Sam

by Luke F. Harris

  “Let go of me, you bastard,” she hissed, struggling to free her arms for another strike.

  Thank God nobody is around to witness this, Sam thought, glancing behind him. Two guys restraining a girl in a dark street didn’t look good.

  Eve managed to wrestle herself free at last. She staggered backwards, panting.

  “What are you staring at?” she screamed, lunging towards him, but Tom managed to catch her again. “He’ll only hurt you,” she yelled, her voice softening as if she were giving advice to a friend.

  She turned her head and spat at Tom. Tom let go immediately.

  He wanted to run to Tom, to protect him, but he hung back out of fear of making things worse.

  Thankfully, Eve seemed to have grown tired of fighting. She crumpled like a marionette whose strings had gone slack.

  Tom stepped towards her and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. This time, instead of batting his hand away, she clasped it in hers and started to sob.

  It was past midnight by the time Tom got back to the flat. He flopped down onto the bed and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

  “Did you get her home OK?” Sam asked, but Tom just groaned in reply. “That bad, eh?”

  Tom rolled over onto his front and rested his head in Sam’s lap. “I feel like the biggest shit in the world.”

  He stroked Tom’s hair. “No, that title belongs to my dad, surely?”

  Tom gave a half-hearted laugh. “True. But I’d come a close second, according to Eve.”

  chapter fifteen

  Tom reached for the first blunt object he could find and crept along the hall. He remembered closing off the living room before going to bed—he always did, to keep out the cat, who was systematically destroying the furniture—but the door was now ajar.

  He held the unopened bottle of wine by its neck and raised it above his head.

  “Hello,” he called out. He had hoped the cat would come skulking through the gap, but he didn’t. “Is there anybody there?”

  Adrenalin was coursing through his veins, in anticipation of a fight. He gripped the bottle tighter, ready to swing if needed.

  The silence was broken by a loud, mucus-filled sniff. A human sniff.

  An intruder with a nasty cold? He flung open the door and flicked on the light.

  “Olivia,” he exhaled with relief and lowered the bottle to his side. “What the hell?”

  His niece was sitting on the sofa. As soon as she saw him, her face crumpled.

  “I didn’t…know…where…to go,” she tried to explain between sobs.

  He sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. Her body was like one giant ice cube. What had she been doing? Wandering around in the cold all night? He felt her relax as she nestled into him.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his chest.

  “Ssh,” he replied, rubbing some warmth into her frozen body. He had never seen his niece so upset before—not even when Sam had died. Then she had withdrawn into herself, like a pipi retreating into its shell.

  He put his hand in his pocket and produced a scrunched up tissue. He offered it to her.

  “Thanks.” She wiped her nose and sat up straight.

  He looked her in the eyes. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  When she shook her head, he exhaled with relief. “Thank Christ for that.”

  He stood up and walked over to the French doors, which opened out onto the deck. A possum was ferreting around on the lawn below. As soon as it saw movement inside the house, it shot up the nearest tree.

  “What, then? You’re not sick, are you?” he asked turning back to face her. A pit had formed in his stomach. Olivia shook her head, but the nausea remained. “Your mother, then. She’s OK, isn’t she?” The possibilities were coming thick and fast now.

  “He’s been cheating on me,” Olivia answered, her voice almost a whisper.

  “Who—” he began to say, but then he remembered the boy she had mentioned in the car on their way to Castlepoint. “Oh.”

  He walked across the room and stood silently at her side. If only Sam were here, he thought. He would have known what to say.

  He leaned forward and plucked a clean tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Here, blow your nose properly.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “You haven’t got anything stronger, have you?”

  He almost laughed but managed to check the impulse in time. She was no longer a child—he could see that now—but a young woman who was hurting immensely.

  She followed him into the kitchen and slumped onto a chair. He kept an eye on her reflection in the window as he poured out two glasses of red wine. “Here,” he said, handing her a glass. He had only half filled it. “Don’t tell your mother, though.”

  A faint smile flashed across her face and was then gone.

  She took a sip and reached across the table, to one of the many piles of photographs that he had arranged in date order.

  “Where was this taken?” She held up a photo of him, sunbathing on a white, sandy beach. The ocean in the background was turquoise.

  “Rarotonga,” he replied. He took a sip from his own glass.

  “And this one?” she continued, reaching for another pile at random. She held up a photo of Sam in front of a temple. A monkey was perched on his shoulder.

  “Cambodia.”

  “I don’t remember you guys going there?”

  “You were just a kid at the time.”

  “And this one?” She pointed to a photo of him, holding a fish that was the size of a small dog.

  “The Bay of Islands.”

  He put down his glass of wine and leaned back in his seat. “You didn’t come here to look at old photos. Now tell me what happened.”

  The sadness returned to her face at once and he felt ashamed of himself for not letting her continue on the trip down memory lane.

  “George dumped me,” she replied. She seemed visibly to deflate before his eyes.

