SAM AWAKES the next morning to find me studying the map in bed.
“So, what does the clipboard of fun say for today?” he asks.
I smile sheepishly. “I dunno.”
“Yeah right,” he says with a snort.
“OK, what would you like to do today?”
He nods toward the mini-fridge. “Let’s start with those leftovers.”
I retrieve the Knott’s Berry Farm doggie-bag and return to bed where we watch TV while eating cold chicken and boysenberry pie. Sam expertly balances the containers on his chest, mindful of not wasting any unnecessary energy actually sitting up.
“That’s quite a skill,” I say, gently poking him in the ribs with my fork.
“What would you think about us visiting my mom’s best friend today?” he asks. “She lives in San Diego and I know she’d love to meet you.”
“Sure.” But this surprises me. Visiting people is not high on Sam’s list of preferred vacation activities.
Yet this evening, we find ourselves in San Diego, drinking peach juice and chatting with an older Greek couple at their kitchen table. Not twenty minutes into the conversation, we get onto the topic of death. The woman shows us a photo of an infant.
“Friends of ours lost a baby a year ago.”
“That’s too bad,” says Sam.
The woman nods. “She got pregnant again immediately.”
“Oh my!” I say.
She looks at me. “I guess they felt that was best, Adri.”
I nod my head and keep my mouth shut—but I wonder how someone could replace a dead child with a new one so quickly.
We’re then taken on a tour of their home. At the top of the stairs, the woman stops outside a closed door and turns to face us. “My mother was widowed very young,” she says. “She was a devout Greek Orthodox.”
Sam and I nod our heads in somewhat baffled silence.
“I admired her absolute faith,” she continues.
I smile. “Well that’s good.”
“And I guess I’m a pretty strong believer myself,” she says, reaching over and opening the door. “Because this is my prayer room.”
My eyes widen at the sight of the room filled with images and icons of Jesus, the disciples and saints. Pictures depicting Christian scenes as well as several gold crosses hang from the walls. Candles in red glass containers flicker gently, casting a warm reddish hue. The powerful scent of incense hangs in the air. Sam and I stay in the hall.
“Come on in,” she says at our obvious hesitation, “it’s safe in here!”
We go inside and stand quietly a moment. Undoubtedly, it is peaceful.
AS WE’RE pulling out of their driveway half an hour later, I ask Sam what the heck that was all about.
“Ya got me.”
“She’s pretty religious.”
“No kidding,” he says. “But I couldn’t stand the smell of that incense.”
I nod. “I hear ya.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes.
“Where were we recently where they were waving that stuff around?” I ask.
“My uncle’s funeral.”
I nod. “Right.”
For the first time in our eleven and a half years together, I’d attended a Greek Orthodox funeral four months ago.
Sam glances over at me. “You were pretty upset that day, hey?”
When we’d got back into the car after the graveside service, I’d burst into tears. Sam’s brother and sister had been with us.
“I just hated how we left your uncle in the ground, all alone like that,” I say.
“Adri, he was dead.”
“I know! But it was just so weird how one second, people were making such a fuss—wailing and throwing dirt on his coffin and then the next, the tears were gone and it was like, ‘OK, what’s for lunch?’”
Sam throws back his head and laughs. “Greeks are like that—very dramatic.”
“I’ll say.”
“I guess we could have taken him to the reception…”
I look over at Sam.
“Wheeled his casket right on by the buffet table…”
“Sam!”
“Uncle, would you like a cookie?”
“Stop it!” Laughing, I reach over and swat him on the forearm.
THE NEXT morning, however, I wake to a growly husband.
“I’m very angry with you,” he says.
“Why?”
“I had a dream that you cheated on me.”
“Uh oh.”
“With another cop.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The one with the sexy voice.”
I smile. I know who he’s referring to because the guy is really good-looking, plus he practically purrs when he phones in a report to us girls at work. I went on a police ride-along with him years ago and we’d had a riot.
“I’m serious, Adri.” He gets out of bed. “I can’t believe how mad I am at you.”
“It was a dream!”
Sam shakes his head. “It felt too real to be just a dream.” With a snort, he heads into the shower. Today we’re off to Universal Studios.
WE’RE ONE of the first to arrive at the Waterworld show, so from our seats we watch other audience members walk in. As people go past the massive water stage, representing a futuristic flooded earth, an actor pretending to be a maintenance man squirts them with a hose as they walk by. Most people can’t figure out where the water is coming from and Sam howls watching their confused reactions.
“I’d love to be an actor,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh huh. Especially if I got to play the bad guy.”
“Maybe that’s why undercover work appeals to you so much?” I suggest.
“Maybe.”
After the show, I convince him to take the tram tour through the studio. When our guide isn’t chirping half-truths about what’s around the next corner, a director promotes his upcoming film on an overhead TV monitor. As our tram rolls along, I wave at Jaws, who is far more decrepit than dangerous since I last saw him twenty-two years ago; cringe at King Kong, who ought to be retired by now; and shrug at the old house that Psycho was filmed in forty years ago. I keep hoping we’ll catch a glimpse of a new movie being filmed versus tired remnants of old sets. I tell Sam this.
