Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting in Sam’s living room. This
unit is located two floors beneath his old unit, but it’s laid out the same.
Wide, open, studio floor plan with a half-wall delineating the space between
the living room and bedroom, then a small two-seater breakfast bar separating
the kitchen from everything else. The living room has these beautiful French doors
that lead out to a narrow balcony that overlooks Midtown. I wonder how much use
that balcony gets these days.
It’s amazing how much this condo is exactly the same as the old
one: same generic artwork hanging over the couch; same bar cart, mostly filled
with expensive amber-colored liquors, sitting beside the TV; same heavy,
espresso colored furniture.
But some things have changed. His PC is gone, which, in
my opinion, is an improvement. It was a giant set up with three monitors and a
computer tower that lit up. I didn’t understand the allure or reason for a
custom-built computer then and I still don’t, but for some reason, its absence
hits me hard.
Looking around, I realize other things are missing. His bike.
His vintage Leica. The saltwater aquarium. Instead of the familiar
quintessential hints of Sam, now the vibe is more like that of a very nice
hospital room. In the corner of the living room, there’s a hoist with a sling
attached. The half-wall between the bedroom and the living area doesn’t hide
much, and I can see a machine with a screen and lots of plastic hoses -- a
ventilator, maybe? -- sitting next to what looks like a hospital bed.
This condo is now a study in contrast. Not unlike Sam himself.
Simultaneously the same, yet also changed.
Sam sits across from me, his wheelchair looming large in the
small space. I wonder why he didn’t move somewhere with more space. He got
hired as an accountant at a Big Four firm right out of college; he could
probably afford it. But, like so many times before now, I don’t ask the
question that’s really on my mind.
Instead, I comment about that stupid computer. “I see you parted
ways with Deep Thought.”
He rolls his eyes. Despite inviting me here, his demeanor is
guarded. He leans forward slightly and takes a sip from the ventilator before
speaking. “It was getting too old to run most games.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. “So, Juniper’s --”
With a little click and an electric whirl, Sam cuts me off by
moving his wheelchair closer, and the small gap between us suddenly closes. The
toes of his shoes barely brush against my calves. He gives me a hard look.
I draw away from the contact, shifting sideways on the couch.
“This feels awkward.”
“It damn well should,” there’s no trace of
warmth in his voice, “I needed you, Lucy.”
“I know,” I whisper.
Sam moves his wheelchair closer again, and this time I can’t
escape. I’m trapped on the couch between the bar cart and the half-wall of his
bedroom. He’s literally backed me into the corner of his living room.
“I’m sorry, Sam.” I sigh heavily and look at him. He’s thinner
and different. He looks deeply tired and his body sags a bit in the wheelchair.
But he’s also still very handsome. I wonder if he would be insulted or
flattered if I blurted that out right now. Without a doubt, he would growl at
me for trying to change the subject, for continuing to run away from
everything.
So I don’t say that and Sam doesn’t chastise me. We sit in
silence for a moment.
“It’s easier to be the bearer of bad news than the receiver.”
Even as I’m saying the words, I know they’re a miserable attempt at an
explanation.
Sam snorts. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Let me finish,” I say, feeling unjustifiably angry and
defensive. “I didn’t know what to say, Sam. I still don’t. I know that’s
shitty, but it’s the truth.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I go on, knowing that if I stop, I
might never start again.
“I kept trying to come up with the right words, but I couldn’t.
And then suddenly all this time had passed, so then, on top of not knowing what
to say, I felt self-conscious about having not said whatever the hell I
was supposed to say in the first place. It was like this massive cycle of
indecision and guilt and it depressed me and paralyzed me and --”
“Fucking hell, Lucy.” Sam cuts me off for the second time since
I arrived. He moves his hand from the joystick and shakily starts to raise it
to his face. He makes it about halfway before it drops to his lap with a thud.
“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard.”
