Sam grabbed the phone from her nightstand on the second ring, but finished the sentence she was reading in her genetics textbook before answering. “Hi Mom.”
“Sam, dear, how are you? I’ve been worried—you haven’t returned my phone call.”
It was one of those moments where Sam almost wished she had screened the call. Two problem sets were due tomorrow, but more than that, she was riveted by the information on chromosomal abnormalities that she was absorbing from this week’s reading assignment. Still gazing at her textbook, she carried on a conversation she could probably have in her sleep. “Mom, you only called yesterday. I’m fine. Been busy at the lab.”
“Yes, I know, you are very busy. But there’s always time for a three-minute call to your mother.”
Unable to check herself, Sam laughed. “Yeah, if only our calls stopped at three minutes.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Eva said, always an expert at ignoring Sam’s teasing. “Listen, sweetie, I have some news for you. I know you’re not that into my art, but I’m so excited that I’m just bursting to share. I’ve decided to start quilting. I know, I know, I’ve mostly been working with metals lately, but I like the juxtaposition—hard and brittle with soft and pliable. Besides, there’s this quilting contest in a couple of months I think I could be ready for. And this is all in keeping with my new focus on functional art—jewelry, chairs, and now quilts.”
Eva continued, and Sam turned the page. She appreciated her mother’s enthusiasm for new art projects, but just couldn’t get interested in the vagaries of genre, material, or composition. Wondering how much more material she needed to get through that evening, Sam thumbed through the book until she reached the last page of prose before the appendix. Calculating another eighty pages to read, she sighed audibly.
“What was that, honey?”
Feeling guilty, Sam closed the book and rubbed the bridge of her nose under her glasses. “Nothing. Please, continue. I’m listening.”
As if she could really fool her mother. “Well, that would be a first. Anyway, like I was saying, I want to try a turkey this year. What do you think?”
The thought of spending Thanksgiving without her father had been making Sam’s eyes do unacceptable things like water in the middle of chem lab. She had even contemplated asking Jack to return for the weekend, but then she imagined him turning her down, and she changed her mind. “Aw, Mom, we don’t need a turkey. It’s just the two of us and you’ve never made one before.”
Hearing a soft metallic clank, Sam pictured her mother setting down knitting needles on the wooden table next to her bed. “But I want this year to be special,” Eva said, and her sincerity made Sam’s heart ache for the Thanksgivings they would never have again. “You’re growing up so much, and I know soon you won’t always come home for Thanksgiving.”
“Mom, that’s very sweet. Sure, yeah, let’s make a turkey. I’ll help.” The least she could do, considering she wasn’t the one living alone in rural Vermont, was match her mother’s effort to make this holiday a special one, with new traditions.
“Perfect, dear. I’ll ask around for recipes for stuffing and gravy and all those fixins. I can’t believe I just said ‘fixins’,” she chuckled. Sam honestly couldn’t remember the last time her mother had laughed.
Jack had always assumed the leadership role in terms of the Thanksgiving feast; maybe Eva filling that void would be good for her mental health. “Well, then, I’m already looking forward to weeks of leftovers.”
All during her drive from New Haven to Stowe the day before Thanksgiving, Sam wondered about the wisdom of letting her mother loose in the kitchen. Eva might be innovative and well-intentioned, but her culinary skills were decidedly lacking. It wasn’t that she wasn’t creative with putting ingredients together; she just never seemed to have the forethought to make sure she had all the ingredients she needed in the house. So, either Jack would have to make a last-minute grocery run or else he would take over in the kitchen and come up with something entirely different for the family to eat.
Sam was more than a bit surprised when, shortly after her mother hugged her hello, she thrust a shopping list and a pen into Sam’s hands. “You can cross things off as you get them,” Eva said with delight, as though she were discovering in that very moment the idea of a grocery list.
Sam glanced over the paper. “You don’t have bread or bread crumbs on here. Are we having stuffing?”
Eva waved her hand, brushing aside Sam’s question, but Sam noticed the hint of embarrassment in her eyes. “Of course we’re having stuffing! I just assumed you would know to get bread. Get two loaves.”
Sam added bread to the list. “And aren’t you supposed to put some kind of cream or something in mashed potatoes?” While she had very little experience in the kitchen, she had watched her father for years. Besides, cooking was basically just chemistry for the stomach, and chemistry was something she understood very well.
Heading into the kitchen, Eva pulled out a disorganized stack of notecards and rifled through them. Considering it might take a while to generate a thorough shopping list, Sam dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, pen in hand.
Eva found the recipe for mashed potatoes and studied it for a minute, her glasses on the tip of her nose. “Oh yes. Heavy cream. Get that too.” A thoughtful mother she might be, but no one had ever accused Eva of being detail-oriented.
After adding cream to the list, Sam leaned back in her chair. “Why don’t I take the recipes with me, so I can make sure to get everything?” she said gently, hoping her mother didn’t notice the edge of frustration in her voice.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. What if you were to drop them in the snow or lose them?”
