by Casey Ford
Nothing new there, but she doesn’t stop coughing. It’s a wet, scratchy cough that sounds really bad. Sam has tried over and over again to get her mom to stop smoking — hiding her lighters and packs of smokes or even going so far as to break all her cigarettes in half. Emily gets mad at her for doing it, but never really punishes her for it.
She’s still smoking.
I know it hurts Sam to see her mom like this. Ever since that health class about the dangers of smoking, Sam has been on a crusade to save her mom from death. I feel so sorry for Sam and I actually get really mad at Emily. Why is it so hard to stop smoking?
Doesn’t she know how much it hurts Sam?
Emily collapses to the floor, convulsing from coughs, and Sam stops everything to jump to her. I notice something in Emily’s hand. The theater is still dark but I think I know what it is.
Her palm is covered in blood.
She was just coughing into the same palm.
“Samantha. I want you to be prepared baby girl. Mom is not feeling well,” Nate explains to us. It’s been a few days since the movie theater incident and Emily has been in the hospital the entire time. Sam reaches for my hand and, as I take it, she squeezes. All I can do is squeeze back and Sam’s shoulders slack a bit, comforted by my presence.
Having me here makes Sam feel better, which makes me feel good.
Sam nods her head and drags me into the room. Emily is pale. She requires a lot of oxygen, so she has a breathing tube in her nostrils. She’s been sick for a long time and told no one about it. She didn’t even tell Nate, her husband.
Now it’s too late.
I heard the doctors talking to Nate, stage four lung cancer. They didn’t sound like that was a good thing.
I can tell that Sam is angry as she walks up to her mother. It’s hard to tell who she’s angrier with — herself or her mom. I have a hunch she’s a lot angrier with herself.
That’s the way Sam is.
Emily stirs and repositions herself in the bed as we get closer. The anger on Sam’s face changes. Now she’s angrier with her mother.
“Hello, Sam,” Emily coughs. Sam barely flinches.
“Oh, Sammy, don’t be that way. You didn’t do this.” Emily looks at her daughter with regret and compassion. Sam’s anger flashes across her face. It’s a bit scary how livid she looks. She grips my hand tighter and I fight back a grimace.
“You’re right, Mother, it’s your fault. If you had stopped smoking when I told you to…” She never finishes and just breaks down crying. Emily places her hand on the back of Sam’s head and strokes her hair. Sam loses herself in grief and leaps into her arms, screaming and sobbing as she lets out her pain and resentment on her mother’s chest.
I knew this would happen eventually. I’m surprised it happened so fast.
“Stupid, Mom! Stupid! Stupid!” Her screaming slowly turns into sobbing and then whimpering. Emily softly strokes her hair the entire time, comforting her. I feel the need to do something, so I place a hand on Sam’s back and wipe a tear from her eye when she looks at me.
“I’ll wait outside, Sam.” I turn to leave, but she grabs my hand and refuses to let me go, her face buried in her mother’s chest. I feel like a comfort blanket at this point, but I don’t really care. I like having Sam’s confidence. I transition the death grip into a soothing hold and stand there rubbing her back while she lets out her emotions.
After a long time, Sam calms down and Emily asks me to take her outside. She wants to talk to Nate for a minute. I help Sam off the bed and Emily leans over to whisper in her ear. “I love you, Piglet.”
Sam bites back a sob from escaping and nods. Emily looks at me. “You take good care of my piglet,” she tells me, “she’s very special.”
I nod. “I know that, Emily. I’ve known that for a long time.” Emily smiles at me and I warm at her praise.
I lead Sam to a bench in the hall and crouch in front of her while she sits down. Taking her hands, I cradle them in mine. I want to console her, but I can’t think of anything to say, or do, that will make her feel better. I finally just sit down next to her and wrap her up in my arms. She doesn’t sob, but she whimpers.
Sam’s breathing starts to slow and I know she’s fallen asleep. All the emotions have been too much for her today. Taking my jacket off, I place her head on it and slip out to head back in the room. I have a bunch of questions for Emily.
