Right Behind You

by Gail Giles

  “Sam told you that’s she’s been in rehab twice for alcohol addiction,” the reverend said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else?”

  “She got really upset and she couldn’t tell me any more.”

  “But you have an idea?”

  “Someone told me some gossip earlier. Sam said that the gossip was exaggerated but true, so, yes, I have an idea.”

  Sam’s father templed his fingers and rested his chin on the points. “And yet, you come here.” He sighed.

  He seemed to be waiting for something from me. “I said something stupid.”

  He looked at me a little longer. He rubbed the back of his neck. Sam’s gesture. “Wade, the things Sam has to tell you aren’t pleasant.”

  “I hear you, sir.”

  Her father put both hands on the desktop. “No, you don’t. Sam’s drinking didn’t start out with her being a wounded soul trying to numb some horrible pain. We’ve talked about it. She loved the taste. Of beer. But then she found the feeling of being drunk. And after living in a family that was structured on religion, drunk felt free and uninhibited, and she fell in love with that.”

  “She told me that part, sir. I don’t understand how she feels about it now.”

  “Now she denies that she grapples with shame,” Sam’s father said. “She’s making progress. Telling you was a big step.”

  Shame. Guilt. Was that why we shouldn’t keep guilt? Did it make you feed those ghosts the best parts of yourself?

  “I don’t know why she trusts you. I have my doubts about a young man that hides himself away, doesn’t go to school, seems to say so little about himself.”

  He stood and came around the desk. “But it’s a familiar pattern. One I’ve seen in this house. So, I’ll not ask nor judge. But I’ll warn you that my daughter is struggling, and any young man that adds to that struggle rather than helps — will not find me a friend.”

  “I understand. May I speak to Sam?”

  “I’ll ask. If she wishes to, you may speak in here. I’ll be in the next room.”

  “I’m sorry I made a joke about something serious,” I said. Sam had taken her father’s place across the desk. He left the study door open and sat on the sofa in the main room. I moved forward in the upholstered chair, perching on the edge. “And I’m really sorry about grabbing your wrist. If you want to tell me more, I want to listen.”

  She gave me that long cat-blink again and a soft almost-smile.

  “What made you quit? Something had to happen, right?” I thought about Dave and the B’s’ shocked faces, and my last bottle of beer.

  Sam nodded. “Grant had moved here full-time when I was twelve or so. We had searched for shells together. He taught me to play chess. One morning my sophomore year, I was filling a water bottle with vodka to take to school, and before I had the cap screwed back on, it hit me: The sun’s barely up, and I’m going to be smashed before I hit my first class. I’m fifteen. I’m not sure how many boys I’ve had sex with.

  “I was looking out the window and saw Grant stepping the mast for an early sail. I ran out and told him that I was in trouble. I was a drunk. I was drunk now. My parents didn’t know. Could he help me? Then I threw up on his boat shoes and started crying.”

  “And Grant?”

  “First he washed off his shoes. Then he called my parents and they all took me to rehab.”

  “And?”

  “And rehab, back home, back to rehab, lots of studying, lots of high school credits, enough for early graduation. Finally back here. Grant taught me to sail not long before he got sick. I started taking classes at the JC. Life is good.”

  I nodded. “Is life good?”

  She tilted her head for a long minute. I could see she was giving my question long consideration. “It is.” She pointed at me with her index finger. “And do not make any smart remarks. I hate that my life sounds like one of those cheesy ‘message movies’ on cable TV about a kid in trouble.”

  She put her hands on the desk. Flat. Her voice was flat, too. Firm.

  “If I beat myself up about the bad stuff I did, I’m ignoring that I was strong enough to stop being that person. I think what I’m doing with my life now is a lot more important than what I did when I was a stupid kid.”

  I was going to tell her. She would understand. I was sure of it.

  “There’s one thing I really regret though,” Sam said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wish I would have had the guts to go back to school. Walk down the halls, go to class, and hold my head high. I know I’d have been ostracized; I know people would talk, call me names, but I should have gone back and taken it on the chin, you know. The only damage I did was to myself. It’s not like I killed somebody.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not like that at all.”

