Attachments (13 page)

CHAPTER 36

LINCOLN CALLED SAM
the next morning and the next. Her mother kept  saying that Sam wasn’t home. She didn’t call him back until New Year’s Eve.

“I got your letter,” she said. “Can you meet me at the park?”

“Now?” he asked.

“Now.”

Lincoln borrowed his sister’s car and drove to a little playground near Sam’s house. It was where they went when they didn’t have any money or gas. It was empty when he got there, so he sat on the merry-go-round to wait. It hadn’t been a white Christmas—the ground was bare and brown—but it was still cold. Lincoln kicked the merry-go-round into motion and let it spin slowly until he saw Sam walking toward him, still a block away. She was wearing bright pink lipstick and a flowery minidress over thermal underwear. No coat.

He hoped she’d sit next to him.

She did. She smelled like gardenias. He wanted to touch her, jump on her. Cover her like a hand grenade.

Sam exhaled matter-of-factly. “I thought we should probably talk,” she said, “I thought that I should explain …”

“You don’t have to,” Lincoln said, already shaking his head.

She tucked her skirt under her legs.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“I want you to know that I’m sorry,” she said.

“You can have my jacket.”

“Lincoln,
listen
.” She turned to face him. He told himself not to look away. “I’m sorry,” she said. But I feel like what happened probably happened for a reason. It forced everything to the surface.”

“What everything?”

“Everything between us,” she said, getting impatient. “Our relationship.”

“I told you, we don’t have to talk about this.”

“Yes, we do. You saw me with another man. Don’t you think that’s worth talking about?”

Jesus.
Another man
. Why’d she have to say it that way?

“Lincoln … ,” she said.

He shook his head, and kicked at the ground again until they were moving.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said after two or three go-rounds. “I got to know Marlon when we were rehearsing
The Straw
. We were together all the time, and it just turned into something more.”

“But that play was in September,” Lincoln said. With new distress.

“Yes.”

“That was right after we got to California.”

“I should have told you sooner.”

“No,” Lincoln said, “you should have …not done this.”

They were both quiet for a few moments. Lincoln kept kicking, making the playground equipment turn faster, until Sam grabbed his arm. “Stop,” she said. “I’m getting dizzy.”

He dug his heels into the cold, hard dirt and hugged one of the metal handholds.

“How did you think our relationship was going to end?” Sam asked when they stopped. She seemed angry now. “And don’t say that you didn’t think it was going to end. You’re not that naïve.”

He was.

“These things end,” she said. “They always end. Nobody marries their first love. First love is just that. First. It’s implied that something else will follow.”

“I never thought I’d hear you make the case against
Romeo and Juliet
,” he said.

“They would have broken up if they’d lived for the sequel.”

“I love you,” he said. It came out too close to a whine. “Say that you don’t love me.”

“I won’t say that.” Her face was cold.

“Then say that you do.”

“I’ll always love you,” she said, factually. She wasn’t looking at him.

“Always,” he said. “But not now. Not enough …”

“If I was meant to be with you,” Sam said, “I wouldn’t have fallen in love with Marlon.”

Once, when Lincoln was playing croquet with his sister, she’d accidentally cracked him in the temple with a mallet. In the moment before he fell to the ground, he’d thought to himself,
I might die now. This might be it.
That’s how he felt when Sam told him she was in love with Marlon.

“You make it sound like it
happened
to you,” he said. “Like you had nothing to do with it. You make infidelity sound like a hole in the sidewalk. You had a choice.”

“Infidelity?” She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Then I guess I chose to be unfaithful. Do you still want to be with me, knowing that?”

“Yes.”

She threw back her head in disgust.

Lincoln moved closer to her. There was a cold steel bar between them (exactly the kind you’re not supposed to lick).

“Why did you want me to come to California with you?” he asked. “If you knew we were going to break up?”

“I didn’t plan it this way,” she said. Less angry now, and maybe a little ashamed. “I didn’t know
when
we were going to break up.”

