Jack Ketchum - I'm Not Sam

I don’t know whether it’s Miriam’s call or Doc’s call or Zoey’s whining or all three of them together but right now I’m boiling.

I take a few deep breaths and sit back down at the kitchen table. Zoey ambles over.

It’s not her. It’s never her. I stroke her fur.

I just touch her.

Lily’s outside playing with her Barbies in the sandbox I built for her, pretending it’s a beach and the girls are out sunbathing drinking piña coladas or whatever Barbies drink these days while I’m at the drafting table trying to figure out what the hell is wrong here. Everything looks wrong to me now, not just Samantha’s look and Doctor Gypsum’s and the various loathsome members of the Abominations’ League but perspective again, the framing of the panels strikes me as flat, dull, something I could have done better twenty years ago. I’m well into the third act and it’s just not working for me.

I keep thinking of that conversation with Miriam. I’m not holding her prisoner or anything. Where the fuck did that come from? Why did I have to say that?

Screw this. This isn’t going anywhere.

I lean out the window.

“Hey Lily! Want to go for a swim?”

She looks up, seems unsure at first. Maybe I was a little loud there.

“Okay, Patrick.”

“Suit up.”

Skippy peanut butter and Smucker’s Concord Grape this time. I’ve got them wrapped and packed away in the cooler along with the beer and Pepsi but still no Lily.

She’s not in her room. She’s not in the bathroom. I peer into mine. Found her.

“What’s up, Lily?”

She’s been in the bedroom drawers. Sam’s drawers. She holds an orange and yellow two-piece out to me.

“Could I wear this one instead of the blue?”

“Whatever one you want.”

“This one’s pretty.”

“Well. You should wear it, then.”

She opens the closet door. Sam’s closet. Fingers a strapless blue and white silk dress. Sam bought it in New York City.

“All this stuff,” she says. “It’s really, really pretty. Do you think I could play dress-up later, maybe?”

There’s a buzzing in my head. A disconnect. I think she says something else to me. I’m not sure.

“What?”

“Later maybe, Patrick? After the swim?”

“I… I guess so. Yeah, if you want. All right. Go put on your suit.”

She hurries out of the room and I’m left standing there looking at Sam’s clothes hanging neatly in the closet and disheveled where Lily’s been pawing through the open drawers.

I’ll straighten them out. Only not just now.

I’m halfway through my first beer when I see the snake.

The beer hits the deck and I’m up on my feet with the rake in my hands and it’s coming toward her, its body a black undulating streak in the water behind a raised head as it rises over a drifting branch and she doesn’t see it, doesn’t even know it’s there and I’m yelling Sam! Lily! Get out of the water! Get out of the water NOW! and she hears the panic in my voice and looks confused but starts swimming anyway, Sam’s powerful stroke, yet the damn thing’s gaining on her, no more than ten feet away.

Faster, Lily! I yell and bless her she really pours it on so that she hits the side of the dock and starts to hoist herself up just as it raises its fucking head to strike but I lash it with the steel tines of the rake. It writhes furiously in the roiling water and tries to bite, the snow-white mouth hitting the wooden handle just above the tines and Lily’s out of the water now watching wide-eyed as I flip the rake around and bring it down again and again on its back, on its goddamn head until at last the snake’s had enough and turns and glides away.

I drop the rake as though it’s poisonous.

I’m shaking so hard it’s hard to stand so I don’t even try. I drop down beside her on the dock, our feet dangling over the muddy water. Lily pulls hers in as though that thing still might be out there somewhere.

The look on her face is pure shock. She reaches out for me and I reach out for her and then I’m hugging her wet body tight to mine and we’re both of us trembling in a sudden cold wind of our own devise.

“Anything I want?”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s about two hours later and Lily’s at the bedroom closet. Seems she’s forgotten all about the snake. I sure haven’t.

Sam’s got a half dozen conservative suits for work front and center in the closet but she pushes those aside to get at the more interesting stuff in back.

She turns to the drawers and opens and closes them one at a time, inspecting them.

“You go ’way now,” she says. “I’ll come when I’m ready.”

I grab a beer from the fridge and plant myself on the couch in front of the TV and watch a rerun of BONES and I think how Sam used to enjoy that show, even though it was utter hokum — the day a medical examiner partnered up with a detective in the field was the day Wall Street worried about ethics.

But that was part of the fun. That and snappy dialogue and the charisma and chemistry of the two leads. I think about us early on, Sam and I, when we first started dating. How people used to say that when we walked in, we lit up the room.

My understanding is that mismatched clothing is all the rage with the kids these days but when she comes out grinning with a flourish and a ta-da! I can’t help it, I have to laugh. She’s got on woolen knee-socks, one green with yellow polka dots, one blue and red with alternating wide stripes. She’s teetering on a pair of black brushed leather three-inch heels. The dress is shiny red satin, sleeveless, with a scoop neck, cut to just above the knee. Ralph Lauren. I was with her in Tulsa when she bought it.

She’s wearing Sam’s three-strand, nickel and black agate necklace, her turquoise necklace, her red coral necklace and her fossil bead necklace, a brown and yellow camouflage-pattern silk scarf, and a pair of long white gloves with pretty much every ring in Sam’s drawer slipped over them. And to top it all off, Sam’s wide-brimmed floppy straw sunhat.

“Well?” she says.

“You look… stunning,” I manage.

“You like it? You like my shoes? You like my dress? You like my hat?”

“I like all of it.”

And I do. Just not necessarily all at the same time.

She turns around and back again a couple of times just like they do on the TV fashion shows I guess. A kind of awkward pirouette.

“Wait! I’m gonna do it again.”

She half-rushes, half-staggers back to our bedroom.

I think about her put-together, about what she’s selected. At first it makes me smile and then I realize something. Together they’re all wrong. Together they’re the Clash of the Titans.

But each piece individually is one of Sam’s favorites. Every one.

I picture her standing with the bedroom door closed gazing into the full-length mirror on the door, choosing her selections. I asked her once, a week or more ago, what she sees when she looks into a mirror. Wondering, did she see a little girl? “Me, silly,” she said and shrugged and wouldn’t say anything further.

But what’s she seeing now? Bits of Sam? Bits of Sam’s history, her likes and dislikes, her memory?

It gives me an idea. I go hunting around in our collection of DVDs until I find it. A couple of years ago we converted a box full of VCR tapes, early home movies, to DVD. Since the photo album was such a flop I’d never bothered to play them for her. But what if it were all a matter of timing? What if she simply wasn’t ready then? What if she is now?

It’s exciting. Definitely worth a shot.

I key up the DVD player and wait.

When she comes out I’m floored again. But this time I’m not laughing.