“But they can’t control what you might see on a live film set,” is his reply. “They’re only gonna show you what they want you to see. It’s Hollywood—what do you expect?”
“To see movies being made…the behind-the-scenes stuff.”
Our tram enters a burning building and the false floor collapses beneath us. The woman behind us screams. Sam looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Better?”
By late afternoon, we’ve had more than enough. I suggest we go to Malibu for dinner and find a nice restaurant overlooking the sea…
Sam sighs. “Are you sure you want to go all that way?”
“Uh huh.”
Of course, he’s right. By the time we actually arrive in Malibu, the sun has set. Thus, we sit in our ocean-view restaurant with no ocean view.
“Chicken?” I snip, after the waiter has left. “What the heck are ya ordering chicken for, when we’re at the sea?”
“Because I feel like chicken.”
“Don’t you want fish?”
“No, I don’t. I want chicken.”
“I’m sorry, Sam…I guess I’m just tired.”
He shakes his head and takes a drink of beer. “You’re a weirdo.”
MONDAY IS our last day of vacation and we spend it in Santa Monica, walking on the beach. We’ve walked for about twenty minutes when I suggest we go for a swim.
“You’re on your own,” Sam says. “I left my swim shorts in the trunk.”
I open my mouth to ask a bitchy Why? But I catch myself. Instead, I say, “No worries. I think I’ll still go in though.”
“Absolutely! I’ll hold your stuff.”
Sam stands on the sand while I run int
o the surf. I’m only in up to my calves when I stop, my childhood fear of sharks suddenly returning. I turn back to Sam and he nods, as if to say ‘go on.’ I take a deep breath, run straight into the waves and dive under. When I come up, I check to make sure Sam’s still keeping an eye on me and then I dive under again. When I come up this time and first open my eyes, Sam looks different—as if he’s surrounded by a sort of salty haze.
We walk back along the beach and on the way, come across a family splashing around in the water. Wordlessly, Sam and I both sit on the sand and watch. “That’s nice,” he says a few minutes later, nodding toward the ocean. “I mean, the whole family playing together like that…”
I want to ask him if that will ever be us: mom, dad and a couple of kids? But deep down, I already know his answer. I just nod. Then I reach over and scratch his scalp. He loves it when I do this.
He closes his eyes. “Mmmmm…”
I am actually quiet for a few minutes.
“I’ve got one picture left, Sammy,” I finally say.
He opens his eyes and smiles. I hand him the camera then wrap both my arms tightly around him. He leans back into me, holding the camera out at arms-length and snaps the last photo. As the film is rewinding, he glances at his watch. “We better get to the airport.”
I laugh. “Our flight home isn’t for hours.”
“We might run into some heavy traffic. I mean, it is LA.”
“True.”
We walk back to the parking lot and are climbing the steps from the beach when we both see a disheveled-looking older woman sitting cross-legged in the sand. Her head is slumped over her chest and bottles and cans lie strewn around her.
“That’s got to be a shitty way to live,” Sam remarks, once we’re in the car.
Frankly, his comment surprises me. Compassion for fainting Pooh Grandma is one matter; empathy toward a homeless alcoholic is something Sam has had very little of lately.
“Are you OK over there?” he asks, when he catches me staring at him.
I smile. “I’m thinking you better put that top down one last time.”
“You betcha.”
Once we’re on the freeway, Sam says, “It’s a big world. I’d forgotten how big it is.”
I look over at him.
“But this trip,” he continues, “has really made me realize there’s so much more to life than our little city back home.”
I nod.
“It can be a cruel world, Adri, but it is a big one.”
I giggle. “Have you been drinking coffee again?” Chatty Sam usually only comes out after a strong cup of coffee or a few beers.
He smiles. “I was just thinking how much it bothered me that I didn’t get on with the Priority Crimes Unit.”
“Oh?” We’ve scarcely talked about his work this trip.
“But now that I’m away from home, I realize there are so many other opportunities to work undercover.”
“Such as?”
“CSIS, the FBI, CIA, Secret Service…”
“I think you’d need a green card for some of those, hon.”
“My point,” he says, “is that I’ve been thinking way too small.”
“Oh.”
We travel in silence for a few minutes. “Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what would your undercover name have been if you had gotten on with Priority Crimes?”
“Some co-pilot you are,” he replies, pointing to the airport exit sign as we drive past it. “Pay attention, will ya?”
“Oh shit. Sorry.”
He grins, tapping his temple with his index finger. “That’s why it’s good to leave lots of extra time.”
“YOU’RE A bit early for your flight,” says the guy behind the check-in counter at the LAX airport.
“Yeah,” I whisper under my breath, “like five hours.”
As we walk away from the counter, I say to Sam, “You’re the weirdo.”
“I did get us here too early, huh?”
“Then again,” I reason, “if we stayed at the beach much longer, we might have hit way worse traffic.”