  Chapter 27

  FIGURING IT OUT

  “I gotta tell you, Wade, you’re getting on my nerves.”

  “Dr. Martin, are you sure you went to shrink school?”

  “I finally got you to say something. You asked for a special session and then you sit here like a lump for ten minutes. I’m a shrink, not a mind reader.”

  “Am I supposed to laugh?”

  “No, you’re supposed to talk. What’s the big hairy deal?”

  So I told him the big hairy deal.

  “How long have you known this girl?”

  “Sam, her name is Sam.”

  The fool smiled and jotted something on his notepad.

  “What’s that about?”

  “What?” Martin asked.

  “Don’t rev my motor. That smile and the note taking, what gives?”

  “Sam, you insisted I call her Sam. Think about it. Think about the ward and your friends in Indiana.”

  “You been raiding the drug cabinet?”

  “Wade, you aren’t this dense, you’re resisting.” He flipped through my folder. “Who was that girl you dated for a couple of years in Indiana?”

  “Absolutely Cutest.” I sagged into the chair. “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “Square Head, No Neck, Ward Nazi, TwoFer, Cowboy, The Frown. I don’t like to use anybody’s real name.”

  “Why would you do that?” Martin asked.

  I thought about The Frown. I started calling him Dr. Schofield when I got ready to leave the Ward.

  “I do it to keep people from getting close.”

  “And he gets another gold star. Certainly it was useful in your time on the ward, but using it when you went to school shows you weren’t ready to accept friendship yet. You didn’t feel you were worthy of a real friendship. Subconsciously you knew you were going to blow that situation to shit before you ever started.”

  “But now?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I hate shrinks.”

  “Watch it, you’re gonna hurt my feelings,” Martin said, wagging a finger at me. “Let’s go back. How long have you known Sam?”

  “Three months, almost four.”

  “So, this isn’t true love? There hasn’t been time for a real relationship to cultivate.”

  “No, I haven’t even kissed her. But I think there could be something. A real something. A good something.”

  “If you don’t know there’s a relationship yet, why do you want to tell her everything?”

  I drummed my fingers against the arms of the chair. “Because she trusted me. It would be wrong not to trust her.”

  “Then trust her.”

  “I did until she said that thing about how she didn’t kill anyone.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Her dad’s an evangelical preacher. I don’t know if she’ll think I’m evil. That eye-for-an-eye thing. I remember that letter to the editor that woman wrote, all about God and the Bible and stuff.”

  “Let’s see . . . you told your friends in Indiana because you sort of wanted them to turn against you, but now you’re worried that if you tell Sam she might do the same thi
ng and you don’t want that.”

  I nodded.

  “Guess what that’s called?”

  “A mess?”

  “Progress, Wade. Real, truer-than-shit progress.”

  The rain passed and the heat caught up. There was no wind to find in midday, making dawn and dusk the best times to sail. Sailing time was short but spectacular with the rising or setting sun. Sam in a tank suit was pretty spectacular, too. And for the first time in my life, I had a tan.

  We hoisted the sail in the late afternoon when the wind was just about to pick up. We pushed the boat until it floated, and jumped on. I was manning the tiller and the mainsheet. The breeze was light and the waves were laplets that we sliced through. Slow, gentle sailing, like Sam’s smile.

  I tacked the boat and lazed parallel to the beach, picking up speed as the sun went down.

  “Deep thoughts again?” Sam asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. We were stretched out, our heads propped on life jackets, and my foot guiding the tiller. Easy sailing, roiling thoughts.

  “Did you really mean that you don’t have any regrets? Other than not going back to school? Don’t you want to just wish it all didn’t happen?”

  Sam trimmed the jib, seemingly unconcerned with my question. “Are you asking if I feel shame? Sure. But if I regret the whole thing, ummm . . . well, didn’t it kind of make me who I am now? If that hadn’t happened, maybe I’d be one of those girls that don’t think any deeper than — should my nail polish have sparkles today or be French tip?”

