you've reached sam

you've reached sam [ Chapter-2 pg 6 to 10 ]

Exactly like I am right now. My heart is pounding. Why is he bringing these things up again? These memories. I don’t think I can’t hear any more of them. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” “Reminding me of all this…” “Is that a bad thing?” “Sam—” I start.

Something interrupts me. A shoulder with black sleeves emerges as someone pulls a chair around, taking the table behind me. At the same moment the door swings open as another couple comes in, folding down an umbrella. It’s getting too crowded in here. I turn back to face the window, and lower my voice. “I wish you could tell me what’s going on,” I say. “How do I know if this is real?”

“Because this is real. I’m real, Julie. You just have to believe me.” “How do you expect me to do that? I feel like I’m going crazy.” “You’re not crazy, okay?”

“Then how am I talking to you?”

“You called me, Julie. And I picked up. Like always.” It’s the same thing he said before. But it isn’t enough.

“I didn’t expect you to answer. I didn’t expect to hear from you again.” “Are you disappointed?” he asks.

His question surprises me. I’m not sure how to answer it. “That’s not what I meant. I only meant … I—” I don’t know what to say. My mind is too far away and scattered to concentrate. Someone drops a spoon and it

echoes across the room, and I hear laughter at the other tables. It’s getting too loud in here. More people pour in through the door, and I feel the café shrinking and myself about to get crushed.

“Julie…” Sam’s voice pulls me back. It’s the only thing holding me together. “I know nothing makes sense right now. The two of us talking again. I’m sorry I don’t have all the answers for you. I wish I did. I wish there was a way to prove this is real. You just have to believe me, okay?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

More voices fill the room. Then comes the sound of footsteps, followed by a blur of jeans and blond hair. The couple who came in appear with hot drinks, taking the table across from me. I try to steal a glance from the corner of my eye without them noticing. The second I recognize a voice, my stomach drops.

Taylor settles into her chair as Liam sets their drinks down. Sam’s old friends. They’ve been dating for almost a year now. They were there at the bonfire the night he died. I turn myself toward the window and lower my head a little, letting my wet hair fall across the side of my face. Of all the people from school I could have run into, it had to be them. I’m sure they noticed I wasn’t at the funeral. I bet they have a lot to say about it.

Sam practically grew up with them. They formed a close-knit group that used to hang out before I moved here. The group fizzled out a little once Sam and I started seeing each other. I suspect Taylor had her own reasons for this. When I asked Sam why they didn’t like me, he said people around here have a thing against those who grew up in the city. Probably because of our families’ “political” differences. Taylor’s dad drives a gas- guzzling truck while mine drove an environmentally friendly car. Kids rolled their eyes when he used to drop me off in front of school. My dad hated it here. He couldn’t wait to leave this place.

Maybe they haven’t noticed me. I’m too scared to check. I’m deciding whether to wait until they leave or move to the bathroom when a bright light blinds the side of my face, and I look up. Taylor lowers her phone that’s pointed right at me. Her eyes widen as she realizes she forgot to turn the camera flash off. Liam sips his drink, pretending nothing happened. They don’t apologize or say a word to me. My body trembles.

I can’t deal with this right now. I just can’t.

“Julie, what’s wrong?”

Sam’s voice comes back and I remember he’s still on the phone.

A car appears outside and throws headlights into the café window, illuminating me like a spotlight. I have to get out of here. I rise abruptly from my seat, nearly knocking over my chair. Taylor and Liam are silent but I feel their stares as I move between tables, bumping coats and shoulders as I make my way toward the door and throw it open.

It finally stopped raining. People are moving toward me from all sides. I duck beneath someone’s umbrella and hurry down the sidewalk with the phone pressed to my chest. As soon as I reach the corner, I break into another run. I run until the café noise and lights are behind me, and not a single passing car is in sight.

A single streetlamp barely lights this side of the block as I lean against it. The bulb flickers above me as I catch my breath. I remember Sam is still on the line. I put the phone back to my ear.

“Julie—what’s wrong? Where did you run off to?”

My head is pounding. I don’t know what to say, so all that comes out is a breathless, “I don’t understand what’s happening to me—” I am never like this, even when Sam died, I held myself together.

“Julie … are you crying?”

It isn’t until Sam asks this that I realize I am. And I can’t stop. What’s wrong with me? What am I doing out here? Nothing makes sense anymore.

Sam’s voice softens. “I’m sorry. I really thought that if I picked up, everything would be better. This is all my fault. I wish I could fix this.”

I take in a deep breath and say, “Please tell me what’s going on, Sam.

Tell me why you picked up.”

There’s a long silence before he finally answers this. He says, “I wanted to give us a chance to say good-bye.”

