The Lucky Kind (16 page)
The Lone Star State
A
ll four of us—Dad, Mom, Sam, and I—drive Sam to the airport. I think my dad didn’t want to be alone after Sam left. I guess it’s possible that this will be the last time they ever see each other. Like maybe, having found his biological father and seen his biological town, Sam might be done with us now. Maybe, but I don’t think it’s likely.
“Do you have your ticket and your ID?” Dad asks Sam. The four of us are standing just outside of security, saying good-bye.
“Dad,” I say before Sam can answer, “they’re in his hand.”
My dad looks down at Sam’s hands. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“No worries, Rob,” Sam says. They both look and sound more nervous than they did when Sam walked into my grandparents’ house yesterday.
Dad’s staring at Sam’s hands now; he reaches for the empty one and holds it up next to his, and smiles.
He lets Sam’s hand go and says, “ ’Cause they hate when you slow the line down looking for your ticket and your ID.”
“I know, Rob,” Sam answers, smiling.
“Well, anyway.”
“Anyway,” Sam echoes.
“Well, Sam. I really hope—I hope that you got what you—that is, I tried to show you—I mean that it was really something—”
Mercifully, Sam interrupts, “It was wonderful, just wonderful, to meet you and your family, Rob.”
Dad smiles and looks Sam straight in the eyes. “It was very nice meeting you, too, Sam.” I can see he’s tearing up, and I take a step closer; I don’t know why—do I think my dad is going to fall or something? But he surprises me by putting his arm around me—one around me, and one around Sam.
He takes a deep breath. “Yes, it was very nice.… Nick,” he says suddenly, turning and looking at me, “why does your jacket smell like cigarette smoke?”
I don’t say anything. I look at Sam; I’m trying not to laugh. But Sam keeps his cool.
“That’s my fault, Rob,” he says, a sorry tone in his voice. “I smoked in our room last night.”
My dad turns to face Sam now. “But, Sam, you’re a doctor.” He sounds disappointed, just as though he were scolding me. But I’m not jealous, because Sam looks over my father’s head, to me, and he smiles. This is something just between us.
Sam looks back at my dad. “Don’t worry, Rob, I’m quitting,” he promises.
“Well, good,” Dad answers, and over his head I grin at Sam. Stevie will like this story, I think; Stevie will like Sam.
My parents and I don’t leave right away. We watch Sam head toward the security line, and I realize there is something I need to ask him before he goes.
“Wait one sec,” I say to my parents, and I trot away from them.
“Hey, Sam,” I call, and he turns around.
“How’d you make it right?” I ask.
“How’d I make what right?”
“In high school, when you broke up with Catherine, when you told her your love was a joke. How’d you get her back, after saying something so awful?”
Sam smiles at me. “I called her house a lot, woke up her parents at all hours. I did it so many times that I had to find new ways to say I’m sorry.”
“That’s all—you called her?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy—I called until my fingers could punch in her number without looking, like I was reading Braille. And I had to throw in the occasional grand gesture—but yeah, it worked. I told you, Nick, she was smarter than I was.” He grins. “Still is.”
And as I walk back to my waiting parents, I know that this is definitely not the last we’ll see of Sam.
And I don’t mind. I’m actually kind of happy about it.
Phone Calls and Other Life-Altering Events
W
e don’t talk on the ride back to the Days Inn. It’s raining and I lean my forehead against the window, even though the glass is wet and cold. It actually feels very calm in the car with my parents, like we’re all kind of relieved that’s over with. Not because it was so bad, but because Sam isn’t some idea anymore. He’s just a man, with flaws like cigarette smoke, walking down the Jetway now, making his way home.
I thought my father would be sad to see him go, but he’s smiling. My mom is smiling, too, and maybe so am I. Maybe there is a different kind of love that I didn’t know about before: I knew about the filial kind that comes out of being a family; the romantic kind that you fall into; the kind that you have with your best friend that you would never admit to out loud. But there is also something else, something that my dad felt for thirty years, some kind of connection that must come when you’ve had a child, even if you never knew him. Maybe my father felt some kind of chemical-reaction-type love so that he needed to meet Sam, needed to know that he was okay. Maybe I felt it, too, some blood-pull that made me need to know who Sam was. And now that we do, maybe there will be some other, some more peaceful kind of feeling to take its place.
I can feel my phone vibrating against my leg, tucked away in the pocket of my jeans. I know it’s Stevie calling, to find out why I haven’t called for over twenty-four hours. But I couldn’t very well have called Stevie last night to let him know that I wouldn’t be calling him because I was sharing a room with Sam. And I don’t think I can pick up the phone now, either, since it feels like I’m not supposed to break the warm silence that fills the car.
It all began, when you think about it, with a ringing phone. Sam calling during
Wheel of Fortune;
me picking up, thinking it was a telemarketer. And it all started when I called Eden, inviting myself to her house to study, imagining what her bedroom looked like, picturing how white her stomach would be when she stretched her arms over her head.
At the motel, my parents head for their room, and I head for mine. The sofa where Sam slept is still made up like a bed, and I sit on the edge of it. It feels strange to sit on someone else’s bed; it feels strange to have the room all to myself; one night, and I’d gotten used to sharing it. But now I have the privacy I need to make the call I’m about to make.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and rest it on the bed beside me. I get up; take off my coat, my jeans, and my sweater; go into the bathroom and brush my teeth, splash some water on my face. I’m getting ready for the call like I’m getting ready for bed. ’Cause I know that this may take a while.
The screen on my phone says four missed calls, all from Stevie. This would be easier if at least one of them were from her, but it’s not like I’ve given her any reason to call me lately.
I dial the number, deliberately not picking it from speed-dial. I like the feeling of knowing the number by heart, like the sound of the buttons clicking under my fingers. When the phone rings, once, twice, I think of Sam.
I wonder what Sam must have been thinking, that first time he called our house, hearing the phone ring—and I remember that I let it ring a good four or five times before I finally picked up. He must have been wondering what the voice on the other end was going to sound like. Would the right person pick up? Would his voice be gruff, deep, warm? Maybe he’d have an accent. Or maybe this wouldn’t be the right number after all; maybe he moved, or the adoption registry might have gotten it wrong, or Sam might have written the number down incorrectly. Or maybe no one would pick up. Or maybe, worst of all, the person on the other end wouldn’t want to talk at all.
That’s what I’m scared of, as I listen to the phone ring, as I imagine Eden getting up from her bed to pick the phone up from her desk, looking down and seeing that it’s me who’s calling. She might not want to talk to me. But I know I’ll keep calling until she does. I’ll make this right. Because she was right, just like Sam’s fiancée was right: We’re the lucky kind.
It all begins with a ringing phone.
There is no
one
thing that’s true. It’s all true.
—Ernest Hemingway
,
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Many, many thanks to my friends, family, and teachers at Random House Children’s Books, at the Gernert Company, and at home.
I am I because my little dog knows me.
—Gertrude Stein
In Memoriam
Sara Jane Gravitt