“I didn’t know we were
ever
going to break up,” he said. “If you had told me that it was a foregone conclusion, I wouldn’t have followed you across the country …” He stopped talking and looked at her. Even in the dark, even in January, even breaking his heart, she was pink and radiant. She reminded him of a rosebush flowering in stop-motion. “God … ,” he said, “you know what? I probably would have.”

They were both quiet again. Lincoln couldn’t trust himself to speak. Everything he wanted to say was wrong. Everything he wanted to say would make her want him less.

“I wanted you to come with me,” Sam finally said, “because I was scared to go by myself. And I told myself that it was okay, letting you follow me …because it was what you wanted. And because you didn’t have any other plans. And …because I guess I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to you.”

They were quiet for another long while.

“It’s not like I fell out of love with you,” Sam said. “I’m just not the same person that I was when I fell in love with you.”

Quiet.

“People change,” she said.

“Stop talking to me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m Lord Greystoke, and I need to be educated in the ways of man. I know that people change. I thought …I thought we were going to change together. I thought that’s what it meant to be in love.”

“I’m sorry.”

More quiet. Sam watched her breath turned to frost. She leaned back on her elbows and made her face look distant. Then stricken. Then pained. She stuck with pained. Lincoln had seen her do this so many times, try on faces, that it didn’t bother him.

“Earlier,” Lincoln said. “You said you didn’t plan it this way. How did you plan it?”

“I didn’t plan it,” she said. “I hoped that we would both just know when it was time …That we’d have one of those moments. Like in the movies, foreign movies, when something small happens, something almost imperceptible, and it changes everything. Like there’s a man and a woman having breakfast …and the man reaches for the jam, and the woman says, ‘I thought you didn’t like jam,’ and the man says, ‘I didn’t. Once.’

“Or maybe it isn’t even that obvious. Maybe he reaches for the jam, and she just looks at him like she doesn’t know him anymore. Like, in the moment he reached for that jar, she couldn’t recognize him.

“After breakfast, he’ll go for a walk, and she’ll go to their room and pack a slim brown suitcase. She’ll stop on the sidewalk and wonder whether she should say good-bye, whether she should leave a note. But she won’t. She’ll just get into the taxi and go.

“He knows as soon as he turns onto their walk that she’s gone. But he doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t regret a single day they spent together, including this one. Maybe he finds one of her ribbons on the stairs …”

Sam lay back onto the merry-go-round. She’d talked herself into a looser place. Lincoln lay down beside her, so that their heads almost touched in the center.

“Who’s playing me in your movie?” he asked gently.

“Daniel Day-Lewis,” she said. She smiled. Lincoln could probably kiss her now if he wanted. Instead he leaned toward her ear so that she could hear him whisper.

“There’s never been a moment,” he barely said, “when I didn’t recognize you.”

She wiped her eyes. Her mascara smeared. He nudged the merry-go-round into motion. He could kiss her now. If he wanted.

“I’d know you in the dark,” he said. “From a thousand miles away. There’s nothing you could become that I haven’t already fallen in love with.”

He could kiss her.

“I know you,” he said.

Even as she turned toward him, even as her hand came to his cheek, Lincoln knew that this didn’t mean Sam had changed her mind. She was saying yes to the moment, not to him. He tried to tell himself that this was enough, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t. Now that she was in his arms, he needed her to tell him that everything was going to be okay.

“Tell me you love me,” he said between kisses.

“I love you.”

“Always,” he said. It came out like an order.

“Always.”

“Only.”

She kissed him.

“Only,” he said again.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Sam… ,” he said.

“I can’t.”

He sat up. Stepped jaggedly off the merry-go-round.

“Lincoln,” she said. “Wait.”

He shook his head. He wanted to cry again, but not in front of her. Not in front of her again. He started walking to his car.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sam said. She was upset. “I don’t want it to end like this.”

“You don’t get to choose,” Lincoln said. “It’s just happening.”

CHAPTER 37

SHE’D DUMPED HIM.
That’s all. It wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t have been. It’s not like they were married. It’s not like she abandoned him at the altar, or made off with his best friend and their retirement savings.

