted out the words. “They were killed in a car accident.”
My dad was quiet on the other end of the phone. “Where’s Sam?”
“She’s here.”
“Good,” Dad said. “Does her aunt know?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’s Sam?”
“She’s crying on my shoulder.”
“She’s going to need that shoulder. Call her aunt. I’m about to board the plane.”
“Dad?”
“What, son?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Dad.” I was trying to keep myself from falling apart, but I knew Sam needed me, so I just took a swallow, like I was drinking a glass of water and a Tylenol, and made myself stop shaking. “Dad, just come home.”
“The flight’s only an hour,” he said. “Just stay calm.”
Sam and I hung on to each other. That’s what we did, we hung on to each other. “I’m here, Sam. I’m here. I’m always gonna be here.”
“Promise,” she whispered.
“Promise.”
I thought of Sylvia.
Sylvia would never be coming back. Not ever.
I thought of my mom.
Part Three
Somehow, because she was all over the map, it helped me to not be all over the map. That didn’t make sense, but me and Sam, what we had, well, it had a logic all its own.
WFTD = Comfort
WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN the time I called Dad and the time he arrived, well, I’m not very clear about that. I remember Sam sitting in my dad’s reading chair, stunned or numb or—?I don’t know, I can’t explain. Everything was I don’t know, I can’t explain. Everything. I do remember that Sam got into the shower. I could hear her sobbing through the walls. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know exactly what was going on in her heart—?some kind of riot, I think. Maybe she was fighting with herself, feeling guilty because she and her mother had had such a difficult relationship—?a relationship that was almost unkind. Difficult. I guess sometimes love is difficult and complicated. Guess I’d known that. But no, I hadn’t known that.
I don’t think I’d ever seen pain written on a face. Not that kind of pain. It was something awful. And I had this thing going on in the pit of my stomach, and it wouldn’t go away.
I remember asking Sam for her aunt’s number. “Her name’s Lina,” Sam whispered as she handed me her cell. I must have called her—?but I don’t remember. I must have called her, because she showed up at the door and I know Sam didn’t call her. I think I knew she existed, but I’d never met her. She looked like Sylvia—?only she was a little older. And she seemed a lot softer than Sylvia. She looked at me and I looked at her. “So you’re Sal?” she said.
I nodded.
I invited her in. But not with words. She looked around the room. She smiled at me. “I haven’t seen your father for a while.”
“He’s on his way back from Scottsdale.”
She nodded. “Yes. Sylvia told me your grandmother is sick.”
I nodded.
Her voice was soft. “I’m sorry. Maybe she’ll get better.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Sam’s just getting out of the shower.”
“Sylvia said you are a very sweet boy.”
I shrugged. I tried to imagine Sylvia saying something like that.
I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. We didn’t exactly know each other. It was clear that she knew something about me—?but not much. I didn’t particularly care for being reduced to a sweet boy. My father saying things like that to me was one thing, but a stranger? Anyway, it wasn’t true. And why the hell was I thinking this crap while Sam was in the other room with a heart that would never be unwounded again? Maybe her heart would never heal. Maybe the hurt would live in her forever. So why in hell was I thinking such stupid and shallow things?
I had my head bowed. I was silent. I felt like an idiot. I felt her eyes on me. Sam’s aunt.
“Are you hungry?” Her voice was kind.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I didn’t know anything.
She smiled. “Where’s your kitchen?” She looked up, and I knew Sam had walked into the room. I turned around and saw that strange and sad look on Sam’s face. I watched her and her Aunt Lina stare at each other for what seemed a long time. Something was being said. Something important. Something that had to be said without words.
And then Sam’s aunt was holding her. Silent tears falling down both their faces.
The world had changed. And this new world was quiet and sad.
Somehow we wound up in the kitchen. Sam seemed calmer. Too calm. She wasn’t a calm person, and it scared me that she could be that way. I kept studying her. And finally she said, “You’re staring. It’s creeping me out.”
I smiled. The Sam I knew was still there. “Sorry.”
Sam’s aunt opened the refrigerator. “Your dad keeps a well-stocked kitchen.”
“We like to cook,” I said.
“Call me Lina,” she said. “That’s what Samantha calls me.”
I nodded. She was like my Aunt Evie. She took charge. Sam and I had managed to hold things together. We’d managed—?but it was hard to manage when you didn’t know what to do. Lina seemed to know exactly what to do. She had more experience with these things than we did. And right now, experience mattered.
“You like tortillas?”
“Yeah, there’s some in the fridge.”
“Not those,” she said.