I nearly crumble to the floor. There’s a lump in my throat that makes it almost impossible to speak as I fight back more tears. “But I never wanted to say good-bye,” I manage to get out.

“Then don’t. You don’t have to, okay? You don’t have to say it right now.”

I wipe my eyes and keep breathing.

“Listen,” Sam says after a moment. “How about this. Let me show you something. I think it’ll make you feel better, okay?” Before I ask what it is, he says, “Just trust me.”

Trust him. I don’t think Sam realizes how much trust I’m already giving him by staying on the phone. I don’t know what else to say so I say nothing at all. I stand there in silence beneath the light of the lamppost, as I hold on to Sam’s voice and tell myself everything is okay when I’m no longer sure what’s real and what isn’t anymore.

I take back what I said earlier about the lake. This is the last place I expected to end up tonight.

Sam’s driveway is empty of cars. Not a single light shines from the windows of the house. His family must be staying with relatives outside of town. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Sam asked me to come get something he’s been meaning to give me. “Trust me,” he kept saying. There is a spare key taped beneath the mailbox, just like he told me. I find it and open the front door, hoping no one’s inside.

It’s too dark to see anything. The scent of flowers and incense overwhelms me. I step over his little brother’s shoes as I feel around for a switch. A single lamp flickers on and I look around. The living room is filled with flowers that are beginning to wilt. A beautiful wreath of chrysanthemums hangs near the mantel. This must all be for Sam.

Sam’s voice comes on the line. “Is anyone home?” he asks me. “I don’t think so. It’s too quiet in here.”

“That’s weird. Where is everyone?”

“There are a bunch of flowers for you, though,” I tell him. “The house is full of them.”

“Flowers?” Sam repeats, a note of surprise in his voice. “Interesting … Are yours there, too?”

“Mine?”

I look around the room anyway. Knowing full well nothing here is from me. Not even a card. A knot of guilt forms in my chest, and I feel terrible again. “I don’t see them here,” is all I say.

“I’m sure my mom kept them somewhere else,” Sam says. “Maybe…”

I don’t want to be in here anymore. So I take my shoes off and head upstairs. It’s so strange to be alone in the house. I tiptoe past his little brother James’s room, even though he isn’t there. Maybe it’s out of habit. Sam’s room is at the end of the hall. His door is covered with band logos and NASA stickers. The doorknob is cold to the touch. I take a deep breath before I twist it open.

I don’t need to turn on the light to know something is different. The curtain is drawn, giving me enough moonlight to see the boxes in the room. Some of the shelves have been cleaned. It looks like Sam’s parents have started to pack things, leaving only the bedsheets and the smell of him. I take another breath. I never thought I would be back here again.

“You still there?” Sam’s voice brings me back to him. “Sorry if my room’s a mess.” He always said this right before I came in.

“What am I looking for?”

“It should be somewhere on my desk,” Sam says. “I wrapped it up for you.”

I go through his desk. Behind the computer, under folders, in the drawers. But nothing’s there.

“Are you sure? Try the middle drawer again.”

“Nothing’s there, Sam,” I tell him. I glance around the room. “It might be in one of the boxes.”

“What boxes?”

I almost don’t want to tell him. “There are boxes in your room. I think your parents are packing things up.”

“Why would they do that?”

I give him a moment to think this through.

“Oh … Right. I guess I forgot for a second there.” “I can look through them, if you want me to,” I say.

Sam doesn’t hear me. “Why would they pack my things up so soon…” he says more to himself than to me. “I haven’t been gone that long, have I?” “You know, I can’t speak for your parents … but sometimes, it’s just

hard to look at these things,” I try to explain. “I guess so…”

I turn on the desk lamp to see the room better. The boxes are half filled with Sam’s clothes, books, CDs and record collection, and rolled-up posters

—so many things I thought I’d never see again. I suddenly remember the

things I threw out this morning. Here they are right in front of me. Sam’s Radiohead T-shirt. His Mariners hat he bought when we were in Seattle, even though he knows nothing about baseball. It all still smells like him. For a second, I forget what I’m even looking for.

“Did you find it yet?” Sam asks again.

I open another box. This one’s full of recording equipment. Sam must have spent the last six months saving up for this microphone. He always talked about recording his own music. I told him I’d help him with lyrics. Sam wanted to be a musician. He wanted his song to play on the radio someday. He wanted to make it in the world. Now he’ll never get the chance.

I find the gift eventually. It’s wrapped with magazine pages and filled with tissue. It’s heavier than I expected.

“What is it?”

“Just open it, Jules.”

I tear it open, letting the wrapping paper fall to the rug. It takes me a second to realize what this is.

“Wait a second…” I turn it over in my hand, trying to make sense of what I’m holding. The winged bookend. The same one I threw out this morning. But it can’t be. “Sam … where did you get this?”