You've Reached Sam(34)

“I’ll try not to.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with all this right now,” he says.

“And I’m sorry you died.”

Neither of us says anything else. After we hang up the phone, I pick the papers up from the floor and sit down at my desk. It’s hard to focus after that conversation. I spend more than an hour trying to start a history paper, but barely get two sentences down. I keep thinking about calling Sam back, but I need to get some work done. The words inside the textbook blur and rearrange themselves, and I forget what it is I’m reading about. I must have dozed off at some point, because when I open my eyes, I’m no longer in my room.

A fog moves across my shoes, and when I look up, I find myself standing at a bus station. It’s dark out. I can’t see anything past the curtain of fog, not even the sky. I glance around to find someone but it’s only me out here. The only thing is the suitcase I borrowed from my dad when I last visited him. There’s a buzzing in my pocket. I reach inside and pull out my phone.

I turn on the screen.

Nine missed calls from Sam. Twelve texts I haven’t opened.

It’s 11:48 p.m.

Out of nowhere, the sound of a truck rumbles like thunder, but I can’t see it. It is this sound, and the exact time of the clock, that brings me back to that night from nearly two weeks ago.

This is the night Sam died. And this is where I stood.

The phone rings again, even louder this time.

It’s Sam. I didn’t bother to pick up last time because how could I know?

This time I do, just to see if the ending changes.

The line crackles in my ear but I don’t hear anything.

“Sam! Sam— are you there?”

Nothing but white noise, like someone crinkling paper. I angle the phone, and turn in circles, until a voice finally comes through the line. But I can barely understand it.

“Julie? Who’s there? Hello?”

“Sam, it’s me! It’s Julie!”

“Where are you? I can’t find you. Julie?”

The phone keeps crackling. I don’t think he can hear me.

“Sam—I’m coming! Don’t worry—just wait right there!”

“Julie? Where are you—”

The phone crackles again before it sparks in my hand, and I yank it from my ear. Smoke pours from the screen as I’m shouting Sam’s name, filling the air like fog until I can no longer see what’s in front of me except vanishing streaks of red and white sparks.

A horn goes off, followed by the sound of guitar strings breaking, and I wake up at my desk. The smoke is gone.

I don’t bother to check the time or see if it’s dark out. Instead I hurry downstairs, grab the car keys, and head out the door. I back the car out of the driveway before my mother comes out, and head up route 10, following the railway, leaving Ellensburg.

This might sound ridiculous, but Sam might be out there waiting for me.

I have to go find him. My headlights are the only things shining on the barren highway for miles. I keep looking out the window to see if Sam’s walking along the side of the road. I can’t help thinking back to that night.

Sam was at a bonfire by the river with some friends. It was the same night I was returning from my trip to Seattle to visit my dad. Sam had promised to pick me up, like he always did. But when I called him from outside of the station, he was still at the bonfire, more than an hour away.

He kept apologizing, but I was so upset he forgot, I hung up and stopped answering his calls. I told him I would walk home. How could I know that would be the last thing I ever said to him?

I guess Sam thought I must have been testing him, which in hindsight, maybe I was. Because he left the bonfire to find me. It was somewhere between eleven thirty and midnight while Sam was driving down route 10

when a truck swerved into his lane. I imagine Sam must have honked for his life. I wonder if he tried to dodge out of the way.

But Sam didn’t die in the wreck that flipped his car. Not only did he manage to stay conscious, he freed himself from the seat, crawled out onto the road, and began walking. Somehow, he made it more than a mile down the road before collapsing. An officer said it was a testament to how strong he was. I think it was a testament to how much he wanted to live. It took hours before someone finally found him. It was too late by then. Sam had lost too much blood and died from exhaustion. No one likes to say it, but maybe it would have been easier for him if he’d died there in the crash. But his will to live on was too stubborn. Just like him.

They found Sam’s phone near the crash site, covered in glass and dirt.

Maybe if I had called at just the right time, he might have heard it and picked up, and I could have sent for help. Maybe if I hadn’t been so angry with him, he might not have left the bonfire so quickly and might have missed the truck entirely. Maybe if the stars were aligned differently, or the wind blew the other direction, or it suddenly started raining, or something else, Sam would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be driving out here in the middle of the night looking for him.

There’s something up ahead. My headlights illuminate the dark road in front of me as I slow the car. Along the side of the road, the rails have been tied up with dozens of white ribbons. I put the car in park and get out. I follow the line of ribbons until I reach it. There beside a wreath of flowers and burnt candles is a portrait of Sam nailed to the rail. I kneel down in the dirt beside it. He’s wearing his denim jacket, the one I threw out the other day. A breeze sends some ribbons fluttering. I touch the picture frame with my fingers.