Once we’re through security, I find a comfy chair and devour the LA. Times. Sam finds a spot at the bar and has a beer watching Monday Night Football. We wave at each other occasionally but for the most part, we do our own thing. The vacation is over.
BACK HOME, I’m first out of bed Tuesday morning. I am curled up in my big blue chair with a cup of coffee, reading a passage from one of my favourite books, Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach.
“Must be a pretty good sex scene.”
I jump, a little startled, and look up to see Sam walking into the living room.
I grin. “Not quite.”
“Whatcha readin’?”
“About how when you do what you love, the money will follow.”
I get the raised brows. “The operative word being,” he says with a wink, “do.”
Then he heads into the kitchen to get a coffee. He returns a moment later and sits on the couch. “It’s good to be home, huh?”
“Sam, I know I gotta get my shit together…with my writing, I mean.”
He stands up again. “Let’s go retrieve the hound.”
BACK HOME from the kennel, we’re barely in the back door when the phone rings.
I answer it. “Oh, hi mom.”
Sam rolls his eyes and walks out of the kitchen.
I tell her a bit about our vacation and then she asks if I have any ideas for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Well,” I reply, uttering words I do not mean, “we could have it here.”
“That would be very nice, Adri.”
“Except that I’m working most of that weekend. And I think Sam is actually working the whole weekend.”
“I could cook the turkey,” she says, “and we could all help out.”
“I dunno Mom, it really isn’t that convenient…”
“Oh.”
“But I’ll see what Sam thinks,” I finish.
I know damn well what he’ll think.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” is his actual response.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Nope.”
“You wanna have fifteen people over for dinner—and we’re both working?”
“That’s right.”
Sam glares at me then shakes his head slowly. My stomach tightens.
“You just don’t get it do you?” he says then walks away.
Funny thing is I do get it. I just can’t be bothered to say no to my mom because it’s not worth the hassle. Sam, however, apparently thinks it is—and gives me the silent treatment to prove his point.
By Wednesday afternoon, he still hasn’t said a word to me. Even Sasha, our dog, ignores me. She follows Sam around the house and lies beside him on the floor when he reclines on the couch, affectionately called—by him—the perch.
Sam’s scheduled to work his first shift back at 9:00 p.m. Wednesday evening but I overhear him on the phone telling his sergeant, Tom, he won’t be in.
“You’re taking another court day?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Over the past four years, I can count the times on one hand that Sam has taken a day off work other than for vacation. Not going into work, especially since he’s not speaking to me anyway, is odd. That it’s a night shift he’s missing, as opposed to a day shift, is even stranger. Sam’s a night owl; I’m the early bird.
We eat our dinner in silence. I know he’s a stubborn Taurus, but this is getting ridiculous. I fantasize about leaving him…moving to Vancouver, renting a little apartment and becoming a real writer by the sea. I’d take Sasha and the two of us would walk on the beach during breaks from my blossoming career as a novelist. This is what I’m thinking when I crawl into bed, alone, on Wednesday night.
Thursday morning, I’m working on my computer when I hear him upstairs in the kitchen, pouring his coffee. When he comes downstairs, I don’t look up.
He walks by my desk.
“Mornin’.”
“Morning,” I reply in my iciest voice.
He walks over, lies down on the couch and flips on the TV.
Dink. I resume typing.
Ten minutes later, he turns the TV off. “What do you do over there all the time in your little office?” he asks.
My silent treatment has been lifted. Big of him.
“I’m building an empire,” I say, referring to the fact that I had been researching a stock price. “And I also happen to be writing a novel, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He sighs. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”
“Is that what you’re working on today?”
“Sort of. I’m editing a poem I wrote about an old university prof of mine—but it’s supposed to be about Liz’s former professor.”
“Liz is the character based on you, right?”
“Uh huh,” I say glumly. Fiction isn’t turning out to be my strong point.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I dunno…it’s in pretty rough shape.”
“That’s OK.” Sam settles back into the couch and assumes his best thinking position: thumb beneath chin, index finger on cheek, middle finger above mouth.
The poem is a dreadful piece of writing. Liz’s frustration about not living up to her potential, however, is crystal clear. When I finish, there isn’t a peep from the perch.
Hearing my own words out loud makes me realize I’m a spoiled brat wallowing in self-pity. And I’m blaming my lack of writing on having to work at a regular job.
“Very interesting,” says Sam. “And what, exactly, did your prof teach you that was so important?”
I jump up. “He taught me how to think! How we need to question the underlying assumptions that have led us to the mess we’re in.”
Sam smiles ever so slightly, stands up and takes his mug from the coffee table. “Let’s go to the dog park.”
In the Jeep, he doesn’t say much and the tension between us is palpable. Ten minutes into our walk the volcano erupts.
“I think you’re trying to control me,” I blurt.
He stops walking. “Why do you say that?”
“This Thanksgiving thing is a perfect example. It’s as if whatever you say goes—but there are two of us in this relationship you know.”
A Widow's Awakening Page 3
