by Tricia Goyer
Charlotte rose and began clearing the lunch dishes. “That’s a lot of money. It sounds like something worthwhile.”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to try.”
“Just as long as you don’t write about rainbows and flowers again,” Sam mumbled.
“So, are you going to write fiction or nonfiction?” Pete asked, taking a chunk of cake off the cake plate with his fingers.
“Is nonfiction the true story?” Christopher asked, scratching his head.
Pete nodded.
“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s more money. What do you think, Grandma?”
Charlotte was only half listening to Christopher. Instead, her thoughts were focused on Sam. “Good idea,” Charlotte said. “You should try.”
Sam sat there in the chair looking as if he were in a room full of strangers. He had a hesitant look on his face—as if he was worried. What was going on in his head?
Charlotte carried a stack of dishes next to the sink and began rinsing each one, placing them in the dishwasher. She realized that, for the most part, Sam merely tolerated life on the farm—as if he was just biding his time. But was there something else going on?
“Here you go; here’s the last of it.” Emily handed her grandma the last dirty plate.
Charlotte’s shoulders and back ached as she finished loading the dishwasher. Lost in thought, she rinsed out the washcloth and wiped off the dining room table, finally realizing that everyone had slipped away and left her to clean up alone. It hadn’t changed much since her own kids were teens. Bob, Denise, and Pete always wanted to do their own thing rather than spend time together.
“Is this what family is about?” Charlotte mumbled as she wiped the crumbs from the table into her hand. Somehow she expected more … wanted more.
BOB WAS IN A SOUR MOOD as he prepared for bed. Charlotte ran a brush through her short brown hair, which seemed to be getting grayer by the day, and turned to him.
“It’s hard for him, you know.”
“Hard for who?”
“Sam. This is his first birthday without his mom. That’s hard. They had their own way of doing things, their own traditions. I know he misses her.”
“We all miss her, Charlotte.” Bob put his toothbrush in the holder.
“Yes, I know, but it’s different for the kids.” She set her brush on the dresser. “Maybe I made a mistake by making that cake. Did you notice? Sam didn’t even have a piece. I was just trying to give him something familiar, but maybe it was just more of a reminder that his mom isn’t here—and never will be.”
She padded over to their bed, the cold floor causing her toes to curl as she walked. Then she slid off her warm bathrobe and slipped between the cold sheets. A small shiver ran down her spine.
“It’s hard knowing what to do, you know? Or what not to do. It’s not like there’s a manual or anything to follow. Nothing could have prepared any of us for this.”
Bob climbed into bed and then flipped off the small lamp on the night table. Charlotte felt a wall go up between them. Her mind bounded from Sam, to Emily and the flower fundraiser, to worries about Christopher getting teased about his poem, back to Emily again.
Ten minutes passed and she could tell from his breathing that he wasn’t asleep.
“Bob,” she whispered in the dark.
“Hmm …”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Well, there is this fundraiser at school. Every year the cheerleaders sell flowers. It’s a big deal, even though it shouldn’t be. You know how teens get all riled up about the silliest things. Anyway, she didn’t state it outright, but I think Emily really wants a flower because she doesn’t want to look like a nobody. Do you think it would be wrong to buy her one? I wouldn’t put my name on it, but at least when they deliver the flowers to the students in front of everyone she’ll have one … Or do you think that’s being dishonest? I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up, thinking a boy likes her or something. We know what a disaster that can be. Or even worse, if everyone were to find out her grandma bought her a flower, well, Emily would probably never speak to me again … What do you think?”
Charlotte blew out a breath, releasing the tension with her words. She was only met by silence.
“Bob?”
Still no answer.
“Bob.” She turned to her side, barely making out his profile in the dark. “Are you sleeping?”
For her answer, she heard a soft, shuddering snore. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Instead, she curled her pillow tight under her chin.
“It’s good to know that you’re with me, Lord,” she whispered into the night. “Although I wish you could put flesh on and hang out for a while.”
She smiled to herself as she imagined Jesus hanging out with her during the day. Helping her wash the dishes, chatting over a cup of coffee, reminding her of items to add to her grocery list. He’d surely know what to do about Sam—about all the kids.
“God, I know you are always with me. Forgive me for forgetting that. I don’t have to do this alone—ever. So, if you could, just remind me that you are real and you are available. No matter what I need.”
“I’m not doing this alone,” she mumbled into the night. “I’m not alone.”
Chapter Eight
Sam shivered despite the five or six heavy blankets that covered him. They kept him warm enough, but they smelled like his grandparents’ house. More than anything he wished he were in his old bed back in San Diego. More than anything he wished it was his mom’s voice he was hearing through the wall.
Sam punched his pillow once. Then twice. It wasn’t fair. He’d do anything to be with her again. Why did this have to happen? Grandma talks about God, but I don’t want to hear anything about a God who would do this.
He listened close and tried to make out his grandma’s words, drifting up through the floorboards. She was prattling on about something. She was talking soft enough that he couldn’t make out what she was saying, but loud enough that he could clearly distinguish her tone. He knew she was probably talking about him, going on about how “disrespectful” he was.
