The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(61)

“I took care of her,” he said. “I brushed her hair until it was all gone. I carried her to the bathroom when she was sick. I read to her when she was scared. I emptied her catheter each morning. I crushed tablets of morphine at night, mixed them with Ativan, and used an eyedropper to place the meds beneath her tongue to ease the pain. And I held her as she passed away in my arms. It still felt like a honeymoon, and she still looked wonderful to me. In the end, the whole thing was horrible and beautiful and I’m glad I was able to be there. But as you can imagine, having my heart broken two different ways in a short amount of time was a lot to contend with. A lot to carry around, let alone reconcile. Honestly, I had no intention of ever dating again. I felt so down, so unhappy. Hopelessly depressed, if we’re being honest. I checked myself into a hospital for a while. I had given up on everything. On other people. On myself. On ever finding my way through the fog my life had become. It took me a while, but I got back on my feet. Started working again. Training again. Then one day my parents came for a visit. They showed me your file and I read about you, saw your photo, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.”

“Love?” The word came out before Greta even thought about it.

Sam gazed at her. “Hope.” He squeezed her hand and smiled gently. “Sometimes that’s better than love.”

“More than love,” Greta whispered, parroting Syren’s tagline.

Greta’s heart beat in the exact opposite way it had with Carter. Here, in this moment, she didn’t feel used or threatened or manipulated. She didn’t feel on guard. She felt understood. She felt seen, even as she saw her own reflection in Sam’s eyes.

“Is that what you’re hoping for?” Sam asked. “Love?”

Yes. Maybe? I don’t know. Greta had never been in love, more like adjacent to love, or spent a layover in love, but her final destination was always disappointment. She saw the way Sam memorialized his late wife, how his eyes lit up, and she wasn’t even alive. Greta thought she saw a glimmer of that when he looked at her.

Is that what you want?

She wanted to answer Sam honestly, but didn’t know how. There were other things she wanted. Practical things. She understood practical.

“I… want… you…,” Greta said. “To teach me how to fight.”

Sam cocked his head and smiled again. “Excuse me?”

“Well.” Greta felt herself blushing. “My parents said you teach boxing or tai chi or something like that? You know…” She made a fist the size of her heart.

“I teach Sanshou. Which is like Chinese boxing, but with kicks and takedowns. I used to compete—a little—nothing to get too excited about. I teach jujitsu as well.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Right here?”

“Okay.” Greta nodded as though his question had been an invitation.

“Okay then.” Sam looked surprised but flexible in his plans, like he’d gone to get his oil changed and was told the next karaoke song was his and he’d better get ready.

They stood and he smiled as he helped her through a series of partner stretches to get warmed up. Then he showed her a few basic self-defense techniques that were especially useful for women, how to escape a wrist grab, how to turn and counter when grabbed from behind, how to check an attacker’s arms while delivering a knee to the groin. They ended up tumbling to the grass, laughing, their arms and legs entangled.

“May I show you something a bit more advanced?” Sam asked. “It’s a leg choke, so we’re going to have to get kind of intimate here. But I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay,” Greta said. “Thank you for asking.”

Sam showed her how from her back, she could control an attacker’s position by wrapping her legs around his waist, by pulling him close, controlling his arms so he couldn’t hit her or choke her. Then he showed her how to throw one leg over his neck, while holding his arm, then bring her other leg over her ankle and clamp down, like the camber of a jar with a latch. Locking her legs around his neck and arm, cutting off the flow of blood to the brain, would effectively put an attacker to sleep.

Greta was astonished at how much she liked being in this position, in charge. She rotated her hips and flipped him over, her legs still locked around him until he patted her leg and she let go. Breathing hard from wrestling, she lay on the grass, happy, content.

“You did great,” Sam said with a laugh. He seemed more impressed than surprised. “Seriously, you’re a natural at this.”

“You’re just saying that because I almost choked you out with my thighs of steel.” Greta laughed and then rolled back on top of him.

Now Sam seemed surprised.

“I wish I hadn’t thrown away your file,” Greta said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

“You know the big stuff.”

“What about the little stuff then. Like… is Sam short for Samuel?”

“My parents are Buddhists. It’s short for Samsara. That’s the Sanskrit word for wander, but what it really means is rebirth.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Maybe it means that if I’m lucky, I get a do-over.”