He lights up when I say this, and for the first time that day he smiles. And I picture him and Sam, together, and I feel grateful toward this kid. For maybe being the one bit of brightness in this horrible life Sam had with that horrible man.
Mrs. Johnson drives up right then. Has it really been an hour? Tony sees her, too, and his smile vanishes. She steps out of the car and waves at us. Together, we walk to the parking lot. Before she says anything, Tony says, “Beth says maybe I can visit one day, and see Sam.”
She gives me a kind, sad smile, like she knows this probably won’t happen but appreciates me saying it anyway. “Thanks again for speaking with Tony. With us.”
Tony steps toward me and I’m surprised when he hugs me. At first I don’t know how to respond, but I hug him back. I feel a lump in my throat as I pat him on the shoulder. I pull back from him, not wanting him to see me upset, so I wave and start walking across the parking lot. When I’m almost to my car, I hear Tony shout, “Wait!” I look over as he opens the door to the backseat of his mom’s car and digs around until he pulls out a manila folder. He jogs over to me. “Here.”
“What is this?” I say. When I open it I see it’s full of drawings. Drawings of me, of Mom. Of Dad. Even Earl. Drawings of our house. Drawings of Sam, all of us together. Some are just pencil, but some are in color. They’re really good. And there are so many of them. Sam must have spent hours on these. I feel an ache in my chest, thinking of him in that awful place, finding these moments to draw—to draw us. His family.
“Sam gave me these to hold on to. He told me that Rusty didn’t like him drawing pictures of his aunt and cousin and stuff. I guess it makes sense now.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Ho nods, gives me another smile. “Bye for now,” he says.
After they drive off, I get into the warmth of the car. I look through the drawings again, more closely. Happy scenes of family life—all of us posed in front of the house. Mom and Sam under the oak tree in the backyard. Then there are these solo portraits. I come to a picture of me, from the waist up, and I can tell this is Sam’s attempt to imagine me older. Didn’t he tell me he tried to do this, but he threw them away, that they were no good? In the picture, my hair is shorter, like I wore it back then, but the color is so precise—I’m amazed he could do this with color pencils. My eyes look a little off—maybe too round, and my lips seem too full and perfect. But I can recognize myself in it. Cousin Beth.
When I get home, I tuck the drawings under my jacket and walk to my bedroom, where I stuff them in the bottom drawer of my desk. I’ll think of a better spot later. After that, I realize the house is dead quiet. I walk around and through the kitchen window I spot Mom out on the patio, in her coat. I go outside and join her.
“Oh, you’re back early,” she says, sounding a little flustered, quickly stamping out a cigarette. There are already three butts in the ashtray.
“I know,” she says. “It’s horrible. Please, promise me you won’t ever smoke.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, sitting down on one of the cold chairs.
I finally get a good look at her eyes, and from the redness it’s clear she’s been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. For weeks Mom has been so calm, so cheery, so focused on moving forward with life.
She smiles over at me. “Nothing,” she says.
Obviously I don’t believe her. I want to show her Sam’s beautiful drawings. The way he kept us alive. But that would mean telling her about Tony. And I know that’s a bad idea.
“All I ever wanted was for Sam to come back,” Mom says. She leans back in her chair. “I never thought about what would happen if he did. Some days, I look at him and I know it’s Sam. But it’s not Sam. Our little rascal. And I just need to get over that. That Sam is never coming back.” Her voice catches, like she’s about to cry, but she fights through it. “But the alternative—of him never coming back? Well, I’ll take this any day. Right?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling my throat tighten. Superman, I think. He’s Superman. For surviving. For making it back home.
She starts crying for real then, little sobs that cause her chest to lurch. I reach for her hand, and she grabs mine, then takes a deep breath and straightens her back, refusing to break down further. Sitting here, I think about all the times Earl and I held on to her as she sobbed and moaned, her sadness so intense it was like she was in physical pain.
It’s weird, that I’ve been so annoyed with Mom lately. For being home so much. For cooking dinners and baking cookies. My clean clothes stacked on my bed when I come home from school. Because Sam is back, and so is my mom. I can see that now.
“It’s cold,” she says, like she’s snapping awake. She wipes her eyes. “Let’s go inside and order a pizza. I’m too tired to cook tonight.” She smiles, her puffy red eyes the only trace of the past few minutes.
“Okay,” I say.
Mom orders the pizza, and right when she hangs up the phone Earl comes home from some renovation north of the river. Mom stands and they hug, because I think Earl can tell she’s been crying. He pulls back and brushes her hair from her face, kisses her. That stuff used to gross me out, but today I’m grateful for it. We’re not falling apart, are we? We’re going to be okay, like Mom says.
When the pizza comes, Earl cracks open a beer, Mom too, and they go to the den with plates and napkins.
Sam walks in and grabs some slices and plops them on a plate. “You want a Coke?” I ask. I’m at the fridge, letting cold air escape, and he comes and takes it from me, then walks away.
I shut the fridge and stand there. I want to call him back and say, I met your friend. He misses you. And I saw your drawings. I have them in my room. I love them.
And I think again about how amazing Sam is, that he carved out some happiness somehow, even in that place.
CHAPTER 10
Alien
Josh
“Can’t I see it?” I ask.
“Nope,” Sam says. “Not till it’s finished.”
It’s Friday afternoon. I had Dad drop me here after school because Sam needed to make touchups to the portrait. It’s been a busy time at school, so I haven’t been able to come over. We’re in the living room, and it’s quiet. It’s too cold today to even think about doing this outside. Sam’s sitting across from me on a plush upholstered chair. I’m on the couch, which is kind of hard and uncomfortable.
The same couch where I sat while that policewoman interviewed me years ago on that day in July. Where I didn’t say a word about the truck. I chew on my lips and look away, feeling my face getting warm.
Sam says, “You okay?”
“Huh?” I say, turning to him.
“Your face is a little red.”
“It is?”