My eyes connected with Sam’s. I don’t know how, but she had gone right to the heart of the matter.Wham, bam, thank you, Sam.
“As you said, Samantha, I’m a doctor. We’re a logical bunch, for the most part. Maybe too logical for our own good sometimes. I want to enjoy whatever time I have left, whatever timewehave left, okay? I don’t want to waste a second of it. Not one second. Does that make sense to you?”
Sam stared into his eyes and nodded. “Seems like a pretty reasonable philosophy,” she said. “Hard to argue with.”
“Thank you,” Brendan said.
“So?” Sam said, her eyes going to me, then back to Brendan.
“So?” I said. Brave smile.
Sam’s eyes stayed on Brendan now. “Fight it,” she whispered. “I did.”
Fifty-six
THE NEXT FEW DAYSwere possibly the best, and most memorable, of my life. I was trying to live every day from sunup until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Suddenly it made all the sense in the world to me. I had a lot of time to make up with both Sam and Brendan.
Brendan was a reflective person who liked to think things through, but he also loved to top off his best thoughts by saying something funny, usually at his own expense, which fit with the way I saw the world. I was discovering that he had the most generous and giving nature. He wasn’t overly protective, but he was there for me when I needed him.
Every time I looked into his eyes, or even saw him at a distance, I couldn’t help thinking what a senseless, awful, messed-up waste it was that he was going to die. I wanted to argue with him about his decision, but I just couldn’t fight. He was too smart, too nice; besides, it would have been a waste of our time together. The precious seconds of our summer.
We went swimming every day, even in the rain. We visited Sam, sometimes three times a day, and she and Brendan became friends. They were actually a lot alike. Brendan and I took long walks, and we had dinner together every night. We didn’t eat much during the day, but dinner was always special.
Except for those blueberry pancakes, Brendan wasnota good cook—though given more time to practice, he swore that he could be mediocre. So I cooked the meals; he did setup and cleanup. When he worked, he wore this Red Cross lifeguard T-shirt that I loved on him.
We really liked to dance to a favorite CD, or just the radio. I loved to be held by him, to be close, to listen to Brendan hum along to a song like “Something to Talk About.” Or Jill Scott’s “Do You Remember,” or “Sweet Baby James,” “The Logical Song,” “Bad to the Bone,” “Let’s Spend the Night Together.” Dozens of others, rockers and ballads—it didn’t much matter.
They were our songs, the songs of our summer.
One Sunday night Brendan fell asleep before I did, so I took one of the last packets of Sam’s letters into the kitchen. I had counted the letters recently—there were 170 of them. The longest was nearly twenty pages; the shortest, just a paragraph. I’d gone through at least three-quarters of them. Sam’s legacy to me. I’d be finished with her letters soon.
I sat at the kitchen table under the harsh glare of an overhead light, and I read my grandmother’s next entry.
Dear Jennifer,
After Doc and I returned from Copper Harbor, our separation was even worse than I had thought it would be.Much worse. Which meant that we were deeply in love, terribly in love. But this I already knew. During a late-night phone call that fall, we arrived at the inevitable conclusion: we had to be together again.
But then we had to wait months, and when Charles planned another golfing (or whatever) trip in June, I made plans, too. I also picked our destination: the town of Holland on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.
As we’d done before, Doc and I met in the parking lot at Alpine Valley. We hugged and kissed and grinned like teenagers watching the submarine races. Then we took to the road. It was a six-hour journey: a two-hour drive followed by four hours on the S.S.Badger,a car ferry that was a minivacation in itself.
I never wanted to leave Doc again. The two of us leaned over the railing and watched the ferry’s engines distance us from our real lives with miles of churning wake. We had hot chocolate at the restaurant onboard and saw our first movie together (The Pink Panther) in theBadger’s tiny theater. By the time we reached shore, our skin was flushed and our hearts were singing. We were so much in love, and our weekend in Michigan was even better than the first. Neil Simon hadn’t writtenSame Time, Next Yearyet, but Doc and I were living it anyway.
Jennifer, I’m going to shorthand this just a little and stick to the high points, and the low ones.
The next summer Charles took his trip in July, and again Doc and I made our plans around his departure. We drove north, but then Doc surprised me. He had rented a houseboat in La Crosse, Wisconsin, a place where three rivers converge: the La Crosse, the Black, and the Mississippi. We set our course, and an hour and a half later we docked in the small town of Wabasha, Minnesota. Doc and I celebrated with roast pheasant, baked raisin beans, squash rolls, and apple brandy pie. Possibly the best meal ever. Afterward, we motored back down to the marina in La Crosse and anchored for the night. We stayed in a double berth under the sundeck. The next morning we showered on the deck, squealing under the spray. Then we joined a flotilla of every kind of craft imaginable in the annual Riverfest. There were late-night bands on the water, fireworks, and happy children everywhere. Especially Doc and me. For four days I was in heaven, and I didn’t want to return to earth. But, of course, I had to.
The plan for our fourth annual was a glamorous trip to New York City, which I looked forward to for a full nine months. We booked a room at the Plaza overlooking Central Park, had tickets for two Broadway plays, box seats at Yankee Stadium, restaurant reservations. This would be our best time together yet.
As we waited in the flight lounge at O’Hare, clients of Charles’s who were booked on the same flight to New York saw me and called my name. I nearly fainted and turned the brightest shade of red.
Doc was leafing through theNew York Timesjust a few yards away when he saw me greet the Hennesseys and make up a story about seeing a friend off on another flight. Doc got the picture and slipped away. As soon as we could, we met up again. We decided against New York and headed to his car. My heart was broken in little pieces.
“A fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten us into this time, Stanley,” Doc said. He switched on the car’s ignition.
“I just lied to the Hennesseys,” I said. “They’re going to tell Charles. We should head right home.”
Doc nodded sadly, backed out of the parking space, then drove from the airport. It was such a beautiful morning, so bright with promise. What a shame. My mind whirred with heartbreaking disappointment as we eased into the stream of traffic on the exit ramp.