  “Go on?” he prompted. He could see there was more that she wanted to say, but he kept quiet, allowing her to take the time she needed.

  “I really loved him,” she said at last. A solitary tear broke free and ran down her cheek. He reached across the table and placed a hand over hers. “I suppose you’re going tell me I’m too young to know what love is?” she continued. There was an accusatory tone to her voice. He could almost feel the anger thrumming through her body.

  “I would never tell you that,” he said, still holding her hand. Her shoulders slumped and she turned her attention back to the photographs.

  “Tell me about Sam.”

  He let go of her hand and took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Eleven years.” He could see her trying to do the maths inside her head. “You were five when we met. Don’t you remember?”

  She tilted her head to the side, thinking. “Perhaps. I’m not really sure, to be honest. It seems like Sam was always there.”

  He smiled. He knew exactly what she meant.

  “What did Mum say when you told her—you know?”

  He didn’t answer straightaway. He got to his feet and walked over to the window. The moon was full and the surrounding hills looked as if they were plated with silver. Everything looked so peaceful. “What did Carla say when she found out I was gay, you mean?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “She was great.”

  “And your friends?”

  “Great too. It was never an issue, which is more than can be said for Sam’s family.” He was unable to disguise the bitterness he felt whenever he thought about Sam’s parents. He wasn’t sure how much Olivia knew about Sam’s childhood—how much Carla had told her—but to his relief, she seemed happy with the information he had already provided and didn’t probe any deeper.

  “When do you leave?” she asked, changing the subject completely.

 
“A week on Tuesday. I fly to Auckland first, and then direct to Santiago.”

  “And after that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, “Who knows? I have an open ticket, so I’ll just go wherever the wind blows me, I suppose.”

  Olivia looked away before she spoke again. “I’m going to miss you while you’re gone.”

  He smiled. He would miss his niece more than she would ever know. He cleared his throat. “I know I don’t say this often, but thank you. I appreciate your support this past year.”

  He got to his feet and placed the empty wine glasses in the sink. Then he picked up the phone and handed it to Olivia.

  “Here, phone your mum and tell her where you are so that she doesn’t worry. I’ll make up the spare bed.”

  chapter sixteen

  “Will you please just go and see the doctor?”

  Sam lifted his head out of the bucket and glared at Tom. He knew Tom was right—he hadn’t felt well for weeks now; months if he thought about it objectively—but he had been hoping the nausea would go away of its own accord. Going to the doctor’s never ended well. Once they started poking and prodding, they almost always found something wrong.

  “I will,” he groaned and dry retched again.

  “I’ll make you an appointment now.” Tom picked up the phone and wandered out of the room. If he had had even slightly more energy, he would have followed him, stopped him, but instead, he stayed put, the bucket gripped between his knees.

  “He can see you this afternoon,” Tom said, appearing in the doorway a few minutes later. “I’ll come home early from work and take you.”

  Tom turned to leave and then stopped. “Perhaps I should call in sick today.”

  “No,” he said as authoritatively as he could manage.

  Tom opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Silently, he helped him back into bed, plumped up the pillows behind his back and placed the television remote within easy reach.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, feeling guilty for worrying Tom, “I’ve probably just got some gastro bug. There’s been something doing the rounds at work lately.”

  “I can probably stay for a bit—” Tom stopped when he saw the look on his face.

  “Just go, will you,” he said. He tried to smile as he reached for one of the decorative cushions and threw it at Tom. It fell several feet short.

  Tom returned his smile, but the concern didn’t leave his eyes.

  Once he was sure that Tom wouldn’t return, he threw back the covers and hauled himself to the edge of the bed. Just getting to his feet seemed to zap all his energy at the moment. He had to stand still and wait for the fog in his head to clear before he could continue.

  The light in the bathroom was poor, but it was still obvious that something wasn’t quite right. The whites of his eyes still had a yellow tinge to them. And his face, usually a healthy olive colour, was looking more and more pale and drawn.

  He ran his fingers over his cheeks. He could feel the outline of the bones underneath. He had lost weight, too.

  By the time Tom returned home to take him to his appointment, he was dressed and sitting on the sofa.

  “Have you eaten anything?” Tom asked before saying hello.

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been hungry.”

  “Get your coat then, or we’ll miss the appointment.”

  He opened his mouth to say something smart but felt another wave of nausea bubble up from the pit of his stomach and had to close his eyes and hold the back of his hand against his lips.

  “How long have you been feeling this way?” the doctor asked.

  “A few weeks,” he replied.

  “Do you think it could be concussion still?” Tom interrupted. “He took a golf ball to the head recently.”

  The doctor pushed his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose and tapped something into his computer. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  He gave Tom a frustrated glare, but Tom continued, “Every day it’s the same. We thought it might be food poisoning at first, and then, when it continued past a few days, we assumed it was one of those gastro bugs.”

  “I see,” the doctor said.