  She crossed her ankles and flexed her toes. Released. Sighed. “I hate that my parents were embarrassed and disappointed, but I’m done . . .” Sam seemed to grope for a word. “Atoning. I can’t regret who I am. And I don’t. I guess I wish I hadn’t had to hurt myself so much to get here, but . . .” She turned her smile on me again. “I learn the hard way.”

  “What if you had hurt someone else? Seriously hurt them?”

  The smile vaporized. “I don’t know. That’s hard. I’m glad I didn’t.” Sam sat up and shaded her eyes. “Hey, we have company.”

  I sat and followed her pointing finger. Black fins, at least twenty of them, swam behind the boat.

  “Sharks? They come in to feed at sunset, right?”

  “Porpoises,” Sam said. Her smile had returned, wide and infectious. “Slow down, just a little.”

  I eased the sails.

  The porpoises caught up to the boat. They surfaced and peered at us with liquid obsidian eyes. The water foamed and tumbled as they blew, rolled, and frisked around the boat. Two small ones raced alongside the Hobie, circling back when they got too far ahead, then raced the boat again.

  When the porpoises were close enough, Sam reached back, caught my hand, and tapped the flat of my palm on the back of one nudging the Hobie midships. A shiver not unlike a wet hand touching an ungrounded wire swept through me.

  The sun began its trek back toward the sea.

  She didn’t let go of my hand.

  She leaned forward and kissed my cheek and then my lips, gently, just a brush, more a promise of a kiss.

  I wanted this. I wanted her. But I had to earn her first.

  “We need to head back,” I said. The wind had picked up and the boat seemed to spin on its rudders and the main swung over and filled with a snap. The porpoises turned with us, following, leading, nudging the sides.

  One of the small ones kept popping up his head and squeaking.

  “What’s he saying?

  “He thinks my boyfriend is funny-looking,” Sam said.

  Boyfriend.

  I couldn’t look at her.

  “There’s the house. We need to turn in.” I pulled the rudder toward me and the boat skimmed the new-formed waves.

  Again the porpoises turned as a group and followed the boat, surfing the waves. As the boat got within a half mile of shore, the rest of the pod stopped, milling in a small knot.

  The two small guys still surfed alongside the Hobie, heading into shallow water. The big porpoise nosed down, his flared tail rose out of the water then slammed the surface with a crack, causing the youngsters to halt and look back. The renegades reluctantly turned and swam home.

  When we hit the beach, Sam turned to me. “Clean and put up the boat yourself. It’s yours and I won’t be using it anymore.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You pulled away when I kissed you. You ran this boat home like your butt was on fire when I called you my boyfriend. I don’t need to be hit on the head with the mast to get the picture.”

  “Sam, I don’t understand, repeat, do not . . .” But then I did understand. She thought I was rejecting her. That I might accept her as a friend, but as a girlfriend, as a romantic interest, I might see her as . . . What else could she think? She didn’t know my secret. She didn’t even know I had one.

  “I thought you actually understood,” Sam said.

  “I do. Sam, you don’t understand. I —”

  “You told me you didn’t judge me.” She stepped away and turned her back.

  “Sam, please. Don’t run away again.”

  She didn’t run. She walked.

  But it was still away.

  “I want to tell Sam.”

  Dad looked up from his dinner, stunned. “No,” he said.

  A flat refusal? No discussion, no . . . kindness and understanding?

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.” Dad slammed his fork against the table. The dishes and glasses rattled, startling us. Dad included. He took a deep breath. “Why do you want to sabotage yourself again? So soon?” He put his head in his hands for a minute, then looked back up. “You know what happens, Wade.”

  I glanced at Carrie. Her face was pale.

  I pushed my plate aside and tried to think how to make Dad understand. “I waited too long in Indiana. That was the mistake. And how I did it was a mistake. I have to tell Sam something about me before our friendship goes on much further.”

  “How much do you have to tell her?” Dad asked.