Sam curled to his side and pulled the blankets tighter around him. I don’t care what they think—don’t care what anyone thinks.
He listened closer and realized he didn’t hear his grandpa’s voice. And that made him even madder. Grandpa treated the kids like they were just trouble—a big bother, as he would say. He’s probably sleeping. Figures.
Grandma’s voice eventually quieted, and soon the only sound was the creaking of the bare tree branches outside his window, shifting in the wind.
Sam sat up in his bed and turned on the lamp on the bedside dresser. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a blue book with a satiny cover. For as long as he could remember, the book had sat on the bookshelf in the living room of their various apartments all around San Diego. No matter where they’d moved, the bookshelf had been set up and the books placed in their familiar spots. After his mom’s death, their baby books had been one of the things Grandma had made sure to pack and bring with them.
He’d found them just a few days ago when Grandma had asked him to go upstairs to put some things away in the attic. Even though it had sat in his drawer for a few days, he hadn’t worked up the nerve to open it. Just looking at it made him think of his mom—and so much more than that.
Sam opened the first page, noticing the faint scent of dust.
Samuel Dillon Slater, February 11
7 pounds, 2 ounces — 21 inches long
He turned the page again and scanned the family tree. Grandpa Bob, Grandma Charlotte, Uncle Bill, Uncle Pete. For many years they’d just been names in this book. They’d been birthday cards with a ten-dollar bill tucked inside and sometimes rare phone calls and visits by people who seemed too nice to be real.
And now—they were real. Real, living, breathing people in a place he couldn’t wait to escape. Not because he hated his gr
andparents. He knew they were doing the best they could. It was just the other side of the family tree that drew him.
Sam ran his finger over his father’s name—Kevin James Slater. More than any of the other kids, he remembered piggyback rides, water-balloon fights, and playing Nintendo together until late at night. The things he loved most about his dad were the things that most likely caused his parents to split. He saw now that his dad was just a big kid who seemed to be around day and night to play. It was his mom who had worked two jobs, had always been tired, and hadn’t really had much time to relax.
Yet, whatever caused them to split all those years ago didn’t mean it had to keep him and his father apart now. In fact, sometimes Sam wondered if his dad even knew about his mom’s death. Surely if he did know, he’d come around—he’d want to be part of their lives again.
Sam turned to the next page, noticing the ink prints of his hands and feet. The footprints were slightly blurred as if he’d moved when they were trying to press his foot onto the page.
“Kickin’ it even then,” Sam mumbled to himself, forcing a slight smile. His throat felt tight and his chest seemed to be filled with cement, making it hard to breathe. He felt tears coming, but he was determined not to cry. Crying did no good. It wouldn’t change things. All it would prove was that he was weak. And the fact was he wasn’t weak—far from it. He was capable of taking care of himself, no matter what anyone else thought.
Yet he couldn’t stop crying as he turned the next page. Tears trickled down his face and dropped from his chin as he noticed his mom’s handwriting and how meticulously she’d kept notes about his first year—his feeding schedule, his first laugh, the first day he rolled over.
Sam said his first word today, “Dada.”
Sam took his first steps. We were at the park.
I fed Sam carrots for the first time. He spit them out all over me.
Nothing went beyond her notice.
How come things had to change?
In the back of the book were photos of his mom and dad. From the pictures it looked like they were in a tiny studio apartment, but at least they looked happy. His dad especially. In almost every photo, Sam was on his dad’s lap or on his dad’s shoulders. In fact, the more Sam looked, the more he noticed there were very few photos of Sam and his mom—maybe because it was his mom who always had the camera in her hand.
Even now he could almost hear her voice in his head: Smile, Sam. Smile big! She was always taking photos, even after his dad left. Yet, he could tell that behind her own smile there was a lot of pain.
Sam dropped the baby book to the floor and curled to his side, remembering the day he realized his dad wasn’t coming back. During the weeks before, there had been a lot of yelling—his mom at his dad, his dad at his mom, and especially his dad at Sam. Sam’s room hadn’t been clean enough; he’d forgotten to put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher; his sneakers had trailed dirt into the house.
And then, one day Sam returned home from school and there had been only silence. No one yelling at him. No one on the couch playing video games. His dad was just gone.
For a while after that Sam remembered being mad at his mom. She was the one who had started all the fights with his dad. Maybe if she’d done things differently, his father would have stayed. Or maybe if he’d been a better kid that would have made the difference.
“Yeah, maybe I caused too many problems,” Sam mumbled to himself. His mind took him back to when he was seven. His dad had been sleeping, and Sam had been hungry. One of the only things in the fridge was a huge block of cheese in a brown box. He’d lugged it to the yellow countertop and then picked up a knife to cut off a piece. It had to be a big knife for such a big piece of cheese.
Emily had been taking a nap, just like he should have been doing, and Christopher had just been born.
The knife had been too big, too sharp and it had cut Sam’s finger. It hurt, and he had cried. It was the first time he’d remembered his mom yelling so loudly. His mom had yelled at his dad for not watching Sam better. His dad had yelled because of the emergency room bill. And it wasn’t long after that when his dad had left for good.
