“Sam,” I whispered in his ear, “I love you. I’m so sorry all of this is happening, but there’s nothing we can do. I wish there was.” He held me, twirling my body from side to side gently. “We just have to take care of each other. I love you…”
He sighed in my ear, holding back tears, and rubbing my back. I was so grateful, more than anything, that I had Sam in my life. Like Adelle, Sam had been my rock. He was my everything. He was strong for me when I couldn’t stand, and had provided for me and kept me safe for nearly fifty years, despite my own confusion and frustration over the course of our lives and my place in the world. I rubbed my hands through his hair, now mostly gray, but beautiful just the same, and wanted to feel him. I didn’t want to let him go. There was a part of me then that seemed to know something, seemed to feel something that I didn’t want to. And that was the fragility of time, and our relationships within it. Everything is so delicate, as I learned at a young age. You don’t know when you’re going to lose it.
Sam sat down at the table, grabbing a washcloth from the sink and drying off his shirt and shoes.
“I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am. I never want to take anything out on you, I love you so much.”
“I know,” I said.
“It’s just getting to me. It was already too much after the Depression, and when World War II started up, I didn’t know how to feel. As a detective, working in the force, I always wondered if I should have been a soldier. Out there, giving my life and doing my part just like all of the other boys…” Tears glinted in his eyes again, and he blinked them back, looking out the window. “But I didn’t. I stayed at home, protecting the streets, not that my work wasn’t important. But it kills me, it really gets at me, knowing that we’re sending our boys out again. Especially when it’s too late for me to join them.” He was clenching his fist, resting it on the table, and I could see it pulsing back and forth as he strained the muscles in his forearm to suppress his anger.
“Sam.” I touched his hand, feeling it relax in my grasp. “The people of New York have always needed you. When everyone was gone, you were here. Everyone knows that, and no one would have wanted it any other way. I’m so proud of you.”
He reached out and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me close to him, and resting his forehead against mine. I could feel his breath, soft and warm against my lips, and he pulled me in close to kiss me. We weren’t intimate much anymore, but when we were, it was as if no time had passed. We loved each other desperately, and he never let me forget it.
“Thank you, Lucy. I would be lost without you, you know that?” A single tear trickled down his cheek, resting on his upper lip, and wetting his mustache. When he kissed me, I could feel the moisture and taste the salt. He pulled me in closer, “I love you so much, I love you.”
I could have stayed like that forever. And even in my fading memory, with the fog creeping in, I will always go back to my time with Sam, and our love together.
Just a few months later, in the early fall of 1950 I opened the newspaper again. I had grown cautious of it; fearful of seeing my high school history books play out in full fury any more than they already had. It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t keep track anymore. It seemed to be endless suffering after endless suffering, war after war, and any personal turmoil that was tossed into the mix became the cherry on top of what felt like the slowly melting ice cream cone of the humanity of the modern world.
But to my surprise, I was greeted instead with another piece of history that I had almost forgotten about entirely. Charlie Brown and Lucy stared at me through the black and white pages of the newspaper comics. Peanuts, was the name of the strip. I looked at their debut, the little characters appearing so new, so innocent, and so unaware of the remarkable effect they would have on the nation, just in a time where some humor and positivity was greatly needed. I smiled, rubbing my fingers across the little two dimensional shapes on the paper. Sometimes I was very glad I didn’t know, or didn’t remember, everything that was going to happen. The element of surprise for joyous occasions could lift even the heaviest of spirits.
But with joy comes sorrow. And that day, October 2, 1950, was one of great sorrow, almost more than I could bear, and my greatest loss. Losing my parents and friends when I fell back in time was something else entirely. A loss I will never forget, and something that still pains me to this day. But there was something ethereal about it—I think because I hadn’t actually seen it, it was easier for me to disguise it, that it might not be real. And thanks to the time traveler’s paradox, there was always the possibility, as completely inane as it might have been, that I would go back and see them again. But death is something else. Death is infinite, and there is no coming back from or rewriting death. Even if you could go back in time after it has happened, it will still find you. It simply becomes a ticking clock, waiting for you when the time is right.
In losing the Sullivans came unimaginable grief, but it was expected. In their old age, they passed peacefully, within days of each other. It was a beautiful, serene death, that all of us understood. But losing Edward was one of the hardest things I have ever experienced. Of deaths, the departure of a child is inexplicable. A tiny being that I had created, that I had, with purpose, brought into the world to be loved and cherished and to provide for, I had let down, and was taken away in illness and suffering. The innocence of children makes their suffering so much worse. They haven’t lived to see anything yet; they haven’t experienced the world as you know they could, and yet in a way that almost makes it easier for them to let go. They have nothing to hang onto. But his death cut me down to the nadir of my heart, gutting me. A wound is still there, and I’m not sure if it will ever heal entirely. A child is a piece of you, and with their death, you lose a part of yourself.
But on that day in 1950, I experienced a loss I was not prepared for. A loss that came as great of a shock and horror as much as a trail into despair. It was Sam. Even now, I think it cruel that this day above all others still haunts my memory when so many other days have faded.
