And Sam offers up his answers. It feels great. It was amazing, incredible.
Then there’s a pause. Ms. Winters, who had been smiling gently, furrows her brows, moving from pleasant to serious. “Sam, how did you survive those three years? What got you through each day?”
He doesn’t say anything right away, but when he does his voice is nervous, spoken in that oddly clipped way that I noticed earlier. “I just never gave up hope.”
Ms. Winters looks like she’s about to ask a follow-up, but Sam keeps going. “I mean, at times I thought about giving up hope. But I kept thinking. Of Mom, and my sister. And my stepdad. My dad. My aunt and my friends. I knew they were searching for me. I knew they weren’t giving up. So I knew I couldn’t give up, either.”
“And how has it been since you’ve been back?”
“I mean . . . It’s only been a few days. But I’m so happy. I’m so . . . happy.” I turn and look at him, and he’s smiling. But something about it is weird. It’s not at all how he used to smile. It hits me that he’s only telling her what she wants to hear. What we all want to hear. That’s he’s just fine and dandy.
Sam is lying to all of us.
My stomach tightens. Why would he lie? To protect us from something? A prickle of coldness moves through my body.
“Do you feel like a different person than when you last saw your family?”
He closes his mouth and nods right away. “I feel like I’ve grown up a lot over the years.”
She nods, then frowns again. “Do you think, after all this, that you’ll ever have a normal life?”
His hand tightens in mine. “Sure. I hope so. That’s what I want. A normal life.”
That would be a good place to end, but Ms. Winters looks at me, and my heart starts to thud. She asks me predictable, dull questions, and I try not to stammer. My voice sounds scared and breathless—the way it does when I have to give class presentations. I wish I were back at school, with my classmates and friends, not here, under the lights, soon to be watched by millions of people. Ms. Winters gets that serious face she gave to Sam, and I brace myself.
“Beth, it must have been hard, these past three years.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, glancing over briefly at Mom, who’s giving me a reassuring smile.
“Did you ever give up hope?”
My mouth goes dry and tight. “Uh, well.”
I can feel the force of Mom’s eyes on me, like she’s trying to tell me something telepathically. And Sam—his hand is still tight in mine.
“No, ma’am,” I say. “I never gave up hope.”
“You always thought Sam was alive?”
My gut twists. I can’t tell the truth—not on national TV. I nod. “Yes, ma’am. I knew he was alive. I knew he’d come home.” I turn and smile at Sam, and he rests his head on my shoulder for a second. A perfect, tear-jerking moment.
Right then a director guy yells, “Okay, let’s stop here!” A few of the lights dim and my relief is instant. Ms. Winters comes over to us on the couch. “That was very brave,” she says. “You’re a brave young man.”
Sam nods, bashful.
“And you too, young lady,” she says, but it seems like she’s giving me this skeptical look, like she can see right through the lies I just told. Still, she smiles, like she understands why I did it.
“I’m going to talk to your parents alone now, okay?” she asks, as if we have any say about it.
Mom and Earl hug Sam and me, and then one of the producers motions for us to head toward the door, where Mr. Walker is standing. “Can I stay and watch?” I ask. Mr. Walker looks over at Mom and Earl, and the room pauses. “Please?”
Earl mutters something to Mom that I can’t hear.
Mr. Walker, in his booming voice, says, “I can watch Sam.”
Mom nods. “You can stay.”
“Okay then,” Mr. Walker says. “I’ll take Sam back to the suite for a snack. Would you like that?”
Sam walks over to him, silent.
I’m not sure how much time has passed today. It seems like minutes, could be hours—who knows? After some more touch-ups, they start filming again. I stand in the back of the room, out of the reach of the lights.
Ms. Winters gets right down to it. “Sam was with this man, Russell Lee Hunnicutt, for over three years. During those years, do you have any idea what he went through?”
Mom: “Well, yes, we have some idea, from the police and sheriffs and social workers and county prosecutors. But Sam hasn’t talked about it. We’re just giving him time. When he wants to talk about it, he will.”
Ms. Winters nods, but her face is still the picture of seriousness. “I’m just going to go ahead and ask it. Was Sam sexually abused?”
The room feels suddenly stuffy, stuffier than when I was under the lights. Sweat pools on my forehead, and I wipe it with my sleeve.
There’s silence, before Mom says, “Yes.”
The word lands like a punch and I feel myself teeter where I’m standing. I lean against an armchair that has been pulled aside from the main set. My stomach churns like I might get sick.
Ms. Winters: “Was Sam tortured?”
Earl: “We don’t know that yet.”
Mom: “We don’t know specifics.” She sniffles, starting to cry.
Earl: “There’s more than one kind of torture. There’s physical torture, then there’s mental torture.”
“Was he brainwashed?” she asks. “By some accounts, Sam had opportunities to escape. He had some freedoms.” She cocks her head.
He did?
Mom wipes her eyes and takes a breath. She doesn’t look sad now—she seems kind of pissed, as if Ms. Winters is accusing Sam of something.
It’s too hot in here. I think I might puke. I can’t take it anymore.
I leave the room. I move down the hallway, and push the button for the elevator a few times before it comes. I take it all the way down to the lobby and then race through and out the door. Once I take in the cool air, I feel like I can breathe a little easier.
I head toward the park, past an apartment building with a doorman out front, his hands cupped behind his back. When I get to Fifth Avenue, Central Park is across the street. When the signal changes, I cross, searching for an entrance, careful to remember the way I came so I don’t get lost. When I find a way in I walk along a path lined with iron benches. On a patch of lawn in the shade of some trees, a few squirrels scurry about, seemingly unconcerned about the people just feet from them. There are a ton of people out—bikers, joggers, a few women pushing strollers. People who are leading carefree, wonderful, glamorous New York lives. I walk along the path, trying to pretend that I’m one of them, a New Yorker just out for a stroll.
But soon I slow down. Because I know I’m not like these other people. And what I heard earlier in the hotel—I can’t forget it. Those words land on me again like a slap. “Yes,” Mom had said. Sam had been abused. And I can see her stricken face again, and my heart lurches. I can’t pretend that this horrible thing hasn’t happened to Sam. To my family.