Once I was inside, I tried to get my bearings, taking in the horseshoe-shaped ICU with patients’ rooms on three sides. The head nurse, a thin, fortyish woman with pink-framed glasses, pointed out my grandmother’s room. “We’re so glad you’re here,” she said. “I enjoy your column, by the way. We all do.”
“Thank you,” I said, and smiled. “You’re very kind. That’s nice to hear.”
I walked quickly down the corridor to Sam’s room. I slid the door open and entered. “Oh, Sam,” I whispered the second I saw her. “What happened to you?”
It was so awful to see the tubes in her arms and the banks of beeping medical equipment. But at least Sam was alive. Though she looked diminished and gray, and as fragile as a dream.
“It’s Jennifer,” I whispered. “I’m here now. I’m right here.” I took her hand in mine. “I know you can hear me. I’ll do the talking for now. I’m going to keep talking until you open your eyes.”
After a few minutes, I heard the door slide open behind me. I turned to see the Reverend John Farley. His thick white hair was askew, his smile tremulous. He was still a handsome man, though stooped now. “Hello, Jennifer,” he whispered, and welcomed me with a warm hug.
We walked out into the hallway and suddenly I was remembering how close he had been to my grandparents.
“It’s so good to see you. What have you heard about Sam?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Well, she hasn’t opened her eyes, and that’s not a good sign, Jennifer. I’m sure Dr. Weisberg will have more to tell you tomorrow. I’ve been here most of the day, ever since I heard.”
Then he handed me a key. “This is for you. Your grandmother’s house.”
He hugged me again, whispering that he had to get some sleep before he wound up there as a patient. Then he left and I slipped back into Sam’s room. I still couldn’t believe this had happened.
She had always been so strong, almost never sick, always the one who took care of everybody else—especially me. I sat for a long while just listening to her breathe, looking at her beautiful face, remembering all the times I’d come to Lake Geneva. Sam had always reminded me a little of Katharine Hepburn, and we’d seen all her movies together, though she vehemently denied there was any resemblance.
I felt so scared. How could I lose Sam now? It seemed as if I had just lost Danny. Tears began to stream down my cheeks again. “Shit,” I whispered under my breath.
I waited until I got back some control and then I moved close to her. I kissed both of her cheeks and stared at her face. I kept expecting Sam’s eyes to open, for her to speak. But she didn’t. Oh, why was this happening?
“I’m going back to the house. Pancakes for breakfast,” I whispered. “I’ll see you in the morning. You hear me? I’llseeyou in the morning. First thing, bright and early.”
One of my tears fell onto Sam’s cheek, but it just trickled down her face.
“Good night, Sam,” I said.
Four
I HAVE LITTLEor no memory of the drive from Lakeland Medical to Knollwood Road on Lake Geneva. I was just suddenlythereat my grandmother’s house, and it felt incredibly familiar and safe.
A century of parked cars had worn away the grass under an ancient oak in the side yard, and that’s where I brought the Jag to a stop. I shut off the ignition and just sat for a minute or two, hoping to gather myself before I went inside.
To my left, the lawn flowed downhill to the shoreline. I could see the long white dock jutting out onto the moonlit and glassy surface of Lake Geneva. The water was a mirror for the star-pricked sky.
To my right was the old white clapboard lake house, porches all around, rising up to two asymmetrical stories of added-on dormered rooms. My grandparents’ home sweet home. I knew every curve and angle of the house and the view from every porch and window.
I released my seat belt and stepped out of the car into the humid summer air. And that was when the fragrance of the casa blanca lilies hit me. They were Sam’s and my favorites—the prize of the garden, where we had spent many a night sitting on the stone bench, smelling the flowers, gazing up at the sky.
It was here that she’d tell me stories about Lake Geneva—how it freezes east to west, how when they were digging ground for the golf course at Geneva National they unearthed a cemetery.
Sam had stories about everything, and no one told them the way she could.Thiswas where I became a writer. Right here at this house, and Sam was my inspiration.
I was suddenly overwhelmed. Tears I’d been holding in broke free. I dropped down to my knees on the hardpan parking area. I whispered Sam’s name. I had the terrible thought that she might not ever come back to this house. I couldn’t stand it.
I had always thought of myself as strong—and now this. Somebody was trying to break me. Well, it wasn’t going to happen.
I don’t know how long I stayed there in the parking area. Eventually I stood, opened the trunk, shouldered my duffel bag, and started inside with the cats. They were vocalizing from their cages and I was about to liberate them when I saw a light go on in a house a hundred yards or so down the shoreline. A second later the light winked out.
I got the feeling that somebody was watching me. But who knew I was there?
Not even Sam.