Sam nodded. “Let me just read through them then.” She held out her hand, and Eva handed over the stack. Methodically comparing the ingredients on each card to the grocery list, Sam added sage, thyme, almonds for the green beans, and a carton of ice cream for her sanity.
Shopping at nine p.m. the evening before Thanksgiving was an exercise in frustration. One out of every four ingredients on her list was sold out. She substituted as best she could with her limited cooking knowledge and opted for two cartons of ice cream.
The next morning, she and Eva muddled through sautéing, simmering, roasting, and baking various foods, Sam reading out instructions and Eva executing. Everything turned out all right—certainly not delicious, but more than edible. Perhaps they were tempting the strength of their emotions by spreading out the feast on the large dining room table before sitting down, just the two of them. Given Eva’s general introversion and Sam’s single-minded focus on getting out of Stowe, Jack had always been the social hub of the Latham family; the guests they usually hosted for Thanksgiving had been his friends from high school or colleagues who also worked in medicine, or even one year, their mechanic who happened to be going through a bitter divorce.
With Jack a dozen states away and the Latham women dining alone, Sam found she enjoyed the one-on-one time with her mother. Although they barely made a dent in the food, they found a quiet sort of contentment with each other’s company.
The weather cooperated with their desire for an after-dinner stroll, and owl hoots accompanied their meandering feet and conversation. Winding around the gentle hills of their neighborhood, admiring the way the snow clung to the boughs of trees and the premature yet beautiful Christmas lights on some of the houses, they enjoyed their first Thanksgiving in years with no arguments or bouts of depression, only the nostalgia that accompanies all major holidays. Sam even listened carefully to Eva’s lengthy monologues about an upcoming gallery show in Burlington she planned to attend and the amount of money she was making from her jewelry sales.
After all the dishes were cleaned and the leftovers installed in Tupperware containers, Eva kissed her forehead and wished her a good night, and Sam felt a wave of ha
ppiness wash over her. She realized in that moment that she was lucky to have a mother who cared and who occasionally managed to pull it together enough to show her.
SOPHOMORE YEAR:
WINTER 2005
Sam knocked on the door softly. No answer. She paced around the lab, glancing over at her corner and the pile of work waiting there. She was hesitant to knock again, but it was a little after two, and she didn’t want Dr. West to think she was late. After a few trips past his door, she knocked harder.
“Come in, please!” came the response immediately; maybe Sam just hadn’t knocked hard enough the first time.
As she pulled the door open, dark eyes sparkled at her, and he adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “Samantha, sit down.” She complied, and the wooden chair opposite his desk matched Sam’s mood: uncomfortable and rigid. She glanced around the space, noting piles of medical and scientific journals stacked so high, she worried they might topple. Dr. West’s diplomas from Princeton and Harvard were the only wall adornments, and she could barely find his desk under the mounds of loose papers scattered everywhere. “Well now. I suppose you’re wondering why I requested this little meeting.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, feeling like she was addressing a drill sergeant. A year of working for him hadn’t lessened his intimidating aura.
“Please, dispense with the ‘sir,’” Dr. West said, his words offering a sharp contrast with his ever-present gruff tone. “At the rate you’re going, we’ll be colleagues in no time. I’m impressed with you, Samantha. Your lab work is executed flawlessly, you don’t let unexpected results derail you, and you’re a creative thinker.” He leaned back in his chair and peered at her over steepled fingers.
“Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”
“I intend to nominate you for a research grant for your junior year. It should allow you to purchase better software to process your results, and it will help you stand out when you apply to med school.” Sam opened her mouth to say something grateful, but he held up a hand and stopped her. “Which brings us to the second reason I asked you to meet me. I know you have your heart set on being a doctor, but don’t overlook your research skills. Have you considered M.D./Ph.D. programs?”
She shook her head. “I guess it hadn’t occurred to me.”
“The Dean of Stanford’s med school—Dean Randall—is an old friend of mine, and she’s visiting Yale next week to give a talk. I’m inviting her to dinner afterwards with a few graduate students. I’d like you to join us.”
“I’d be honored,” she said, barely stopping herself from saying ‘sir’ again. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Not at all. Stanford’s M.D./Ph.D. program has a great balance between practice and research, and I think it would suit you. But for now, let’s get back to this research grant. It would be good if you and I could hash out a timeline for your current research that I could include in my nomination. When do you think you’ll be done running your experiments and ready to write up your results?”
Once they had pinned down a schedule for Sam’s progress, she stood to leave. “Thank you, again, for all your guidance and for nominating me.”
Leaning over his desk, Dr. West shook her hand. “Well, good work deserves to be rewarded. Not that it always is, but we should certainly try. I’ll let you know when I hear back from the awards committee, either way.”
She made it through Science Hill and halfway to her dorm room before she had to stop, slide off her backpack so she could bury her face in it, and squeal. As soon as she walked into her dorm room, she called Natalie; the thrill she felt stilled when she heard the familiar, “You’ve reached Natalie Romano’s voicemail. You know what to do.” For the moment Sam didn’t, in fact, know what to do. At the last minute, she decided against leaving a message. She had done the math, and it would appear Natalie was in her third month of a relationship she still refused to talk about. The idea of Natalie listening to her voicemail in front of her latest conquest made Sam queasy, and she hung up and dialed her father.