From the kitchen, behind the Peanuts comic, I heard a faint moaning sound. At first I thought it was an animal, but we didn’t have any pets, and there was no one else in the house. I had a terrible feeling, something was desperately wrong. I ran as fast as I was able, upstairs into the bedroom only to find Sam sprawled helplessly across the floor, one side of his body sagging like a rag doll, his face hanging limply to one side, his arm dangling uselessly as the other tried to prop his body back up.
Although my mind was growing foggy, this was the man that I loved. This was the person I had devoted my life to. He was my partner; he was my everything. In a rush, my medical knowledge of the late twentieth century came back to me, and recognizing the symptoms, I knew he had had, or was having, a stroke. My voice caught in my throat as I felt my chest tighten in panic and pain. But I couldn’t let it over take me. I grabbed his hand that was reaching out for help, and pulled it close to me, kissing his time-worn skin with my lips and pulling him close. I leaned down to meet him on the floor, not wanting him to strain himself, and whispered in his ear.
“It’s alright, it’s alright my love…I’m getting help.” I could see his eyes welling up with tears, and from my own little streams began to flow. I kissed his cheek again, my lips covered in the salty water, leaving a tiny lip-shaped print in the moisture on his cheek which began to flow away slowly as I moved away. The one side of his mouth was quivering, trying to tell me he loved me. I put a finger to his lips, crying, and pulled myself away from him, running as fast as I could to the phone.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I ever kissed Sam. The last time I ever kissed him when he could feel it. I still remember his hand, trembling and fearful as he reached out for me, and when he could feel my body close to his, there on the ground, he pulled me in tighter than he ever had. I believe he knew it was the end, and he didn’t want to let me go.
By the time the amb
ulance arrived, he had lost consciousness. The paramedics found me on the floor upstairs, crying as I clung to his frail, quiet form, whispering in his ear to wake up, to come back to me.
They took him away in the ambulance, with me riding along in the back next to him, clinging helplessly to his outstretched but now unresponsive hand. I called Susan when we got to the hospital. I could barely speak on the phone, but she already knew. She had had the same, terrible feeling, and as soon as she heard from me she had gotten in the car and headed north, to Mt. Sinai.
He lay there like that, motionless, intubated, strung along by nothing more than a thread of life, for four days. The doctors spoke to us in confidence, in a stark little white room. They told me that the stroke had caused a hemorrhage, and that there was bleeding on his brain. They told me there was nothing they could do.
I sat with Susan in that little room long after the doctor had left. I felt like I couldn’t move. If I did, that would mean it was real. That would mean that the man that had rescued me from my sorrow, the man that had made life worth living after my fall through time, my partner in life and my best friend, was gone. It was all over. And I was left alone, by myself. Again.
That grief was something that I have never experienced. With Edward, it was hysteria. With my family, it was disassociation and disbelief. After Sam, I couldn’t escape the reality. It was right there in front of me, staring at me through the Intensive Care Unit in Mt. Sinai. I felt numb. My whole body. I felt like something had come in the night and taken away my spirit, taken away everything. There was nothing left to me. It was like I was floating in some horrible purgatory, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a bell to ring and it would all be over. I didn’t even have the energy left to cry. My body was empty of everything, and all I could do was stand by and watch.
I stayed with Susan and Todd through the funeral. Connor was too young to remember, and made for a nice distraction during all of it, too young to understand death and its finality.
Going home, three weeks after the funeral, felt like cardboard. Everything was stale and flat. Susan had promised to come and visit me every day. I knew she would and she did. But that house, it was never the same. I couldn’t bear to be upstairs. I slept on the couch and watched television. I barely ate, and when I did it tasted like ash in my mouth. Instead, I would make tea, like I had done every morning, and along with it I made a small pot of coffee. Just enough for a cup, for Sam, in case he decided to come back. Even though I knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t have a time machine, and I couldn’t go back to find him. It was over.
In the night, I would dream about him. I saw him standing in the living room, or sitting on the couch next to me, resting his hand on my shoulder, or kissing my cheek. Whenever I awoke, my pillow was stained with tears and my eyes were red and swollen. I will always love him.
1957
In the Fifties, I came to the feeling of how bizarre changes over decades really are. Even though my historical knowledge had prepared me for the variation, my age and the starkness of reality did not adequately prepare me for the technological revolution.
It was a shock altogether the way fashion trends changed. Evolving from short jean skirts and side ponytails during high school, to long dresses and corsets at the turn of the century, I was equally as perplexed going in the reverse. After fifty years of wearing dresses and conservative clothing, the shorter skirts and pants of the Fifties gave my mind somewhat of a jolt. My inability to adapt to the changing times made me feel older than anything else. But the technological wave that swept over America really tested my cognition, and my resilience.
In 1957, I headed out to New Jersey where Susan and Todd had moved with Connor, to let him live more of a suburban childhood. It was in celebration of, and to witness the monumental occasion of the successful Russian satellite, Sputnik, sent into orbit. Susan had met me in Manhattan, and rode the train out with me, being cautious about my aging condition.