Nate is cupping her head in his hands, forehead to forehead.
“Baby, what am I going to do?” he whispers barely loud enough for me to hear. She smiles at him.
“I don’t think I can do this. Not alone.” I see Nate’s tears come. Emily smiles at him and places her palm on his cheek, wiping the tears away with her thumb.
“You are the strongest person I know, Nate. If anyone can raise our child by himself, it’s you.” A sliver of pain passes across her face and her small smile falters. Nate shudders, I think at the thought of raising Sam without Emily around. She grips both sides of Nate’s face with a fierce look.
“Promise me something, Nate.”
“Anything, Em. Name it and I’ll do it.” Her sad smile comes back and she closes her eyes in silent pain.
“Don’t hold on to me.” Nate inhales in surprise. “I want you to find someone that will love you as much I have.” Nate is shaking his head.
“If you find this person, I don’t want to be hanging over your head. So don’t hold on.” I’m stunned. I would hate it if Sam found someone else. I can’t imagine what is going through Emily’s head right now. More tears break through and start to trail down Nate’s face.
“Forget me if you have to, but I want you to move on.” Tears are coming down both their faces and she seems almost desperate. It’s hard to watch — these two adults crying and breaking apart — but I can’t get myself to stop watching.
“Please, promise me,” she’s almost in a panic. “Nate, if you love me at all, promise me you’ll move on.” Her sobs are painful to hear. Both of their faces are drenched as Nate nods his head.
“Okay, Em, I will,” Nate says. “It’ll destroy me, but I will.”
“For you,” he finishes. Emily looks relieved as she closes her eyes again.
“Thank you, Nathan. Thank you.” I leave the room to give them some privacy, already feeling like I stayed too long.
Sam spends every day at the hospital with her mother. She tells her about her day and all the things she’s done. Her mother listens and laughs. I sit in the room as silent support.
She seems happy during these times with her mother.
Sam watches her mother close her eyes and silently pass away two weeks later.
Chapter Eight
Present Day
The second day of being bed-ridden is starting out a lot better than the first day, if you count a visit from the police as a lot better. As soon as they walk through the door to my room, I start going through all the things I’ve done in my life to warrant a visit from the cops. Though I know they’re most likely here because of the accident, I can’t help the guilty conscious.
“We just want to ask a few questions about the accident,” one of them tells me as soon as they get comfortable. I nod.
“Okay,” he starts, “how fast were you going?” I think back to the accident and flashes of Sam bloodied and slumped over fill my head. I shake them from my mind and try to focus on answering the question.
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “The light had just turned green, so I couldn’t have been going too fast.” The officer jots down my answer on his pad and nods.
“Did you see the truck before you were hit?” I remember the blood and panic. Another mental shake and focus, I remember looking at Sam briefly and seeing the truck over her shoulder.
I nod my head ‘yes’.
“What did you do?” the officer asks, though it doesn’t sound like an accusation. I focus on that moment and try to remember what happened.
“It happened so fast. I didn’t
even have time to register that a truck had run the light before we were hit.” He writes in his pad some more. I start to get lost in my thoughts. Should I have reacted faster? Would slamming on my brakes have lessened the damage? Would Sam be better off if I had? Would she be worse? Should I have taken another road that night? I should have taken my first choice instead of trying to take the long way around in a vain attempt to spend more time with her.
Look at us now. Definitely not worth it.
“Had you been drinking that night?” Police officers have a way of asking a question that makes you feel like you’re guilty of whatever they’re asking about, even if you aren’t.
“No, sir, I’m only 20.” The officer raises an eyebrow as if to say, “don’t patronize me.” I let out a giant sigh.
“Look, I occasionally go to a frat party or two and have a couple of drinks, but I don’t drink normally.” The officer writes in his pad again.
“Drugs?”
“No.” I say through gritted teeth. I’m getting irritated with these questions. It’s like they want to blame me for the guy hitting us.
