You've Reached Sam (8)

Her voice cracks at his name. I can hear a cry rising up her throat as she manages to hold it down. Seeing her this way sends an ache of pain to my chest, making it impossible to speak. I can’t believe she would use this against me. I can’t think straight. I have to hold myself together.

I clench my empty cup. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about this,” I say again.

“For god’s sake, Julie,” Mika scolds me. “Sam would have wanted you to come. You haven’t been there for him this entire week. You weren’t even there when they had him buried.”

“I know, and I’m sure everyone has a lot to say about that, too,” I say back.

“Who cares what everyone else says,” Mika cries, her body half rising from the seat. “It only matters what Sam would say.”

“Sam is dead.”

This quiets the both of us.

Mika stares at me for a long time. Her eyes search mine for signs of guilt or regret, as if she’s waiting for me to somehow amend my words, but all I have to say is, “He’s dead, Mika, and me visiting him isn’t going to change anything.”

We hold our gaze for what seems like a long time before Mika looks away. From her silence, I know she is both stunned and disappointed. It is at this moment I realize the tables around us have hushed as well. Our waitress passes by without a word.

After a moment, once the tune of the diner resumes, I gather my words.

“This isn’t my fault, you know? I told him not to come but he wouldn’t listen to me. I told him to stay there. So everyone needs to stop expecting some apology from me, and blaming me for any of—”

“I’m not trying to blame you for this,” Mika says.

“I know you aren’t. But everyone else probably does.”

“No. Not everyone thinks that, Julie. And I’m sorry, but this isn’t about you—it’s about Sam. It’s about missing his funeral. It’s about how the one person who was closest to him, who knew him best, wasn’t even there to speak about him. Sam deserved more, and you know it. That’s what everyone expected. But you weren’t there, through any of it.”

“You’re right. Maybe I do know him better,” I say. “And maybe I think he doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. The ceremonies, the vigil, the people from school—please. Sam doesn’t care about any of them. He would have hated all of this. He’s probably glad I didn’t show up!”

“I know you don’t believe that,” Mika says.

“Don’t tell me what I believe,” I say. That came out sharper than I wanted it to. I almost take it back, but I don’t.

Luckily, our waitress reappears to take our order before this goes further. Mika looks at me, at the waitress, then back at me.

“Actually, I should go,” she says abruptly, and gathers up her things. Our waitress steps aside as Mika rises from the booth. She lays some money on the table, and turns to leave. “I almost forgot,” she says. “I picked up your assignments from school the other day. Wasn’t sure when you’d be back.” She unzips her bag. “Yearbooks also came. Ours were the last to get picked up, so I got yours, too. Here—” She drops everything on the table.

“Oh—thanks.”

“I’ll see you later.”

I don’t say good-bye. I just watch Mika disappear through the entrance door, ringing the bell behind her, leaving me alone again. The waitress offers to refill my coffee, but I shake my head. I suddenly can’t stand to be in here anymore, inside this noisy, cramped, syrup-stained diner that’s making me anxious. I need to get out of this place.

There goes my afternoon. I don’t know what else to do but wander outside again. I try not to think about Mika and what I should have said differently, because it’s too late. I walk through town, letting the caffeine kick in. At least the morning chill is gone. Shop windows glisten in the afternoon sun. I pass by without going inside. There’s the antique store. Sam and I used to go in and furnish our imaginary apartment together. I pause at the window. Through the dusty glass are long shelves crowded with paintings and figurines, floors swathed with Persian rugs and old furniture, among other things. Then despite myself, another memory comes …

Sam hands me a gift. “I bought you something.”

“For what?”

“Your graduation present.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“Julie, just open it!”

I tear off the wrapping. Inside is a silver bookend in the shape of a single wing, outstretched.

“Shouldn’t this be a set?” I ask. “Where’s the other piece? It’s missing.”

“I could only afford one at the time,” Sam explains. “But I just got paid. We can go back for it now.”

When we return to the antique store, the other half was already sold.

“Who on earth buys half a bookend?” Sam asks the woman behind the register.

I turn to him. “You.”

It became an inside joke for us. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I threw it out in the box with the rest of his things.

This town is full of memories of us. There’s the record store where I’d always find him when I got off work. The red door is propped open with a chair. A few people are looking through the aisles of old records. Someone is changing the strings of an electric guitar. But no Sam sitting on the counter by the speaker, adjusting the music. He didn’t even work here. He just knew everyone. I hurry off before someone sees me and tries to start a conversation I don’t feel like having.