SARAH
Sam is still maintaining the barrier he’s built around himself, trying hard not to learn French. But despite his best intentions, she can see he’s coming to understand more and more. Without realizing it himself, he’s following instructions instead of looking blank like he did when he first arrived. Every day she reads to him after lunch, and every evening David reads to him at bedtime. Sometimes he won’t even look at her, and she can feel him a hundred miles away, but other times, she sees recognition in his eyes when the story or a character is familiar. His eyes are easy to read, just like David’s. Neither of them can help but show their emotions through them. She’s seen the hatred and defiance in Sam’s, the confusion and disappointment in David’s. They’re both so proud, so stubborn.
As she wanders into Sam’s room, she feels small and powerless. Sam is sitting at the desk, doodling on a piece of paper. She looks over his shoulder, but he quickly covers the paper with his arm.
“Sam, est-ce que tu veux jouer au backgammon?”
“Non, merci,” he immediately replies.
“On pourrait lire une histoire ensemble?”
“Non.”
She is at a loss. His desire for her to leave is tangible. “Viens, m’aider dans la cuisine.” One last attempt.
He scrapes his chair back loudly, making her wince at the sound of the legs scratching the old oak parquet. Standing, he turns to face her. His brown eyes are dim and cold. “I wanna go back to America.”
Sarah’s heart feels too heavy for her body. She reaches out a hand to touch him, and for the first time, he doesn’t flinch at her touch, but holds her gaze.
“Oh Sam.” She attempts to bring him toward her. He yields slightly, and now their eyes are just a hand’s span away. She knows it’s the closest she’ll ever get to him. “Sam, chéri, est-ce que tu peux me donner une petite chance?”
His eyes fill with water. “I just wanna go home.”