People get dumped all the time. Especially in college. They don’t drop out of school. They don’t drop out of life. They don’t spend the next decade thinking about it every time they get a chance.

If Lincoln’s freshman year had been an episode of
Quantum Leap
, Scott Bakula would have gotten back on the Greyhound bus after Christmas, finished the school year like a man, and started making calls to the financial aid office at the University of Nebraska. Or maybe he wouldn’t have transferred at all. Maybe Scott Bakula would have stayed in California and asked that pretty girl in Lincoln’s Latin class if she wanted to see a Susan Sarandon movie.

“
DO YOU LIKE
basset hounds?”

Lincoln was sitting in
The Courier
break room eating homemade potato soup and still thinking about Scott Bakula and Sam when Doris interrupted him. She was loading Diet Pepsi into the machine behind him.

Lincoln wasn’t exactly sure what Doris’s job was. Whenever he saw her, she was stocking the vending machines, but that didn’t seem like it should be a full-time job. Doris was in her sixties with short, curly gray hair, and she wore a red vest, sort of a uniform, and large eyeglasses.

“Excuse me?” he asked, hoping he sounded polite, not confused.

“Basset hounds,” she said, pointing to the open newspaper in front of him. There was a photo of a basset hound sitting on a woman’s lap.

“I’d never have a basset hound if I lived so close to the ocean,” she said. Lincoln looked at the photo. He didn’t see any ocean. Doris must think he’d already read the story.

“They can’t swim, you know,” she said. “They’re the only dogs who can’t swim. They’re too fat, and their legs are too short.”

“Like penguins,” Lincoln said thickly.

“I’m pretty sure penguins can swim,” Doris said. “But a basset hound will drown in the bathtub. We had one named Jolene. Oh, she was a pretty little girl. I cried all night when we lost her.”

“Did she drown?” Lincoln asked.

“No,” Doris said. “Leukemia.”

“Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

“We had her cremated. Put her in a nice copper urn. It’s only this big,” Doris said, holding up a can of Wild Cherry Pepsi. “Can you believe it? A full-grown dog like Jolene in a tiny, tiny urn? There’s not much to any of us once you take out all the water. How much is left in a person, do you think?” She waited for an answer.

“Probably less than a two-liter,” Lincoln said, still feeling like it would be rude to act as if this was anything other than normal conversation.

“I’ll bet you’re right,” Doris said sadly.

“When did she pass?” he asked.

“Well, it was when Paul was alive, let’s see, sixteen years ago. We got two more basset hounds after that one, but they weren’t as sweet …Honey, do you need any change while I’ve got this thing open?”

“No,” Lincoln said. “Thank you.”

Doris locked up the Pepsi machine. They talked a bit more about Jolene and about Doris’s late husband, Paul, whom Doris missed but didn’t get all choked up about the way she did Jolene. Paul had smoked and drank and refused to eat vegetables. Not even corn.

By the time she got to Dolly, her first basset, and Al, her first husband, Lincoln had forgotten that he was talking to Doris just to be polite.

HE STAYED HOME
from work the next day. He went to his sister’s house instead and helped her bring Christmas decorations down from the attic. “Why aren’t you at work?” she asked, untangling a chain of plastic cranberries. “Did you just feel like taking a break?”

He shrugged and reached for another box. “Yeah. A break from taking a break.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He’d come to Eve’s house because he knew she’d ask him that. And he’d hoped that when she did ask, he’d have an answer. Things tended to come into focus when she was around.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just feel like I have to do something.”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what’s wrong. Or part of what’s wrong. I feel like I’m sleepwalking.”

“You look like you’re sleepwalking,” she said.

“And I don’t know how to wake up.”

“Do something,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Change something.”

“I have,” Lincoln said. “I moved back. I got a job.”

“You must not have changed the right thing yet.”

“If I were in a movie,” he said, “I’d fix this by volunteering with special-needs kids or the elderly. Or maybe I’d get a job in a greenhouse …or move to Japan to teach English.”

“Yeah? So are you going to try any of those things?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Eve looked at him coolly.

“Maybe you should join a gym,” she said.