I remember arriving at their quaint little home—Todd had picked us up from the train station in his cute little mint green Buick. Well, I shouldn’t say little. The cars were getting bigger—I forgot by how much. The Buick felt like a boat, with its bright white interior, and nauseating ride that rocked back and forth as we drove down the interstate and around their little neighborhood to their home. Everything was advancing so quickly. If there was one thing I wished I had prepared myself for—or someone had prepared me for—it was that. The shock and awe of how rapidly everything would advance after World War II.
Joining them on the sofa, sitting in front of their little television set with the rabbit ears poking up on either side, we all stared, mesmerized by the fact that this little pod had been sent up into orbit, into outer space. Although I had grown up with space travel, learning the names of the different planets, and all about the solar system, having been removed from that time for so long, it felt as if I was entering an entirely new era once again. I was traveling back into the future. And I didn’t know how to react. If I had been younger, it wouldn’t have been so strange. Or, if Sam had been there with me, that would have been better. But I felt so alone. It was me, trapped in an aging body, next to Susan and Todd and their beautiful little boy, Connor. Susan and Todd seemed to have adapted perfectly well, still enraptured by the feat, but not overwhelmed. I think it was because I didn’t have anyone to share it with, anyone else who had moved through as many dimensions as I had, that I felt detached from the whole ordeal. It was like I was watching it from a movie screen, seeing myself from outside my body, and taking it all in.
Connor was twelve now. This was also shocking. After Sam passed, I seemed to begin misplacing time altogether. It was so hard to keep track. Seeing Connor as a strapping young boy, soon to be a teenager, was very strange to me. And he was so smart! He was obsessed with the novelty of space travel, and talked incessantly about being an astronaut when he grew up. He said he wanted to venture to all the different realms of the universe, where no man had gone before. I patted him on the shoulder and told him he could do anything he put his mind to. He was a very sweet and very respectful boy, and smiled politely, thanking me for my confidence in him. I smiled back, genuinely amused by his spunk.
The next morning, Susan took me out to lunch. Todd was at work, and she worked part-time now that Connor was in school, at the Montclair Museum of Art. Today was her day off, and we went into town for a lovely little brunch at one of the diners. I recall that Susan was watching her figure—I thought she looked lovely as always—and so she had tea and toast, and I had a hard-boiled egg. It’s hard to stray from the classics.
“Mom, I have some news. Todd got a job offer,” she told me with a quiet air to her voice. The lack of outward excitement made me presume that there was something more to it that she hadn’t shared yet, and was seemingly nervous to tell me.
“Well, tell me about it,” I said, “what’s the catch?” I smiled.
Susan smiled back, giggling quietly at my remark, “well, he’s been offered a position as a detective in Detroit. I know it’s quite a move, but the city is sprawling, it’s a great place to be right now. It’s so affordable, and it’s a way for him to move up. It sounds like an incredible opportunity. And this would be the perfect time to move, before Connor begins high school. So he has time to get settled and make new friends.”
I paused, looking down at my little salted egg, the cooked, crumbling yolk falling out of the gelatin-like egg white that had cooked so nicely around it. I was not opposed to the idea in the least. It would be a wonderful opportunity for them. But there was something itching at the back of my mind. Michigan. Something about it gave me chills, and I didn’t know why. Perhaps I was just afraid.
“I think it’s a lovely idea,” I said, looking back up from the little egg. “I only have one request—I won’t be left here by myself. I would like to come along with you.”
Susan laughed, she laughed so hard that little tears came to her eyes, “Mom, of course! I woul
dn’t have it any other way. I was so scared that you would want to stay, wouldn’t want to leave the house, but there’s no way I would leave without you. I need you, Todd needs you, Connor needs you. You have to come with us.” She was smiling ear to ear, practically beaming. “Thank you, I love you.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand into hers, getting little smears of butter on her shirt as her arm drifted over top of her toast.
And so that was it. We began the arduous process of packing up and moving out of state, to Michigan.
It was hard saying goodbye to the home that I had known for so long. Inside, all I saw was Sam, and the life we had made together. I felt that getting rid of the house was saying goodbye to Sam in a way that held so much more finality than death. It was a way that moved me beyond reality and into memory. Each piece of furniture and little decoration had a story, had a piece of time attached to it. Susan was so sweet—she didn’t give anything away without consulting me first. And as much as the years called to me through the home, and everything inside of it, we got rid of almost everything, give or take the essentials such as clothing. But even my wardrobe, which still had pieces of time-tested beauty, each piece a testament to the period in which it had been brought to life, was stripped down to almost nothing. I had what I needed and didn’t want anything else. Susan took anything that held significant weight in her memory, or begged her to keep it. But everything else vanished slowly into the hands of time as do all things, eventually.
In a small motorcade of two vehicles and a trailer, we began the journey across country. Connor was an excellent passenger, and sat with me in the back, telling me facts about the solar system, and the urban jazz scene in Detroit. I was amazed at his tenacity, and saw what a bright future he had lined up for himself in the coming years. He was an inspiration, and I felt so proud to be his grandmother, and to be a part of their suburban adventure, moving into a new life, exploring new territories.
Infinity's Daughter Page 13