I don’t know what the point of that gesture was. The effort
leaves him breathing heavily, and he takes a couple of breaths from the
ventilator.
It only takes me a second longer to realize what the point was.
When I do, I don’t know whether to smile at the realization, or frown because
he can no longer do it. It’s a gesture he’s done a thousand times, and if I
look at him, I can perfectly picture it: hand to the bridge of his nose, thumb
and forefinger pinching it, eyes squeezed closed, head shaking slightly in
disbelief or amusement. The Lucy Look, our friends used to call it. It
was usually accompanied by a smile, too.
Right now there is no smile.
He lifts his hand back to the joystick, backs the wheelchair up,
then pivots away from me. He’s facing the French doors -- and the charred remains
of Juniper’s. For someone not able to move most of his body anymore, his
actions are extraordinarily loud.
“There were words, you know. There were very specific
words you could have said to make all of this better.”
His own words sound thick, a little choked. I look at him in
alarm and he scowls at my concern. That look keeps me from saying anything
else.
Eventually, Sam makes a weird noise. It’s almost like he’s
trying to clear his throat, but the sound is weak, like it comes from the top
of his throat instead of his chest, and clearly ineffective. Before I can dare
to ask if he’s okay, he starts to speak.
“I choked on a piece of food last year, and it turned into
pneumonia. It’s probably the reason I have to use this stupid thing,” he nods
at the ventilator and then takes a sip. “I thought I was going to die at one
point. Everyone showed up at the hospital, all weepy and shit. Amy was the
goddamn worst.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you know what I remember from that whole
thing?”
A million different emotions flood me because this is the first
time I’m hearing about this particular incident. I shake my head.
“Other than Amy’s wailing, not much, actually. The whole thing
was a painful blur.” He angles his wheelchair slightly towards me and his
expression is unreadable. He sucks on the ventilator mouthpiece. “I don’t want
her crying to be the last thing I hear.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I dig my nails into my leg, trying
to momentarily trade one kind of pain for another.
Sam tips his head back and turns his gaze towards the ceiling.
“I meant it. What I said that night.”
I know instinctively that he’s talking about that night three
years ago. The Last Night.
“That’s why it hurt so much when you didn’t say anything for so
long.”
I don’t trust myself to speak, but I try. “That’s exactly why I
couldn’t --”
“I loved you.” Sam cuts me off. He looks at me and there is such
deep-seated pain in his green eyes. “And for some inexplicable reason, I still
do.”
I’m still digging my nails into my leg, but it isn’t enough to
quell three years of pent-up emotions anymore. Despite my best efforts, the dam
breaks, and I’m ugly crying in Sam’s condo.
***
“I hate crying,” I say, wiping snot from my nose on the back of
my sleeve some time later. We’re sitting on the balcony. Turns out the small
balcony does still get a fair amount of use. There’s just enough room for his
massive wheelchair and a single Adirondack chair.
The discovery of the beat-up old Adirondack out here on the
balcony filled me with delight. “You really think I would get rid of it after that
night?” He had told me with a rakish smile when I asked about its presence as I
sat down in it. The answer made me laugh -- genuinely laugh -- like I hadn’t in
a long time.
With some effort, Sam lifts his arm and extends it towards me. I
take his limp hand in mine, trying not to focus on how weak, how small, how
different it feels in my hand than it used to. Instead, I focus on how
surprising, how unexpected, how utterly amazing it is that we’re here like this
at all.
We’ve got a perfect view of the smoldering building that used to
be our favorite bar in Atlanta. All of the activity is starting to die down.
The crowds have dissipated and the fire engines are gone. The perimeter of the
property is wrapped in caution tape. It’s hard to believe that Juniper’s is
gone. Harder still to process the many feelings I have about that fact.
Because, I know that if it hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here
right now.
I look over at Sam and finally say the words that I’ve felt so
long. “And I love you too.”
Sometimes new beginnings truly are born out of endings and
ashes.
