The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(102)

She smiled, and it looked odd, because I could not recall ever seeing her smile. “Your mother said you would come. I wasn’t so sure.”

I didn’t bother to tell Sister Beatrice that my mother had avoided telling me the identity of the “old friend” in the room down the hall, and that if she had, I might not have obliged her.

“She visits me every day,” Sister Beatrice said. “Even though she’s sick, she still comes, your mother.”

“She’s a good person,” I said.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t, Sam.” I started to wave off the apology, but she wouldn’t have it. “I had a problem. You knew that. But you never said anything to anyone, did you?”

“I never did, Sister.”

“I was teased as a child, made fun of for my lisp and my buck teeth. I found comfort in the bottle when I got older. It isn’t an excuse for the way I treated you, Sam. It isn’t an excuse for my acts of unkindness.”

A part of me wanted to not accept her apology. A part of me wanted her to know the pain she’d caused, but I was beyond that. The ordeal with David Bateman and Trina Crouch had made me realize that holding grudges only caused more pain. “We all do our best in life, Sister. We all do our best with what we’re given. You had a disease. I don’t blame you for that.”

She reached out her hand. I hesitated. Even though the woman I had likened to the Wicked Witch of the West had become a frail, little old lady, a part of me still feared her. I allowed her to take my hand. Like my mother’s, hers was cold to the touch, and I felt every bone and knuckle.

“I’m an alcoholic,” she said, “since I was sixteen. I stopped drinking when they sent me for treatment. Do you remember?”

“I still have the Bible,” I said.

She seemed amazed. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m so glad you have something decent to remember me by. It’s been a lifelong struggle, Sam. I stopped drinking, but I’ve never stopped being an alcoholic. I came to your mother’s home looking for you. I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, Sam. I wanted to tell you that not a day goes by that I don’t think of how I mistreated you, how wrong it was, how un-Christian. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me, Sam. I’m hoping that you’ll find it in your heart.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Sister. I know it was the alcohol.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “You are your mother’s son,” she said.

And of that I have no doubt.





6

When Mickie and I left the hospital and returned to my house, Mickie’s new pit bulls greeted us with enthusiasm. Bandit had died years earlier. Mickie buried him in my backyard and planted a rosebush to mark his grave. I told Mickie of Sister Beatrice, and in true Mickie fashion, she said, “You’re a better person than me. I might have punched her.”

“It’s time to let go of the past,” I said.

Mickie made dinner, meat loaf with potatoes and peas, and I opened a bottle of Syrah and put on a John Coltrane CD. Though we were both now in our forties, Mickie still looked the same—thin, with hair the color of gold and not an ounce of fat on her body. We sat at the kitchen table discussing my mother and my father and the guilt I felt for having traveled so much. Then I broached a different subject.

“You asked me long ago if I wanted to be a father,” I said. “Do you remember?”

“You were about to get snipped,” she said.

“I know the answer now.” Her brow furrowed. “I want to adopt Fernando.”

She sat back. “Do you think the guilt you’re feeling now could be coloring your judgment?”

“Of course it is. But so what? It would be the right thing to do, to raise that boy as my son, to teach him all the things my parents taught me, to give him a home where he’s loved and can feel safe.”

“It could be a long process, Sam. And you really don’t know the depths of the emotional torment that child has been through.”

“I have time,” I said. “And I’ve already considered the process.”

“You have?”

“The application is being sent to me. I looked at what I would need as far as recommendations and that sort of thing. There are companies that can help.”

“What about traveling?”

“I’m not leaving again.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“I have a better chance of adopting if I’m married,” I said, throwing it out there like a fisherman throwing out a line. I could get lucky and get a bite, maybe just a nibble, and if I pulled the line in without so much as nibble, I was in no worse shape.

“Maybe we should start by getting to know one another again.”

“I’ve known you my whole life, and I remember every day of it.”

“Really. Do you remember this?” She picked up a pea and flicked it at me. We both burst out laughing.

“You realize, of course, this means war,” I said.

She leaned forward, wineglass in hand, mischief in her eyes. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Truth was, I didn’t know. I held another secret not even Mickie knew. I had remained celibate since Eva’s death. I’d had opportunities, but this was by choice. I recalled Mickie once telling me that emotionally the act of having sex meant nothing to her. She just liked the pleasure it brought, a respite from the pain in her world. Though I had taken it to the opposite extreme, I understood what she meant. Without an emotional connection to the person, I was simply not interested in the physical act. Now, however, I longed for an emotional connection, to feel another person’s body next to mine—Mickie’s body.