  “All of it,” Carrie said. “How can he tell part of it?”

  “Are you sure?” Dad asked.

  “Wrong question,” Carrie said. “Right question would be why do you want to tell her?”

  I turned to her. “Same reason Dad told you.”

  “Wade . . .”

  “Dad, I’m going to talk to Dr. Martin first. Then I’m going to write it all down. The whole story. Sam can read it. If she can’t accept me, what I’ve done, who I am, okay. I’ll leave her alone. I’ll ask her to keep it to herself. I think she’ll see from the story how it affects you guys if she doesn’t.”

  I turned to Carrie. “I trust her to do that, don’t you?”

  Carrie sat back in her chair. “Maybe. It’s a tough call.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I know what you want. But we’ve been so happy here. I don’t want to leave, Wade. You have to understand that.”

  I felt like I was standing on one leg.

  “I won’t make Carrie leave,” Dad said. Now his face was pale, stricken. “You’ll have to carry this one alone. A boarding school or something. I can’t . . .” His voice broke. “I’m sorry, Wade. I can’t do it again.”

  And now Dad had taken the other leg. For the first time I was walking on my own.

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “If it goes wrong, I’ll leave. It’s fair. It’s more than fair. But it’s something I have to do.”

  “You have to do this?” Dr. Martin asked.

  I nodded.

  “Not to beat yourself up, kick the shit out of yourself, etc. and yada yada?”

  “No. And you know what I figured out?”

  “I hate this part.” Dr. Martin leaned back in his chair. “It means I’m about to lose income or I’m about to learn what a crappy shrink I am.”

  “You are a crappy shrink. Shrinks are not supposed to talk. They only ask, ‘And how does that make you feel?’”

 
“And how does that make you feel when a shrink does that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can we get back to what I fig-ured out?”

  He opened his palms. “Out with it.”

  “I have to live with it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s pretty profound,” I said.

  Doc Martin didn’t say anything. He gave me a go-ahead wave. “Waiting for the good stuff.”

  “I’ve been waiting to forget that I murdered Bobby Clarke. Or forgive myself. That’s not ever going to happen. And I haven’t lived my life. I’ve been . . . I don’t know, marking time, marching in place.”

  I leaned in. “I figured out that I can’t forget. I can’t really forgive. But I can live. Live with it. Like you live with a scar or a limp or whatever. You always know it’s there. It reminds you never to let yourself do anything so stupid and horrible and wrong again. I step out of my rut, step again, and keep stepping.

  “I live with it.”

  Chapter 28

  YOU GOTTA LIVE TO HAVE A SHOT AT HAPPY

  I’m a rotten typist and this seemed too personal for print. I bought ten of those lined books that have the black-and-white marbled-looking covers. I holed up.

  I asked Carrie and Dad questions as I wrote. I called the hospital in Anchorage, got all my chronology straight. There were a lot of nights that I cried. Especially the night Dad and I talked about Mom.

  “I found her journal when I was eight. I didn’t really understand all of it. But she had hidden it, so I didn’t show it to you.”

  “I found it after she died,” Dad said. “It proved to me what I suspected was true. She found a lump in her breast and didn’t do anything until it was too late.”

  “She died because she wanted me to grow up in Alaska?”

  Dad looked like he stuck his finger in a light socket.

  “Is that what you think? Is that what you’ve carried around all these years?” He got up and paced. He sat. Got up again. “God, will the hurt never stop coming?”

  “The two of you wear me out with all the pacing you do,” Carrie, always the calm and practical one, jumped in. “Sit and talk to Wade, Jack. How can he listen to someone that’s practically running in circles?”

  Dad sat on the sofa next to Carrie and across from me. “It’s much more complicated than your mom wanting you to grow up in Alaska. It starts further back. Your mom’s parents thought I was a fool to leave my job, uproot your mom and you to live on nothing out in the sticks. Jemma was the only one that your mother spoke to after we moved, and they fought more than anything else. She was always trying to make your mom ‘get some sense in her head.’”