Five days later, Sam packs up his stuff. Some things go to Dan’s, some into storage, but most in with me. He gives up his job, hangs up his tool belt, retires his beeper. He has been offered a full-time job at the university, so he can make do without his old job, which is for the best. He no longer wants anything to do with Archibald. We are united in this, our avoidance of all things related to the septuagenarian. Thanks to Archibald, Sam’s forgiving heart has been pushed too far. He is testimony that in the end we all have our limits.
What can I say about this time? When something you have longed for comes true, it is often said that the reality can’t live up to the fantasy. But all I can say is, in my case, this is not true.
We exist in a buoyant state, enjoying the pleasure ordinary existence can offer. Our days are filled with simple pursuits. Each thing we experience together is like for the first time, except that I could repeat each thing over and over. We are good friends turned lovers, and it is an easy transition. We understand each other’s likes and dislikes. We have few secrets. We sleep late and spend our nights talking. It is the normalcy I crave, all the little details I never had with Michael. And, no, I do not look over my shoulder for Archibald. He has done his worst. I am told that he has lost his closest friends after recreating so many of them in the book to some degree or another. And the book, although marketed as fiction, is semi-transparent to those who know him. I refuse to read further and be forced to troubleshoot where fiction ends and reality begins.
In fact, I tell myself, Archibald has emancipated us, given us the freedom to carve out a life together. As two survivors of an unnatural disaster, we are defiantly myopic, denying the outside world access as much as possible. The one benefit of my participation in Archibald’s gala is that most of my paintings have sold and I have received a cheque in the mail, a nameless, faceless cheque. It is an offering that I am too poor not to accept and not principled enough to refuse. Why shouldn’t I pocket a little of the money I so unwittingly sacrificed myself for? I convince myself that it is better off in my pocket than in Archibald’s. I do not mention this to Sam, though. For him, things are black and white. I can see that this, his first indoctrination into hatred, is a disturbing experience.
The first thing Sam does is tell Dan. I neither see how it goes nor ask about it afterward. Dan remains pleasant in all our exchanges, but there is a before and an after. The dynamic between us has shifted, and invisible margins have been created. I know Dan admires Carolina, and now I sense a restraint, a silent disapproval. But if he objects, he does not say so, and I do not know how to talk to him.
I study Sam. He sleeps deeply. His breathing is so quiet I can barely hear it. I listen to the sounds of life outside the apartment: cars, people walking, talking. I love being here with him, observing his sleeping form, watching dreams drift across his features. I pull the blankets up over his shoulders.
I think of Archibald. I dreamt of him last night. We were all inside the car this time: him, my mother, my grandmother, and me. As the car sped off the cliff, he turned to me and smiled cruelly: “We are all together in this.” He gestured around him, and I saw that the car now included Sam, Dan, Carolina, the Deliahs, Leo, Marcell, Rita, everyone we knew, all trapped with us. I woke up before we hit the ground and became a tangle of broken bodies.
I listen to a clock ticking, watching the night retreat, mind spinning aimlessly. I smile, a silent congratulation to myself, as a tiny idea forms in the exhausted corridors of my mind. I toy with it. “All together, indeed,” I say to the room, to Sam’s silent, supine form, to the listening elements of darkness inside me.
We ride through streets covered in green and turn onto the beachfront lane. It is late August. He has tried to teach me to drive his bike. But the truth is I like to be in the back seat. Holding onto him. The smell of his leather coat and the sea at our feet.
He lies with his head in my lap. I unpack our lunch: sandwiches, grapes, potato salad, and lemonade, not quite cold. It will be a hot day, although under the shade of a willow, the grass is still cool beneath my legs. I loop his hair through my fingers. It is shorter now. I trimmed it for him yesterday in the kitchen, after he complained of the heat. He kisses my arm in between bites of sandwich. The ocean gushes onto the sand and throws a salty breeze our way. This is the closest thing to heaven I have ever known. Should I chance ruining our happiness?
“Sam,” I say, carefully.
“Mm-hmm,” he sighs, eyes closed, faint smile on his lips. “Do you know when I first knew I loved you?”
I smile, despite myself. “You told me. The night I was wearing the polka dot nightgown.”
“No. It was before then.” He peers up at me, squinting into the sun.
“Really?”
“Yes. It was — do you remember when you were almost eviscerated by the logging truck on your bike?”
“How could I forget?” I shudder at the memory.
“I just remember watching and thinking, What would I do without her? Over and over. I don’t think I slept that night.”
“That’s sweet. The thought of a dead me made you love me. Well, sorry to say I am never doing that again. Polka dots, yes. Bike descents, no.”
“No need. I don’t think I could handle it. The closest you should get to a bike is the back of mine.” He pulls me down to him.
“Fine by me.” I pull myself up. “Listen, I need your opinion on something.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s kind of something you have to see to understand.”
Later, when I show him what I have been doing — the new painting I have been working on at the college studio — he stares at it, then sinks into a nearby couch.
“Well. It’s him. In a way I have never seen before.” He laughs, the joyless laugh of someone recovering from a shock.
I tell him of my plan. My idea. “It may work and it may not. What do you think?” I ask.
“I’m not big on revenge. Not at all. But in this case, I might make an exception.”