Jack Ketchum - I'm Not Sam

His eyes are closed again, his breathing regular. I watch him. Not for long but I watch him. And once again I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Because already he’s fled consciousness. He’s not faking. He’s sound asleep.

This isn’t right. It’s not normal.

There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with both of us.

It’s warm in the bedroom but I’m trembling. I very much need to calm down. I’m thinking that maybe that coffee might help after all, so I go back into the kitchen and spoon the French roast into the paper filter, pour the water, turn the machine on and wait.

Waiting’s hard.

A shower would help too. I know it would. I should clean myself up inside.

And I definitely need to shave.

The sheer fact that I need to shave boggles the mind. Hair doesn’t grow like this overnight.

Overnight. Good god. What day’s today?

I could turn on the television to find out but the television’s in the living room and there’s all that glass.

The computer. That’s in the study.

I sit down at our desk and boot it up and then I’m waiting again, for Microsoft to do its thing. I type in our password and wait for Windows. Finally there’s our desktop. I run the cursor over to the lower right-hand corner and get the time and then the date.

It’s 6:46. The date is May 29th.

It can’t be.

Yesterday was Friday, May 11th. I worked all day at the Tulsa ME’s office, mostly on a fat drunken Dutchman who’d slammed his car into a tree and a farmer who died of a heart attack in an enormous pile of turkey shit. I came home, and Patrick and I showered and fucked, had leftovers and wine for dinner and then we fucked again. And that last one was pretty wonderful.

May 11th to May 29th. How the hell can that be? Short of coma, how is that possible? If it were coma I’d have awakened in a hospital, not in my husband’s bed.

I’ve lost eighteen days somehow. Two and a half weeks!

I’m glad I’m sitting down.

I can hear the buzzer from the Krups machine in the kitchen. The coffee’s ready. But I don’t want the coffee anymore. I feel like anything I put in my stomach would come right back up again. I need to know what’s happened to me.

Doc Richardson. John. He’d know I think — if anybody would. He’s been our doctor forever. He qualifies as a friend by now. And I’ve got to tell him about Patrick too.

It’s much too early to call, but I can try him in an hour or so. Meantime I’ll have that shower. I’ve been sweating. I stink.

On the way to bathroom I look in on Patrick again. I think he may be dreaming. He hasn’t moved. His mouth is open slightly and his brow is knit and his eyes are restless beneath the lids.

He’s hiding in sleep. How well he’s hiding isn’t clear.

The shower feels wonderful. Our water pressure’s fine and I turn it on full blast, standing with my back to the shower-head so that the warm sting of it pounds away at my neck and shoulders and creates a sort of white noise in my head.

I don’t have to listen to myself think anymore.

I wash and condition my hair. I soap my armpits and shave away those tufts of fur. I shave my legs carefully so as not to nick the skin. I take my time at both these things and then I just stand there a while in the spray. I’ll deal with my pubic hair some other time — for now I just wash myself clean, inside and out.

It’s only when the water begins to chill that I turn it off and towel dry. If I could, I’d stay in there all morning until my skin begins to prune and pucker.

On any normal day I’d blow-dry my hair, I’d moisturize, but this is not a normal day. Now I do want that coffee. After the shower, I think my stomach can handle it. I slip on my robe and pad out into kitchen.

The microwave tells me it’s seven-thirty. I’ve been in there almost an hour. I sit at the kitchen table and sip the strong hot coffee, black with two sugars. There’s no cream. He’s not picked any up for me. Patrick takes his black.

Doc’s an early bird. He’s the kind of old country black-bag doctor you hardly ever see anymore. He opens at eight. So at eight o’clock sharp I’m on the telephone.

My hands are shaking again. I don’t think it’s the coffee.

Millie, his receptionist-slash-nurse, picks up right away.

“Hi, Millie, it’s Sam. Is he in yet?

There’s a strange hesitant pause on the other end.

“Sam? Why, it’s so good to hear from you, dear. I’ll put you right through.”

Then it’s Doc on the line. He sounds surprised and happy.

“Sam! Damn, girl, you had us worried!”

And hearing his voice I can’t keep the sudden tears out of my own. Rational Samantha Burke is having a complete and total meltdown on the telephone.

“John, what’s… I don’t understand… what’s happening here… I don’t… I’ve… somehow I’ve lost days, weeks, I don’t remember… and Patrick won’t… he’s… he just… our living room’s destroyed, and my wedding dress… John? Who’s Lily?”

There’s a silence.

“Sam, Lily’s you. ” he says.

And that’s how I learn that for eighteen days, I’ve been a little girl.

He asks me to calm down and try to begin at the beginning so I tell him about waking up and Patrick’s strange, scary reaction and his sleeping and the trashed living room and the children’s toys and all the rest and I try to go slow but it’s hard, I know I’m skipping over things, but he listens patiently without interrupting and then he tells me about Patrick bringing me to his office and his interview with me and the subsequent results of the MRI, which were negative. He tells me that Lily appeared to be a smart, polite child of about five or six years old. He tells me that apparently I’d suffered from selective memory loss and age regression — he avoids the phrase split personality — that I knew my cat Zoey, for instance, but not my husband.

“I gave him the name of a psychoanalyst to call, Sam. I wanted you to see her right away. For some reason Patrick wanted to try to bring you back himself. I guess he did.”

“Will I… good god, John, is this going to happen to me again?”

“I honestly don’t know. Will you try the therapist?”

“Of course I will.”

“Good. And from what you’re telling me, so should Patrick. Tell him to give you her name and number. I’d see Patrick myself today but I’ve got a meeting in Oklahoma City at ten o’clock and I’ll be gone all afternoon. I’m really glad you caught me. Can you bring him in tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll see to it.”

“Okay, nine o’clock. In the meantime, let him rest. He’s had quite a shock. And you might try to get some yourself. Any valium in the house, anything like that?”

“I think so. I’ll check.”

“If you need some, call Millie. I’ll leave a prescription for you.”

“Thanks, John. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sam. You try to relax now, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I sit down with the dregs of my coffee and think this over. It’s a hell of a lot to take in all at once like this but that’s true of the entire morning. I need Patrick to fill me in on all the rest of it but Doc said to let him rest, so I will. The thing to do, I think, is to get busy.

I’m going to put our house in order.

In the bedroom Patrick’s turned away toward the window and Zoey’s curled up in the crook of his arm. I walk over and scratch her neck and the top of her head. She’s purring.

I hang up the robe and slip on a pair of panties, jeans, a Jimi Hendrix tank top and my running shoes and I’m ready. I close the bedroom door behind me against the noise I’m about to make and haul the Electrolux out of the hall closet and the trash basket out of the kitchen.