“Why don’t you play again?” Anna dug through her purse and put a quarter in the machine. For Ms. Pac-Man, Anna thought, life was cheap and filled with second chances.
Sam played, and Anna watched, thinking about her next move.
The obvious place for them to go was Los Angeles, the city of her birth. She had resisted returning there because to return to one’s hometown felt like surrender. And professionally, Los Angeles had no theater to speak of, which is to say, there would likely be even less work for Anna in L.A. than there had been for her in New York （and work in New York had always been intermittent at best）。 If she was lucky, she’d end up playing Asian hookers in cop shows and movies. She’d have to polish up her various “Asian” accents, because she’d never play an “American” again. Maybe some commercials or voice-overs or a bit of modeling here or there, though she might already be too old for that. Or maybe she’d stop acting entirely—learn to program computers, or sell real estate, or style hair, or become an interior decorator, or teach aerobics, or write screenplays, or find a rich husband—whatever it was ex-actors in Los Angeles did. But it would be nice to see her parents, and it would be nice for Sam to know his grandparents, and actually, Sam’s father lived out there, too, and it would be nice for Sam to have a relationship with him, though Sam’s father certainly could not be relied upon, and it would be nice to be in a city where Anna Lees didn’t fall from the sky. Aside from a few scattered blocks, what part of Los Angeles was more than two stories high? And this Anna Lee, Anna Q. Lee, the seventh Anna Lee in Equity, wouldn’t let herself be like that other Anna Lee. This Anna Lee would know how to leave.
“You’re getting so good at killing ghosts,” Anna said.
“I’m okay,” Sam said. He turned to look at her. “Hey Mom, do you want a turn?”
6
It was startling how fast a person could go dark in 1996.
Sadie got to Marx’s a little after ten and she found the apartment empty and, aside from the occasional chirp of a hard drive, silent. Maybe Sam and Marx were together, having breakfast? Since they were both gone, she didn’t feel worried—Marx always took care of Sam. She didn’t feel worried until Marx got home around one and reported he hadn’t seen Sam all day. “I thought he was with you,” Marx said. “He’s always with you.”
Sam didn’t have a cell phone, but no one did then. （The only people Sadie knew with cell phones were Dov and her grandmother.） The best they could do was check to see the last time he’d logged in to his Harvard email, and from where: 3:03 this morning, from the apartment’s IP address.
Sadie and Marx sat in the living room of the apartment, calmly suggesting places Sam might have gone. Maybe he went to the library and fell asleep? Maybe shopping for the new drive they had discussed needing? Maybe a pilgrimage to see the Glass Flowers? Maybe lunch with Anders? Maybe he’d finally been arrested for shoplifting?
They’d been at this for a while when Marx noticed the whiteboard. “There’s nothing on it,” he remarked.
“We’re done,” Sadie said. “We thought we were, at least.”
“Congratulations,” Marx said. He paused before he said, “Should I play it? We can’t do anything about Sam yet. He’s an adult, and it hasn’t been that long.”
Sadie considered this. “Yes, you should play it. Why not? I’m going to go look for him.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. You should stay here in case he calls.”
She went to all of their usual Harvard Square haunts: the movie theater, the library, the Coop, the Mexican place, the video store in the Garage, the bookstore, the other bookstore, the other other bookstore, the bagel store. And when she didn’t find him in those places, she did the Central Square ones: the comic book store, the computer store, her old apartment, the Indian place. She went back to Harvard Square, walking up toward the Radcliffe Quad, to the university police station, and finally, defeated, she went to University Health. She didn’t even have a photograph of Sam to show, so she kept having to describe him. Enormous coat, badly cut curly hair, glasses, limp. A collection of flaws and infirmities. She was glad Sam didn’t have to hear her. No one had been seen who matched that description anyway. She walked back through Harvard Yard, calling out his name until her voice was ragged. A woman stopped her, and asked, “What does the dog look like? I’ll keep an eye out.” She retraced the same route she and Sam had taken just that morning when the world seemed soft-focused and filled with possibility. The path now seemed dismal and dangerous to her. And she thought to herself that it was strange how quickly the world could shift. She let her mind go to the dark place. What if Sam had been kidnapped or beaten? He was small and slow, and he would be easy to overpower. What if Sam were dead? She didn’t truly believe that he was dead, but what if he was? She couldn’t entirely articulate who he was to her. He was not Alice or Freda or Dov. Those relationships had easy names: sister, grandmother, boyfriend. Sam was her friend, but “friend” was a broad category, wasn’t it? “Friend” was a word that was overused to the point that it had no meaning at all.
She came back to the apartment around midnight. Marx was about halfway through his first official play of Ichigo: A Child of the Sea.
“Any luck?” Marx asked, without looking away from the screen.
“No,” Sadie said glumly. She flopped onto the sofa. “I feel like something terrible has happened to him.”
Marx got up and put his arm around her. “He’ll come back. It hasn’t been that long yet.”
“But it’s not like him. Where could he have gone? They say I can’t file a missing person report for another day, but it isn’t right. We’ve spent almost every hour of the last six months together. I’ve barely gone ten minutes without speaking to him. Why would he disappear on the morning we finish the game?”
Marx shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. But I’ve lived with Sam for three and a half years now, and I know that he’s both private and tough as hell. We lived together for two years before I knew he’d been in a car accident. For years, I had no idea what was wrong with him. It could have been anything. I’d hint around it, and I’d notice him struggling and I’d do what I could to help, not that he’d ever ask for any. But I was curious, so I’d give him openings to talk. A normal person would probably have some desire to, like, explain to the person they lived with what was going on with them, but not Sam. Sam loves his secrets. My point is, I’m worried, but I’m not that worried.”
“What made him finally tell you about the car accident?” Sadie asked.
“He never told me. Bong Cha did.”
Sadie laughed. “He once went six years without speaking to me,” she said.
“What did you do?” Marx said.
“I mean, it was bad, but it was basically a misunderstanding. It’s so boring and nerdy I can’t even explain it. And I was twelve!”
“He can hold a grudge like no one’s business.”