I'm Not Sam

puzzlement that one should somehow coincide with the other.

Mercifully Lily’s already up.

It makes no real sense and actually the thought’s briefly annoying but I’d rather she not see this. So I peer out into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear before I head for the bathroom. Then standing there peeing I wonder if she’s already seen it. It’s possible.

The call from Doc Richardson comes at nine-thirty.

“She tested out just fine, Patrick. Is she still…?”

“Yeah. She’s still Lily.”

I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. If it were a brain-thing it might be treatable. But then again…

He sighs. “Well, there’s nothing physically wrong with her. Everything looks perfectly normal. Have any other personalities appeared?”

“No.”

“And no sign of Sam at all, I assume.”

“None.”

“Then I think you need to have her see a therapist. I’m out of my league here. But I know a good one. Have you got a pen?”

I write down the woman’s name, address and phone number. I do it mostly for the doc’s sake. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to use the information. Call it pride or stubbornness — I want to see this through on my own if I can. I’ll keep it by the phone as a last resort.

“Thanks for what you did at the hospital, Doc.”

“My pleasure. Hey, they owe me. Good luck with the therapist. And keep me posted, all right? You know I’m very fond of Sam.”

“I know. I will.” I thank him and hang up.

I’m thinking that with or without a therapist, this could take a while.

Lily’s on the couch, nibbling from a box of raisin bran. Her left arm’s poking out of a paisley scarf. Her sling. Herman the Human Cannonball is about to be launched by the gang over at Sesame Street.

“Lily, as soon as the show is over I want you to run a tub for your bath, okay? And be sure to wash your hair. You forgot yesterday.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t seem the least distressed so I’m guessing she missed the woody.

I go back to the phone and speed-dial the coroner’s office.

“Miriam, hi. It’s Patrick Burke. Listen, I wasn’t being completely truthful when we spoke. In fact I wasn’t telling you the truth at all — I don’t know why. There’s no flu. Never was. Physically, Sam’s fine. This is… something else…”

“You mean like a breakdown?”

“I guess that’s what you’d call it, yes.”

“God, I’m so sorry, Patrick. Are you all right? I mean…”

“The two of us are fine, Miriam. Well, we’ll be fine once she gets through all this. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give her a leave of absence for a while.”

“Absolutely. You take all the time you need. Your wife works like a soldier. She deserves it. Can I speak with her? Would that be okay, do you think?”

“I don’t think so. She’s pretty fragile at the moment. Maybe in a week or so.”

“Is she seeing somebody, getting therapy?”

“Yes.”

Two lies inside of twenty minutes. Not bad, Patrick. I give her the therapist’s name just to seal the deal.

“Good. Well, give Sam my best, will you? From all of us. And if there’s anything I can do…”

“I will.”

And that lie makes three.

I’m at the drafting table working on Samantha duking it out with The Torque, trying to keep her from going all svelte on me again, when I’m aware that the television’s gone off and there’s water running in the tub. A little while after that I can hear her splashing around in there. She’s left the door open.

“Lily?”

“Yeah.”

“Close the door. And don’t forget to wash your hair!”

“You do it”

“What?”

“You do it. I get soap in my eyes.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do too. You do it, Patrick.”

She’ll be naked in there.

I tell myself that I’m being silly. That’s my wife in there and I’ve seen her naked thousands of times. Get a grip, Patrick.

“All right. I’m coming.”

I finish crosshatching Torque’s ugly mug, get up and walk to the bathroom.

She’s sitting in soapy water up to her breasts, small peaked islands in the waves. Beneath the water I can see her pubic hair. She hasn’t depilated in a while so it drifts like tiny dark strands of seaweed. Her left thigh is under water but her right leg’s bent so she can get at the toes, which she’s soaping vigorously. It tickles. She giggles. Her thigh gleams.

There’s a small line of soap like soul patch on her chin so I wipe it off with my finger.

“You ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Duck under.”

She tilts her head back into the water and comes up sputtering, wiping her eyes. Meanwhile I’ve got the shampoo off the shelf. I pour some into the palm of my hand and smooth it into both hands, kneel beside the tub and work it into her smooth fine hair. She smiles at me.

“Don’t get it in my eyes, Patrick.”

“I won’t.”

And I’m careful not to. But I can’t help thinking of our last real night together, starting with our shower, starting with me shampooing her hair just as I’m doing now.

Then telling her turn around, I’ll do your back.

She does. I wash her back, her ass, her breasts, her stomach. She raises her arms and I wash her armpits, her arms, then her back and ass again, into the crack of her ass, into her cunt. She soaps her own hand and reaches down to me.

This is not a good place to go.

She’s looking up at me with those very innocent eyes.

I turn on the water behind her. Fiddle with the hot and cold until it’s luke.

“Okay, rinse. Close your eyes.” I’m trying to keep the thickness out of my voice.

I cup my hands, collect the fresh tap water and pour. Collect and pour. Over and over again until her hair is clean and shiny. She stands up, raises her arms and smoothes her hair back off her forehead. The gesture is so Sam it floors me for a moment but only for a moment because with her arms raised I can see the dark stubble in her armpits. Three days growth now. Sam shaves every day.

I wonder if Lily’s noticed.

While she’s toweling off I go into her room and retrieve yesterday’s tee shirt, socks and panties.

The panties are stained again, worse than before.

I’ll have to talk to her.