  He gasped as the stethoscope touched his bare back. “Take a deep breath.” He did as he was told and the doctor moved the cold metal disc to another spot. “And another.”

  He kept his eyes closed so that he wouldn’t have to look at Tom.

  The doctor finished the examination, typed some more notes into the computer, and reached into a drawer beside his desk.

  “Take this,” the doctor said, handing him a small plastic container. “Fill it with urine and hand it to the nurse at the pathology clinic indicated on the form. Are you able to go there now? I’d like to do some blood tests.” He directed the question at Tom, who nodded.

  “What kind of blood tests?” he asked hesitantly; he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know the answer. He clasped his hands between his legs to disguise their shaking. Hopefully, Tom hadn’t seen.

  “Try not to worry,” the doctor replied. “We’ll have a better idea what we’re dealing with in a few days’ time.”

  He noticed that the doctor hadn’t answered his question, but he decided not to press the point. He stood and followed Tom silently out the door.

  The doctor called with the results early the next day.

  “Here—it’s for you,” Tom said, pressing his lips into a smile as he handed him the phone.

  The conversation was short, and when he thought back on it later, he wasn’t able to remember half of what the doctor had said.

  “He wants me to go to the hospital for more tests,” he told Tom, hanging up the telephone. “He’s making an appointment right away.”

  “What type of tests?” Tom asked. The alarm in his voice was crystal clear.

  He shrugged and sank down onto the nearest chair. All he could hear was his own pulse thumping in his ears. His throat was dry and he gagged as he tried to swallow.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” he mumbled. Tom sprinted out of the room for the bucket and only just made it back in time.

  The first appointment with the consultant didn’t answer many of his questions, but by the time his second appointment rolled around, it was impossible to deny the seriousness of the situation any longer. He could barely keep his food down, and he had had to tighten his belt another notch.

  “They don’t tell you to come in when it’s good news, do they?” he answered shortly and instantly regretted it. Tom was looking exhausted too. “Sorry,” he apologised and gave Tom’s hand a squeeze. Tom squeezed back but he continued to stare at the wall opposite.

  He looked at his watch for the second time in as many minutes. “Why can’t they ever run on time?” He tossed the out-of-date magazine that he was reading back onto the table. “They wouldn’t get away with it in the real world.”

  “God, I wish this wasn’t the real world,” Tom sighed. He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the wall.

  Five minutes later, the receptionist called out his name and they made their way silently to the consultant’s office.

  Is it the detergent they use or the smell of sickness that gives all hospitals the same smell? He let his gaze wander around the room. Or perhaps it’s the smell of fear. He felt detached, as if he were watching from afar.

  “Cancer of the what?” Tom’s voice pierced the numbness and, suddenly, he was right back in the room.

  “Cancer of the pancreas,” the grey-haired consultant repeated. He placed his elbows on the desk and pressed his fingertips together to form a peak. “I won’t lie to you. The results aren’t good.”

  Although he had been preparing himself for the worst, the words still dealt him a sucker punch to the stomach.

  “Cancer of the pancreas.” He tried the words out for size, as if he were trying to speak a language that he didn’t understand.

  The doctor started to explain the options that were open to him, but the words washed
over his head and flowed on out the door.

  “How bad?” Tom asked the only question of importance.

  He didn’t hear the answer but the look of sympathy on the doctor’s face told him all he needed to know.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the bedroom slowly took shape around him. First, the television came into view, its screen a silvery shade of grey; next the wardrobe, tall and imposing; and finally the squat chest of drawers beside the door. Objects that were so familiar, yet which now looked extraneous. Objects that would outlive him.

  Tom was fast asleep beside him. He looked so peaceful. He hoped that he was dreaming of something nice.

  Lying perfectly still, he almost felt like his old self. It was only when he moved that the pain got especially bad. “Am I really dying?” he asked the silence, but he didn’t get an answer.

  He took a deep breath and rolled onto his side. He had to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from crying out and waking Tom. I guess I have my answer, he thought, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the hand towel that Tom had left by the bed.

  Slowly, he pushed himself up onto one elbow and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He might as well get up; he would only lie awake for the rest of the night. And lying in the dark, everything was infinitely more frightening. Awake, he could distract himself with the business of staying alive.

  He hauled himself to his feet, steadying himself on the bedside table before venturing out into no-man’s-land. When he did, it felt as if he were dragging lead weights behind him.

  While he waited for the jug to boil, he peered out of the kitchen window, into the night. He had to cup his hands around his eyes and push his nose up against the glass to see through his reflection. Down on the flat, the streetlamps flickered like fireflies.

  His hands shook as he poured the boiling water, and then the milk, into the cup. By the time he had mopped up the mess, he was thoroughly exhausted.

  Tom had left a syringe full of morphine on the bench. He picked it up and squirted the bitter liquid into the back of his mouth. Most of the time the morphine driver attached to his arm kept the pain at bay, but every so often he needed a top-up.