“I’m the one who got hit, you know?” I ask angrily. The officer raises his eyebrow in confusion.
“We know that,” he answers, “we’re just trying to be thorough in our investigation.”
I pause for a minute thinking about where my rage is coming from. I’m not angry with the officers for asking the questions they are asking. I’m angry with the driver of the truck.
What happened to him?
Taking a chance, I ask, “What happened to the other driver?”
The officers look at each other for a second and then tell me, “He’s been detained until his arraignment.”
“Since no one was killed in the accident and he wasn’t under the influence,” he continues, “he’s been charged with vehicular assault.” The officer pauses and seems to think about the rest.
I have no idea what that means. Assault sounds really bad though. He has to be going away for a very long time, right? What do they mean he wasn’t drinking? What the hell was he doing then? How the fuck do you run a red light without stopping, and hit another car without putting on the brakes, WITHOUT DRINKING?
“What the hell happened?” I hiss.
“Apparently, he fell asleep at the wheel.”
Fell asleep at the wheel? What the hell?!
HE FELL ASLEEP?!
I really want to scream right now. That son of a bitch fell asleep and crashed through my future. Worst of all, he put Sam into a coma! How the hell am I supposed to process that? If he was drunk, I could at least know that there was honest to god reason for his stupidity, but he just fell asleep. He couldn’t be bothered to stop for a little while and nap before finishing his drive home and now my x-rays look like Wolverine’s and Sam’s dreaming a constant dream.
“Are we done now?” I ask as nicely as I can through clenched teeth.
“Yes, thank you,” the officers tell me as they start for the door.
“If we think of anything else, we’ll contact you.” I nod, not wanting to speak because my rage will make it difficult to be nice to them. They close the door behind them and I scream.
I scream as loud as I can into my pillow, hot tears streaming down my face.
I really need to see Sam right now.
“Knock, knock.” Wrapping his knuckles on the door at the same time, the words are just an unnecessary addition. My irritation from this morning is still festering and I try to keep it out of my voice.
“Come on in, Quentin,” I call out to him; I’ve been expecting him. He walks in with someone following close behind, the last person I expect to see with him. Arianna Legacy — surprisingly, not a stripper name — never really got along with Quentin and it only takes one look at them together to know why.
Quentin is the picture perfect, preppy, rich boy. Wearing anything but pastel polo shirts and slacks would be the same as being a bum. His loafers shine in the fluorescent lighting of my hospital room. His unmovable dirty blonde hair is parted on the side. As if his look wasn’t completely perfect as is, he has his sweater tied around his neck making a preppy cape on his back.
Arianna is so far his opposite it’s jarring. She has long dark brown hair with strands of bright red and cobalt blue. Her face is punctuated with a barbell through her eyebrow and a single stud through one nostril. She’s wearing a lot of black eye-shadow and an outline of deep purple eyeliner. A silver, chained choker is around her neck, which accentuates her black clothing. A black, ripped t-shirt covers a long-sleeved grey shirt with holes in the sleeves for her thumbs. Skin-tight black jeans hug her hips and a single chain attached in the front by a pant loop keeps her wallet in her back pocket. She’s also wearing combat boots, black of course.
They are the complete opposite of each other.
And they’re holding hands. I feel some of my irritation start to fade as I think back to when these two first met.
9 Years Ago (Age 11): January
“Hey Ethan, you seen the new girl yet?” I ask as I enter the group on the playground. We have our own table we sit at during recess and lunch – it was hard fought. Ethan asked a group of girls if we could have it and they said sure without a fight. We’re still not sure how he did it.
“Yeah, she’s in my class,” Ethan answers. Sam is sitting to my right and she casually grabs my hand. We’ve stopped entwining our fingers like we used to. Her hand on top of mine, it’s a simple hold of comfort, nothing more.
Sam’s not as clingy as she used to be after her mother died, but she still has a need to touch and hold on occasion. The group has grown used to our displays of affection and has long grown past the need to point them out with jokes and catcalls.
