Goodnight Beautiful(58)
Albert laughs. “Well, then, in that case . . .” He raises his glass again. “To Kathleen Callahan, and her seven children.”
“Go ahead,” Sam says. “A good long sip. Get the full experience.”
Albert touches his lips to the glass and then abruptly stands up. “Who am I kidding? You shouldn’t be wasting this stuff on me.” He empties his glass into Sam’s. “Just the smell of it turns my stomach.”
Sam feels the air leave his lungs, the rise of bile in his gut, as he stares at the poisoned contents of Albert’s glass mixing with his own.
“Go ahead,” Albert says. “Don’t deprive yourself on my account.”
Sam holds up the glass and takes a good look at it. Do it, he thinks. Drink the whole thing. It’s time to face the facts. He’s got no usable legs, no key to that door, and a very slim chance he’ll ever see Annie again.
He places the glass on the bedside table. A slim chance is still better than none.
“Funny thing,” Sam says, “but I think I’ve lost my taste for it.”
Albert rolls his eyes. “Well I guess that’s one hundred and sixteen dollars down the drain.” He takes Sam’s glass, sets it with his on top of the cart, and then returns to Sam’s chair. “Where were we?” he says, crossing his legs and clasping one knee. “Oh right. First crush. Your turn.”
Chapter 40
Annie sits at the kitchen island, her chin in her hand, picturing Sam beside her.
So let me get this straight, he says in his most professional tone. You’re aware that I hid a shitload of credit card debt from you, and I lied about visiting my mother, and yet you’re still waiting up at two o’clock in the morning, wondering if I’m coming home?
Not only that, Annie admits. But before opening my eyes in the morning, I pretend you’re behind me, your arms wrapped around me, still the man I thought I knew. I have to say, Sam, this denial thing is pretty great. I can see why you like it so much.
The kettle whistles behind her and she stands up, makes a cup of tea, and returns to the home office she and Sam shared. Sam insisted on having everything custom-built: one side for her files, one side for his. She’s been going through his side for the last hour, page by boring page, amazed by the things he saved. A receipt for a computer he bought in 2001. The user manual for a vacuum cleaner, filed away in its own file labeled vacuum cleaner user manual. Tax returns for the last twenty years, on which he listed every single item he donated to Goodwill, trying so hard to be the good guy who plays by the rules, nothing at all like his dad.
She returns to the open drawer and continues, still not sure what, exactly, she’s looking for, coming across two expired passports, one with a stamp from a trip to Honduras he apparently took in high school, a trip he never mentioned. Maybe this is what she’s looking for. Confirmation that Franklin Sheehy is right, that she never knew Sam Statler at all.
Mom, Medical
She spots the folder at the back, the words in thick Sharpie letters. Inside is a stack of Margaret’s medical records. The early symptoms. Deteriorating personal hygiene. Difficulty planning the day’s schedule. Frequent mood swings. The official diagnosis last March. Disease progressing quicker than expected; having hard time managing daily tasks.
Patient has stopped speaking. Mutism may be the result of progressing disease.
He can’t deal with it. That’s why he hasn’t been visiting his mother: a perfectly innocent explanation. He isn’t a pathological liar, he’s a scaredy cat, unable to bear seeing his mother in the state she’s been in—silent, expressionless—and too ashamed to tell Annie the truth. So he hid it from her, probably hating himself for being such a coward.
You’re doing it again, Sam’s voice chides from inside her head. You’re believing in me when I’ve given you every reason not to.
She pages through the rest of the papers in the file—insurance letters, six issues of the facility’s monthly newsletter, printed entirely in Comic Sans. She’s about to return the folder to the drawer when she sees an envelope tucked into the back, addressed to Sam. She pulls out a letter. Three pages from the attorney at Rushing Waters, “Living Will and Durable Power of Attorney for Margaret Statler” printed along the top.
I hereby designate Sam Statler of Chestnut Hill, New York, my attorney-in-fact, in my stead and for my benefit. As my attorney-in-fact, Sam Statler shall exercise power as fiduciary, including the power to receive and deposit funds in any financial institute, to withdraw funds by check or otherwise pay for goods and services. If necessary—
Alarmed, she flips to the last page, seeing Margaret’s signature at the bottom, next to a notarized stamp, dated two weeks ago. Signed, executed, and immediately in effect.
No, she thinks, her skin suddenly clammy.
His mother signed the papers. He got $2 million of his father’s money. And then he left. She laughs and then drops the folder and reaches into her back pocket for her phone. The call goes straight to voice mail.
“Hello, dear husband,” she says, her voice breaking with anger. “You’re probably occupied at the moment, toying with whatever unknowing victim you’ve seduced this time, but I wanted to call and congratulate you. You did it, Sam, the one thing you tried so hard to avoid. You ended up just like your father.”