She pulls up the blankets, remembering the pained look on Sam’s face when he told her the story about his father—leaving when Sam was fourteen, the unexpected gift of $2 million. She slips her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and opens her voice mail, needing to hear his voice. Her Bluetooth is on, connected to the top-of-the-line sound system Sam insisted on installing. She hits play on a message he’d left a few weeks ago, on his way home from work, and his voice floods the room.
Hello Annie. This is Sam, your husband. She closes her eyes, the pressure building in her chest. I’m calling you on the telephone, like it’s 1988, to tell you I will be stopping at Farrell’s in ten minutes and ask if you want anything. Oh—and you still haven’t changed your name on your outgoing message to say Mrs. Sam Statler. His voice gets stern. I’d like this to be my last reminder. Is that clear?
She can’t help it, she laughs. She’s listened to this message a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours, and he makes her laugh every time. But then she stops, and just like that, she’s crying and she can’t stop. Is this what happens? Things go extremely well for a short time, before tragedy strikes and it all disappears? It’s like she’s right back there, eighteen years old, waving goodbye to her parents on that pier, the day of the accident. The worst day of her life.
Her phone beeps with a new text message, and she wipes away her tears and reaches for it, seeing it’s from Crush.
We’re off, Annie. Wish us luck.
Chapter 21
“Sam?”
Sam opens his eyes. It’s dark, and his head hurts like hell.
“Sam, can you hear me?”
“Hello,” Sam mumbles. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his skull keeps him bolted to the ground. “Help me—”
“Don’t try and move, Sam.” It’s a man’s voice. “Stay right where you are. Here, squeeze my hand if you can.” Sam feels a hand in his and squeezes. “Great, Sam. You’re going to be okay.” There are fingers on his lips, placing pills on his tongue. “I’m giving you something to help with the pain as I get you out of here. Give these things a second to kick in.” The man is right, because whatever Sam just swallowed seems to immediately dull the pain. In fact, it’s not long before he hardly feels anything at all except a pair of sturdy hands, hoisting him up, dragging him slowly across the sharp gravel. “Hang tight, Sam. You’re going to be okay,” the man huffs as the terrain changes and the sky opens and before Sam can ask where he is, he closes his eyes and falls back to sleep.
Chapter 22
In the library, I pull my chair up to my computer station and set my tea on a coaster. With a deep breath, I open Amazon, scared to check my rank. My stomach sinks. I’ve dropped fifteen places in less than a week while Lola Likely from Missouri is number nine, the maniac. It’s fine. I’m going to fix it. I’m going to fix everything.
I open my notebook and start at the top of my to-review list: one pair of TrailEnds waterproof hiking boots in ash blue.
I just finished walking on muddy ground for two hours and suffered minimal seepage. However, I do not for the life of me understand why these things DO NOT HAVE A BELLOWS TONGUE.
I wish I’d taken pictures. Three times I had to stop to shake pebbles from my boot, slowing down the eight other people assigned to search the woods on Route 9, an area Sam would have passed on his way home from work the night of the storm. A team of lunch ladies from Brookside High School and I spent the afternoon roaming the woods, looking unsuccessfully for any sign of his car. Everyone seemed reluctant to be outside in the rain, and we would have given up an hour earlier if it wasn’t for Eleanor Escobido, beloved head cook at Brookside High for thirty-five years. （I recognized her face as the one smiling from the back page of the yearbook every year, waving goodbye through the cafeteria door.） It was cold and dreary in the woods, and Mrs. E did her best to keep everyone’s spirits up by sharing stories about Sam, the good-looking boy everyone seemed to like, his mother devastated after that no-good husband left for an underpants model.
I wanted to interrupt and tell stories of my own, of course. How Sam rented the downstairs office in my house, and how much I enjoyed listening to his sessions. And also how lonesome I feel, knowing I can no longer walk down the hall and hear his voice dispensing expert advice in that gentle tone of his. Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from placing my ear to the cold metal vent twice in the last hour, wishing things were different.