As the memory replayed, Sam felt seven again. He remembered the pain of the cut, but even worse was the pain of the yelling and his dad leaving. Then he thought of all that had happened since his mom’s death—the move, the new school, the farm, his friends. Everyone seemed to be doing okay, everyone but him. Emily had a good friend in Ashley. She was doing okay in school. Christopher was doing even better than that. He actually seemed to like this place. He even liked his chores. He did everything Grandma and Grandpa asked, and even got super-excited about a dumb poem in a dorky school newspaper.
What’s wrong with me? How come everyone else can handle everything better than me? I must have big problems if I can’t get over little things like a birthday cake and my baby book …
Sam glanced at the small pile of presents he’d gotten. Things that people had bought because they thought he’d like them. But even those gifts hadn’t made him happy. Nothing seemed to make him happy anymore. It was as if there was a black hole in his chest, and any bit of joy was sucked into it before he could pull it back.
He picked up the tickets for the snowmobile race on the top of the pile and fingered them. Too bad I won’t be around to go. He pushed the image of his grandfather’s disappointed face out of his mind.
In the glow of the lamplight he noticed the shimmer of the gold lettering of his name on the Bible. He reached over and picked it up, careful not to stretch too far and hurt his ribs.
The Bible looked nice with a black leather cover and gold along the edges, but it wasn’t the Bible itself that Sam was interested in. He opened it up and noticed his mom’s letter. The handwriting on the envelope was the same as in his baby book—big and loopy and girly—part girl and part woman.
He held the letter, taking in the feel of the yellowed paper, but he knew there was no way he could read it. Not yet. The baby book was hard enough to read, and it was just facts. His heart lifted, knowing that his mom had written home about him. He assumed that she must have said something good—otherwise Grandma never would have passed the letter on to him. But he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about that too. After all, his mom never would have run away or gone to California if she hadn’t been pregnant with him.
Sam returned the letter to the front of the Bible and quickly closed it. He couldn’t think about this anymore. He couldn’t dwell on the past. The past wouldn’t change, no matter how much he wished it would. Instead, Sam knew, he needed to think of the future.
Before turning off the light, Sam climbed out of bed and dropped his Bible into his tote bag at the end of his bed. He supposed it would be a good thing to take. One last thing to remember his grandparents by. One more thing to remember Mom by.
Chapter Nine
The fumes from the engine caused Sam’s stomach to flip, and an invisible weight pressed down on him as if the car’s engine had been placed upon his shoulders. His grandpa stood next to him, leaning in under the hood and checking the new belt Uncle Pete had just installed. Like with everything else Pete did, Grandpa was eyeing things to make sure he’d done it right.
“Okay, looks good. Start ‘er up.” Grandpa called to Pete, who was sitting behind the steering wheel.
Sam stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. He felt his shoulders shiver slightly but not because of the cold. It was warm inside the garage, almost as warm as inside the house. A bright floodlight poured light into his car’s engine.
Sam had ridden the school bus home to find Pete hard at work under the hood. Seeing his uncle covered in grease, with his mind fixed on the task at hand, made Sam feel guilty. Pete thought he was helping, making it easier for Sam to get back and forth to work and school. Yet Sam knew his uncle had no idea that he was helping Sam escape. To leave this place. For good.
The engine roared to life, and Grandpa tilted his head to listen c
loser.
“Okay, shut ‘er down. Sounds good.”
Pete turned off the engine and Grandpa turned, pushing his ball cap off his forehead. “Sounds good. A new belt was just what was needed.” He chuckled. “Looks like you’ll be getting a new car after all—piece by piece.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.” Sam offered a slight smile. “Thanks, Uncle Pete,” he called to his uncle, who was climbing out of the car.
“No problem. That’s what family’s for.” Pete grabbed up his tools and began putting them away.
Great. Rub it in. Make me feel worse than I already do.
“So you heading to work today?” Pete glanced at his watch.
“No, I told Brad that I’ll come in the rest of the week. I wasn’t sure if my car would be running, although I shouldn’t have doubted.”
“I wish I would have had a job like that after school. Brad’s a great guy.” Pete fixed his eyes on Sam, and Sam was sure he could read the truth.
Sam quickly turned away. “Uh, yeah, Brad’s great. I, uh, wouldn’t do anything to mess things up there.” Sam turned to the garage door. “I’m going to head inside. I have to help Emily with her homework.”
Pete’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah, algebra 2 is kicking her butt. I told her I’d help her out.”
Pete chuckled. “Better you than me.”
His grandfather followed him out. “I’ll walk with you. Maybe Grandma has something special waiting for us. I saw her mashing up bananas earlier. I bet banana bread is cooling on the kitchen counter as we speak.”
Sure enough, scents of cinnamon and bananas and warm bread met Sam’s nose as he entered the kitchen. Grandma was sitting on the couch, quizzing Christopher on his spelling words. Emily sat at the dining room table with her algebra books spread before her.
“Need help with that?”