Though, for the first few weeks, I wore a permanent shade of red.
“So what’s her story?” Sam asks excitedly. “The middle of the year is a little late to be transferring schools.” Ethan opens his mouth to say something when Quentin to his left jumps into the conversation.
“She’s a bitch.” My eyes hit an all-time record for wide. Quentin cannot cuss. It’s not a matter of won’t, or chooses not to, no he is incapable of cussing.
Or at least he used to be.
I once watched him spend 20 minutes stuttering and coughing as he tried to say ‘damn.’ Not even goddamn, just damn. His face was turning red from the effort. It was very painful to watch.
But the word that just left his mouth is so much worse than damn and he said it without even a stutter.
“Who the hell are you and tell me you’re here to stay.” Ethan proves once again that he’s the vocal one of the group. I’m still trying to pick my jaw off the floor. Sam, of course, is laughing. I have to laugh too. It’s actually funny how nonchalant Quentin is being about his major leap forward into teenager life.
Not that any of us are actually teenagers, we’re only 11.
“What?” Quentin asks still completely oblivious to the reason of our surprise.
“You just cussed. Without stuttering or passing out,” Ethan tells him. Quentin shrugs his shoulders.
“It was bound to happen sooner or later.” His blasé attitude about this monumental occasion makes Sam and I laugh even more. Quentin cracks a small knowing smile and Ethan congratulates him with a hardy slap on the back.
“Okay,” Sam begins after catching her breath, “tell us about this mystery girl that has pushed you through the cursing wall.” Sam and I place our heads in our hands and throw the most innocent look on our faces, in perfect sync. We both stare at him.
It doesn’t take long for Quentin to cave and start laughing.
“She’s an interesting girl,” he starts to explain, but stops there. Quentin looks over my shoulder, as I suddenly feel someone behind us. Sam and I spin around as if on cue. The girl jumps back a few steps.
She’s pretty in a skater, I hate the world, kind of way. She has dark brown hair that’s almost black when compared to the bright purple streaks.
She’s wearing dark colored make-up, but only enough to be noticeable, not enough to scream ‘look at me.’ She’s wearing a black Sex Pistols t-shirt and jeans with large holes in the knees. Her only pieces of jewelry are the spiked choker around her neck and the two studs in each of her ears.
“Whoa!” she looks freaked. “That was freaky.” She glances at Sam and me for a while. We look at each other at the same time, in perfect sync, then back to her.
“Wow, that’s like really scary shit.” She seems to be calming down a little as she gets used to us. Sam and I look at each other again and then flash her almost perfectly identical smiles.
We’re like a pair of twins that look nothing alike. It’s a game we’ve perfected over the years.
“Are they always this creepy?” she asks over our shoulders. Ethan shrugs.
“You’ve caught them in a good mood,” he answers her. “They haven’t done the evil twin bit in a long time.” Suddenly we both jump to our feet and step toward her. She retreats a few steps as if we’re going to eat her.
“Name’s Sam Cohn.” Talking means the game is over. We can mimic movements with little cues, but we can’t match our voices or words. That takes way too much guess work.
“Name’s Alan Green,” I reach my hand out to her. She hesitantly grasps it and shakes it gingerly. She still seems cautious around us and I start to think we went a little far with her. Sam just grins at her.
“Arianna,” she introduces, “Arianna Legacy.” Sam can’t seem to hold in her snort and I have to shoot her a wicked look to get her to stop.
“It’s not a stripper name,” Quentin answers the question no one asked, but everyone was thinking. “I asked earlier.”
The look that Arianna is giving Quentin right now doesn’t leave much in the way of imagination. It doesn’t take a lot to know what unimaginable things this girl is thinking of doing to him. I wonder if that’s the reason things are rocky between them. Knowing Quentin, the question was asked as a joke, but he doesn’t do the tone right. People nearly always mistake it as him being mean or rude.
