I'm Not Sam

sleep. I finish my third scotch. Its magic has eluded me.

I’ve worked a few things out over the course of the night, though. So that whichever way this goes I know what I’ve got to do. At least initially. I get up and rinse out my glass in the kitchen and get the coffee going. I sit down at the table and at some point realize that I’ve been staring at my hands.

Are these guilty hands?

Don’t touch! You hurt me!

This stings. This aches.

And then I think, no. That was a woman I was touching. My wife. And she was touching me back. I won’t have the fucking guilt. I won’t permit it. I didn’t hurt her. I knew exactly how to touch her. She came for godsakes. Three times.

The coffee’s down. The buzzer buzzes, telling me so.

I stand at the table and there she is in the doorway, yawning, arms stretched out above her.

This is the moment. Either she’ll want the coffee or she won’t. I can smell it rich and sweet and so can she.

“Is there juice?” she says.

There’s a lump in my throat like something won’t go down. These hands are sweating now. But the thing is to maintain control.

“’Morning, Lily.”

“’Morning.” She thinks for a second. “’Morning, Patrick.”

She shuffles over to the refrigerator, opens it, pulls out the grapefruit juice and then hesitates, puts it back on the shelf and takes out a carton of Newman’s Own All Natural Virgin Lemonade instead. She turns to me.

“This okay?”

“Sure,” I tell her.

Breakfast is coffee for me and raisin bran with milk and a glass of lemonade for her.

“I’ve got to make a few phone calls,” I tell her. “Why don’t you go play with Teddy for a while, okay?”

“Okay. Can I have the dolls too?”

“The Barbies?”

The Barbies are collectors’ items by now. I hesitate. She pouts. Hell, they’re hers, not mine.

“Why not.”

I pull all eight of them off the shelf and arrange them sitting along the edge of the living room table for her. When I leave the room she’s smiling.

Back in the kitchen I use the wall phone. I dial her office first. It’s early so I get the machine.

“Miriam? Hi, it’s Patrick Burke. Listen, Sam won’t be in today. Something fluish. I’m calling Doc Richardson. She probably just needs a shot and some antibiotics and she’ll be fine. But you’ll have to cover for her, okay? Sorry. Thanks, Miriam. Talk to you soon. ’Bye.”

Next the good doctor. Who we’ve known for years.

“Hi, Doc, it’s Patrick Burke. I know it’s early, but if you could call me back as soon as you get this I’d really appreciate it. Something’s up with Sam and I’d like you to see her right away if it’s at all possible. I’m kind of… I’m really kind of at my wits’ end, Doc. Thanks, Doc. I’d really appreciate it. We’re at 918-131-4489.”

I repeat the number slowly and hang up. My cheeks are hot and my heart’s pounding. It isn’t shame or guilt or even anxiety. It’s fear. I feel like Doc’s my one and only lifeline. What if he has no idea what to do? What then?

I pour myself another cup of coffee. When my hand seems steady enough I take it with me into the living room. Two of the Barbies are undressed — the 20’s flapper and the one in the 18th century handmade gown, both of which she designed and created herself — and Sam’s busy swapping clothing.

She looks happy.

I sit and watch her for a while. She pretty much ignores me. She’s humming something but damned if I know what it is. Sam’s not much of a singer but Lily seems to have perfect pitch.

Goddamn.

A half hour later the phone rings.

Doc Richardson says he’ll see us right away. I’ve made up the guest room for her — since something tells me she’s not going to be wanting to sleep in our bed while she’s still this Lily person — so I lay out a pair of jeans, an Elton John teeshirt and a pair of panties on the bed. No need for a bra. She never wears one except for work. But it occurs to me to wonder if, as she is now, she’d even know how to put one of the damn things on.

I tell her to go brush her teeth and get herself dressed. But first she’s got to arrange the Barbies and her Teddy just so on the bureau across from her bed. I watch in the bathroom while she brushes. It seems to take her forever and she’s awkward about it. As though the toothbrush were too big for her. It’s very weird.

We’re going on a little trip, I tell her. She wants to know where. To visit an old friend, Doc Richardson, I tell her. Oh, she says.

“You remember him?”

She shakes her head. Very definite about it. No.

She wants to take Teddy along. Fine.

In the car I have to remind her to buckle up and need to help her with the strap. As we’re driving she’s dancing Teddy around on her lap singing Frosty the Snowman in that high clear voice that’s suddenly hers even though Christmas is still seven months away.

The doc’s office is on the corner of Main and Steuben Street, flanked by Bosch’s Hardware and the Sugar Bowl, our local soda shop, on either side. There’s a parking spot three cars down from Bosche’s so I pull in. She flings open the door, forgets she’s buckled in, lurches against the seatbelt.

“Easy,” I tell her and press the release. She smiles in a way like silly me and flings open the door.

“Uh, leave Teddy, okay?”

She frowns for a moment, but then shrugs and seats him neatly in the passenger side and slams the door. I come around and take her hand.

We look pretty normal, I think. Husband and wife out for a stroll. And Sam, at least, looks happy.

Which is probably why, when Milt Shoemaker exits the hardware store, a bag in each hand, there’s a big grin on his face as he walks toward us.

I try to match it.

“Milt.”

“Patrick. Miz Burke. Fine day, ain’t it?”

“Sure is, Milt.”

He’s a big man carrying too much weight on him. He’s sweating and snorting like a bull.

“Listen, Patrick. I need to apologize to you. I ain’t forgotten about those widow-makers you got up there. It’s just that with those storms last month I been busy as a two-dollar whore in a mining camp. Pardon, Miz Burke.”

I glance at Sam. She’s still smiling. Maybe a bit too much.

I want to get us gone.

Milt runs Shoemaker’s Tree and Stump. It’s six months now since he promised to come out to our place with his crane truck and shear some high dead limbs off our old oak tree — struck by lightning last year — about twenty yards from the house. Dead limbs are brittle and dangerous and prone to falling at very inconvenient times. A tourist in New York’s Central Park was killed by a widow-maker last year.

I’d wanted his chain-saws out there as soon as possible. But I think, not now.

“No problem, Milt. Tree’s held up so far.”

“You should call the office and make an appointment, Patrick. That way I’d be sure to get to it pronto.”

“Well, I may just do that.”

“You should. Out of sight, out of mine, y’know?”

Mine?