You've Reached Sam (49)

“I haven’t gone anywhere yet,” I say. “I’m still here.”

“I know…” she says, releasing a breath. “But I don’t get to see you too much. I know it isn’t your fault … but you’ve been hard to reach lately. This is the first time you and I sat down for dinner in two weeks. I just feel a little less … connected to you. But maybe that’s just me.”

I stare at my phone on the table, then back at my mom. Has it really been that long since we had dinner together? After Sam died, I brought my meals up to my room. And since we’ve been connected again, I been spending all my time with him. I was gone all day yesterday. And the day before. A wave of guilt hits me as I think of what to say. I used to talk to her about everything. But I can’t open up about Sam. I can’t tell her what’s happening. “I’m sorry,” is all I can say. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“That’s alright,” my mother says, smiling a little. “We’re spending time together now. Thank you … for having dinner with me.”

I stare at my plate again, making a mental note to do this with her more often.



* * *



After dinner, I help clear the table and head upstairs. As much as I want to call Sam, I should catch up on schoolwork. I make some progress on an essay for Gill’s class that isn’t due until next week, and finish an art history assignment. My mind seems to have cleared up, and I find it easier to focus. Maybe it’s the crystal. Yuki said to always keep it with me, so I set it near Sam’s bookend I keep on my desk as I work. I like to look at it from time to time. It makes me feel protected.

Sam told me I could call him sometime tonight. Since we spent an entire day on the phone yesterday, tonight’s call can’t be too long. I don’t mind this. I want to hear his voice again, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

Since my mother is in one of her intense vacuuming modes, I decide to make the call outside on the porch. The rain sounds like tiny pebbles hitting the roof. During past rainstorms, Sam and I used to sit out here together, watching for lightning. From the looks of it, there might be some tonight. It’s a bit chilly out, so I put on his plaid shirt. I dial Sam’s number.

Every time his voice comes through the line, it’s as if time stops, just for us. “That sound…” He pauses to listen. “Where are you calling from?”

“Outside. On the porch step.”

“Missing the fresh air?”

I recall the fields from yesterday, and smile to myself. “Among other things,” I say. “And I just needed a break from my desk. Thought I would call you. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I miss you infinity.”

Sam’s voice is warm against my ear. I wish things could stay like this. I wish we could talk forever.

“Tell me about your day,” he says. “How are things at the bookstore? How’s Mr. Lee?”

“It was nice to be back. Feels like home, you know?” I say. “And Mr. Lee is fine. He gave me this journal the other day. I forgot to tell you. It’s almost too beautiful to write in.”

“So you’re writing again?”

“I’m starting to. Today, at least.” That was why he brought me to the fields. To inspire me again. I wanted to surprise him with this, but I’m no good at holding things in. “Actually, I’m writing about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Sam laughs. “What’s it about?”

“You know, I’m still figuring that out,” I admit. “I just started! But I’m really enjoying it. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten into that rhythm of writing, you know? I want it to be about us, though. Our story, I mean. I started writing down some of our memories. Little vignettes. I just have to figure out how to stitch them together. Into something meaningful.”

“I’m glad you found your rhythm. And glad I made it into one of your stories. Finally.” He laughs. “What’s this for again?”

I let out a breath. “I’m not sure yet. I was just getting into the practice of things, you know? But if it turns out well, I might use it as my writing sample for Reed. Apparently, they need to look at one before I’m allowed into their creative writing classes. Not that I’ve been accepted yet, but I don’t want to get into that right now. Anyway, who knows? If it ends up being really good, maybe I can try to get it published or something. It’s something to work toward, you know? Get one of my stories out there. Like Tristan.”

“What about Tristan?”

“I forgot to mention. His documentary was accepted to the film festival.”

“Oh.”

“He invited me to the premiere.”

A silence.

“That’s nice … For both of you.”

I turn my head to the side, trying to read his tone. “Both of us? I haven’t accomplished anything. I barely have an idea for a story.”

“You still have time, though. To write it. And leave something behind. I wish I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish I had time to finish things, too, you know? Leave on mark on the world or something…”

“What did you want to finish?”