“Hello, this is Jack Latham. I’m not able to pick up the phone right now, and I don’t listen to my voicemails. Call back later!”
Figures. Jack seldom answered when Sam called. She could count on him calling back within a day, but she sometimes wondered how she would ever track him down if there were an emergency. She sighed and dialed the one person who reliably took her calls.
After twelve unanswered rings, Sam hung up, wondering if Eva was at a matinee.
With no one to share her joy with, she opened the bottle of wine that all of Dr. West’s research assistants received at the end of the previous summer as a token of his thanks. The only undergraduate in the lab for those hot months, Sam must have conveyed enough maturity for everyone to forget she was underage. “Cheers,” she said to her empty room, and for the first time in her life, she drank alone.
Alone in the Trumbull Hall common room, Sam haphazardly plunked on some piano keys with heavy fingers. Something dark and stormy—Rachmaninoff maybe, or late Beethoven—would be perfect for her mood, but she could only play the musical equivalent of nursery rhymes.
She struck a couple of minor chords and held them until the sound completely died away. Maybe she should just give up on practicing today.
The door opened, and she glanced over her shoulder to find Claire with an overstuffed backpack. She noticed Sam and hesitated. “Sorry, did you want the room to yourself? I don’t need to interrupt.”
“It’s a public space.”
“Yeah, but I understand wanting to make it your own sometimes.”
Sam rotated on the piano bench and leaned her back against the piano keyboard. “Is that what you do?” Come to think of it, she’d never seen Claire study in her dorm room.
“Yeah, I usually study here. Unless some club or something is having a meeting, the room’s usually pretty empty.” Claire sat down on a leather couch, kicked off her shoes, and extracted book after book out of her backpack until she had an impressive stack on top of the low wooden table. She pulled her legs up underneath her and grabbed the top book.
“How come you don’t study in your room?” Sam asked, hoping she wasn’t prying.
“Ah, well,” Claire said, and she looked away. “It started because I wanted to give Natalie her space when she had, uh, company. Which was often. Now, coming here to study is just a habit, regardless of Natalie’s social calendar.”
“Oh. Right,” Sam said. The look of pity Claire gave her felt awful and reminded her that she needed to do a better job hiding her feelings. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Gathering her things, Sam headed to the door.
“When did you know you wanted to be a doctor?” Claire asked, putting her book down on the couch. Her eyes looked sad, and there was something uncertain in her posture.
Sam perched on the arm of the couch. “I don’t know—preschool? I just always wanted it. My dad’s a doctor.”
“All my family members are lawyers. Well, and a judge. They seem sort of mystified by me. Not that they don’t respect science or anything. But they don’t understand how someone would be happy spending all their time researching, instead of, you know, doing. They keep asking me why I want to do research instead of practice.”
“You know, I was talking to Dr. West about this the other day. He thinks I should apply for M.D./Ph.D. programs—best of both worlds. Have you ever thought about it?”
“Yeah, but I really don’t want to be a doctor. I can’t imagine giving patients bad news. I just—I don’t have the constitution for that. But it’s hard when all everyone in our classes can talk about is med school.”
“Premed students are pretty nuts, huh?” Sam said, and they were quiet for a while. “You know, my mom is always reminding me that we’re still pretty young. There’s a lot of time before you have to apply for med school or grad school or a job or whatever. You don’t have
to know right now.”
“Says the woman who’s known what she wanted to be since preschool.”
“I read a study once that found that people who decided on their careers really early and never considered anything else often end up having mid-life crises and, like, quitting to brew beer in their basement or make soap in a cabin in the woods or something.”
Claire laughed. “Well, brewing beer is just science experiments with tastier results.” Some of the melancholy had lifted from her eyes, so Sam must have cheered her up, at least a little.
“Good luck studying. I’ll see you in class,” Sam said, standing and sliding her backpack over her shoulder.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch tonight?”
“New boyfriend, remember?” Sam mumbled.
“Right. God, she certainly burns through them, doesn’t she? She usually brings them home to our place, but she hasn’t slept there in weeks. I haven’t met this one.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Sam said, hoping Claire would drop it.
“Uh, well, see you in class then.” When Sam reached the door, Claire called to her. “Thanks for talking, Sam.”
“Anytime.” Alone in the courtyard, Sam mused that while Claire made her feel worse about Natalie, she felt better overall for having made a friend laugh.
Sam’s phone was ringing. After she’d finished her problem sets for the week, she had been inspired enough to drink a glass of wine, curling up with Leaves of Grass and reading herself to sleep. She rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. “Hello?”
“Sam, it’s Dolores, from next door. Sam, dear, something’s happened to your mom.”
Sam threw the sheet and covers off. She continued to listen as she hurried to her closet and began dressing, one handed.
“We’re at the hospital now, the one in Burlington, Fletcher something. I forget. Anyway, she’s been admitted.”
Stowe Away Page 8
