I'm Not Sam (4 page)

“You mean you think she’s faking?” 

“Not at all. Quite the opposite. Talking to her just now, there’s this strange kind of disconnect. It’s as though she remembers selectively. She knows who Lady Gaga is but not her mother’s or her father’s name.
“She knew Zoey. Our cat.” 

“Did she now. That’s interesting. The only time she got the least bit nervous or upset was when I asked her who you were, who Patrick was. That seemed to confuse her. I didn’t push it. But she can identify everything around her perfectly well. I’d point to a chair or a window or a bookshelf and she’d rattle the word for it right off. I knew when she got bored with it too. You could tell. Her vocabulary, by the way, is at about a five-year-old level. She could identify flowers but not the vase, for instance. Called it a jar. She can add and subtract but not multiply or divide. 

“This…transformation. What strikes me most is that it’s uncannily consistent. Sure, you and I could imitate each of these child-aspects of hers if we tried. But I doubt very much if we could imitate them all at once, choreograph them all together -- and do it for hours at a time, as you say she‘s been doing. That would take one hell of an actor.” 

He pulls out a prescription pad, picks up the pen and writes. 

“Here’s what we need to do. First, eliminate anything physical.” 

“You mean, like a tumor?” 

“I’ve never heard of a tumor causing these kinds of symptoms but yes, a brain-scan’s definitely in order. I want you to phone this number at Baptist Regional and arrange for it right away. I’ll call ahead and grease the skids for you as soon as you’re out of here, tell them to slip you in ASAP, tomorrow if possible.” 

He tears off the paper and hands it to me. 

“Go home and make the call. Then try to get some sleep. You look like hell, Patrick.” 

I get up and head for the door. He’s right. I’m suddenly exhausted. But one other thing’s bothering me bigtime. 

“Doc, what if this isn’t physical?” 

“Yeah, I know. Multiple personality disorder. You see any other ‘personalities?’” 

“No.” 

“Keep a good sharp eye out. If there are any, one should surface soon. My understanding is, these things tend to cluster. She under any particular kind of stress lately?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Work, maybe?” 

I want to say
hell, she loves cutting up people for a living
but I resist that. 

“Sam loves puzzles. She sees her work as puzzle-solving. I think she’d want to do it even if they didn’t pay her for it.” 

“Marriage okay?” 

I want to say
it was until last night
but I stifle that one too. 

“We’re fine, Doc. I just don’t understand this.” 

“Well, fact is, me neither,” he says. “Not yet, at least. Listen, try this. Try getting her to remember things. Jog her memory. Maybe, if we’re lucky, you’ll find something to jog her right back again.” 

I tell him I will, thank him and walk out the door. 

Doc’s as good as his word. I phone and give them my name at the hospital and a moment later I’m speaking with a receptionist in radiology who gives us an MRI appointment for noon tomorrow. 

For lunch she wants peanut butter and jelly. 

We’ve got strawberry and peach preserves. Not jelly but close enough. 

I make myself a fried egg sandwich and we eat in front of the TV set. I don’t know anything about kid’s programming but I figure PBS must have something and they do. It’s called CLIFFORD THE BIG RED DOG and it’s about…a big red dog. Also a purple poodle named Cleo, a blue hound named Mac and a yellow bulldog named T-Bone.  

She giggles occasionally. 

There’s a commercial for something called DINOSAUR TRAIN which is coming up next. Friendly dinosaurs. Why not? Consider Casper. 

But I’m really bone-tired now. 

“You be all right out here for a little while? I’m gonna go have a short nap. Or maybe you want a nap too?” 

“Nah. I’ll stay here, Patrick.” 

I no sooner hit the bed than I’m asleep. 

But I wasn’t kidding. It
is
a short nap. Half an hour max. 

It’s Zoey again. Her toy. That yowl. Rising up from the floor at the foot of the bed. 

And Sam’s heard it too because here she comes, her brow knit with concern, tucking Teddy under her arm and stooping down to pet her. Zoey flinches slightly, hunkering her shoulders beneath Sam’s touch. This is an old cat with arthritic bones. She’s stroking too hard. 

“Easy,” I tell her. “Go softer.” 

She slows her stroke and lightens her touch. Concentrating. Serious. Much better. 

For her reward she gets a purr going. 

Against all expectations that short nap’s been quite restorative. I feel much better. Maybe I can get a little drawing done. 

“How’s your TV?” 

“Good. Can I watch some more?” 

Exactly what I want to hear. 

“Sure you can. If you want me I’ll be in the study.” 

“Study?” 

“The room with the big table. You know.” 

“Oh,” she says, but it’s clear she doesn’t, not really It’s also clear she doesn’t much care. She’s into those cartoons. 

I get to work. 

Samantha, I find, is resisting me today. A cynic might say, well, what do you expect? You’ve got half of her head blown the hell off. But I’ve dealt with more difficult problems before. Maybe it’s that I’ve introduced a new character, Doctor Gypsum, a Strangelovian sort of guy in dark glasses and aviator cap whose task at the moment -- as it will be in the future -- is to put Humpty back together again. 

It’s weird, though. I have the sense that I’m drawing both characters just fine. He’s all angles and she, as usual, is all soft lush contours masking the tensile strength within. But somehow I seem not to be getting the distances right between them on the panels. The balance is off composition-wise. Maybe it’s a problem of perspective. They’re either too close together -- even when he’s bending over her apparently dead body he seems too close, almost as though he’s inside her in the frame -- or they’re too far apart. You get the feeling they’re so far away he might be shouting. 

This isn’t like me. I know my shit. 

I try it a few different ways and finally I get a page layout I like which seems to accommodate the panels as well as open up or close these distances as the case may be. 

Time to go on to the next page. 

That one comes easier. I’m into the rhythm of it now. 

So into it in fact that when the phone rings it barely registers. Work’s like that for me -- everything in the real world goes away. I get into this zone where it’s just me, line, story and characters. Which is why I need total silence when I work. I need to hear it sing. 

But the phone
does
ring and it’s only when I hear Lily’s voice -- not Sam’s -- politely saying
no, sorry, there’s no Sam here, guess you got the wrong number, sorry, that’s okay
that I panic, realizing I’ve momentarily forgotten just exactly who’s out there to answer and I race out of the room and into the kitchen just in time to see her cradle the receiver. 

“
Wrong number,” she says. 

The phone rings again. She reaches for it but I’m faster. 

“Hello?” 

“Patrick? Hi.” 

It’s Miriam, Sam’s boss. Nice lady. 

“I just wanted to check in on Sam,” she says. “How’s she doing?” 

How’s she doing? She’s fucking
missing
is what I want to say. And thinking that brings me close to tears or hysterical laughter or both, I‘m not sure which. I feel like some mad doctor in an old black-and-white horror movie. 

She’s gone! It’s alive!
 

What I do say is, “just as we thought, it’s flu. She’s going to have to rest up for a few days, bring down the fever. In fact she’s dead asleep now.” 

“Well, tell her we’ve got everything covered here. Tell her not to worry. It’s been a slow week for axe murders and floaters. Chloe and Bill say hi. You take good care of her, now.” 

“I will.” 

“Give her our best.” 

“I will. ‘Bye, Miriam.” 

I let out a big sigh of relief. We lucked out. She really did figure the first call was a wrong number and not that I’m holding some little girl hostage here out in the boonies. 

“Patrick? Whatchu doin’ in there anyway? You’re quiet.” 

“Drawing. Want to see?” 

Jog the memory. 

“Okay.” 

She follows me into the study. Stands off to one side of the drawing board. But her attention’s drawn immediately to the shelves. We keep a lot of books in here, mostly art books and Sam’s medical texts. But I’ve been collecting comic-book and horror action figures for years. I’ve got Superman, Batman and Robin, Green Hornet, the Mummy, the Wolf Man, Frankenstein, Godzilla, Rodan -- there’s probably two dozen or more. Hell, I’ve even got a plastic Jesus. 

“You have toys!” she says. 

Wide-eyed, like she’s never seen them before. So much for memory-jogging in this room. 

“Yeah. I guess I do.” 

“Can I play with them?”
“They’re not really for play. More just to look at.” 

“Oh.” 

I can tell she’s disappointed. Like it or not, right now she’s just a kid. And all she’s got are some Barbies and Teddy to play with. I point to the drawing board. 

“Here, check this out.” 

I lay out the Samantha pages one by one on the board. 

“This is what I do in here.” 

These are pretty good, I think. Some of the best work I’ve done. Moody, and with lots of action. 

“You do this?” 

“Yes. You like it?” 

“Yeah. There’s no color, though.” 

“Color comes later.” 

I keep turning the pages and I can see she’s interested. 

“If would be better if they moved,” she says, “like on TV.” 

And then she’s looking back at the shelves again. Distracted. I’m only halfway through the pages. 

I can’t help it, I feel a flash of irritation, maybe even anger. And yeah, it’s anger, all right. Anger at
Sam.
Not at Lily but at Sam.
Sam for doing this. Sam for leaving me. And then anger at myself for feeling that way. It’s not her fault. 

Is it? 

I put the pages down and cover them over. 

“Let’s go see about dinner. What do you say?” 

Dinner is hot dogs and French fries. Her choice. What did I expect? I zap some beans and sauerkraut in the microwave too but she doesn’t touch either one, just slathers her dog and fries with ketchup. I’ve never seen her use ketchup on a hot dog before. Hitherto she’s always been a Gulden’s mustard girl. 

Around a mouthful of fries she says, “it’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair?” 

“You’ve got toys.” 

“They’re not really toys. They’re just for show.” 

She’s pouting. “They’re toys,” she says. “And all I’ve got is Teddy and some stupid dolls.” 

“I thought you liked those dolls.” 

“They’re okay, I guess…” 

But.
I’m not stupid. I get it. 

“You want some other stuff, right? Some of the stuff you saw on TV, maybe?” 

She brightens right away. 

“Yeah!” 

“Okay. After we eat we’ll go on the net and see what we can find. How’s that?” 

“The net?” 

No memory of the net either. Sam has sites and files saved by the dozens. 

“You’ll see.” 

She’s fascinated by the computer. I remember reading somewhere that all kids are. At least at first. 

We hit the merchandise sites. She’s standing behind me pointing out what she likes while I’m punching in the site addresses and clicking on the items. During the next half hour we purchase an Abby Cadabby Bendable Plush Doll, a Once Upon a Monster video game, a knot-a-quilt package, a Teeny Medley bead set, a Stablemate Deluxe Animal Hospital -- complete with quarter horse, foal, donkey, goat, resident cat and border collie, operating table and bandage box -- and a pair of Curious George pajamas. The pajamas come in kids’ and moms’ sizes so I’ve bought the latter. By the time we get to the Easy Bake Oven and Super Pack, she’s leaning on my shoulders. 

She smells of fresh soap and traces of hot dog. 

The Oven and Super Pack alone set me back a hundred dollars but who’s counting. 

The plush Clifford the Big Red Dog another forty-five. I buy them all and arrange for overnight express delivery. 

She yawns. She’s having fun of course but for her, maybe, it’s getting near bedtime. 

She’s tired. So she walks around and proceeds to sit on my lap.