Friday Edition, The (26 page)

Wilson rang Robin’s doorbell three times, but it went unanswered. It was 10 p.m. when he had finally arrived. He had heard the doorbell each time it chimed, but this time he knocked. He waited a few seconds, then knocked again, harder this time. Maybe Sam wasn’t there after all, or perhaps she was and had fallen asleep.
He hoped for the latter because he would not let himself think of other things. He had stopped at the newspaper office to pick up an extra key from Sam’s desk, in case it came to this.

Wilson unlocked the door and opened it slowly. He could smell alcohol and stale grease from fast food when he stepped inside. Except for a soft light coming from the living room, the rest of the house was quiet and dark. He stepped inside the foyer.

“Sam?”

He waited. No answer. He called again. Silence.

He felt something brush against his leg. He picked up Morrison and began to scratch his chin. “Hello, little fella.”

The cat purred loudly.

“You like that don’t you? Where’s Sam? Do you know?”

Wilson made his way slowly through the house, calling her name. He reached the kitchen and turned on the light. A few empty fast food bags littered the kitchen table and counters. He saw what he did not want to see. Bottles of Jack Daniels.

“Jesus, Sam,” Wilson whispered.

He entered the living room and there he found her lying face down next to the coffee table.

Another half-empty Jack Daniels bottle stood like a monument on the table. The glass next to Sam’s hand was lying on its side. Her right hand was resting palm up. The other was tucked somewhere beneath her body.

“Jesus, Sam,” he said again. There was deep sadness in his voice.

It was just as he expected. Wilson set Morrison on the floor and gently touched her arm. She did not move. He lightly pushed her hair from her forehead. She remained motionless. He eased her over and cradled her head in the bend in his arm. He checked for a pulse and was relieved when he felt her blood pulsating against his fingertips. He noticed a rug burn on her cheek and the gash on her forehead. But there was no blood anywhere. He was here holding her, but in his mind he was sixteen and holding someone else.

His father.

Wilson had returned home one evening to find his father in the living room lying on the floor in almost the same position. He had rushed to his father’s side and turned him over just as he had Sam. There was blood on his forehead, the floor and on the coffee table. His face was blue, his skin cold, but young Wilson tried to wake him. He pounded on his chest. He yelled and yelled for him to open his eyes. He tried CPR, but nothing worked. He remembered his desperation, a feeling that would stay with him for years, through his own battle with the bottle.

Doctors told Wilson his father probably had been drinking and had fallen and struck his head on the coffee table. It wasn’t a revelation to the young Wilson. His father had done that many times.

If Wilson remembered one thing about growing up and his father, he always had a drink in hand. When he was drunk young Wilson and his mother took the brunt of those alcoholic rages. It amazed Wilson how strong his mother had been, to endure such vehemence and survive. He had been trying to push the memory of that long-ago evening from his mind since Sam disappeared. It had stayed with him as though anchored.

Sam was wearing a brown sweater and jeans. Wilson noticed that a spot of ketchup dotted her white turtleneck. He patted her gently on the cheek, just below her rug burn.

“Sam?”

Her eyelids fluttered open briefly and closed again. His heart skipped a beat. “Sam,” he said again. “It’s Wilson. Can you open your eyes and talk to me?”

Moments passed before she could manage the strength to open them. Her world seemed distant and hazy. She frowned, trying to remember where she was. She looked around the room, but nothing looked immediately familiar.

“Sam?”

Her eyes shifted toward his voice and he pushed the hair from her eyes.

“It’s Wilson. You’re in Robin’s condo.”

“Robin? Is she here?” Sam asked.

Wilson answered simply. “No, Sam, she’s not here.”

Then it came to her.

“Wilson, you’re here,” she said.

He nodded.

“How’d you find me?”

“I thought you might be here.”

Sam turned away knowing what she had done. “I … I’m … I’m sorry … I let you down. Just like everyone else.”

“Let me help you.”

It was an effort for Sam to get to her feet. When she finally did, she felt lightheaded and queasy.

“I want to sit down,” she said. “My head’s splitting.”

Wilson guided her to the couch and she leaned heavily against him for support. When she sat down, Morrison jumped in her lap.

“I don’t think he’s eaten since yesterday,” she said.

“I’ll find him something,” Wilson said and headed for the kitchen.

Morrison heard the can opener and went eagerly to the kitchen. When Wilson returned to the living room Sam was sleeping. She was lying on her side, but her feet were still touching the floor. He rubbed the back of his index finger lightly along her rug burn. She opened her eyes slowly, but was too weak to lift her head.

“Do you want to eat something?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I’ll help you to the bedroom and get you changed for bed. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,” he said softly.

She did not argue. He helped her up and to the bedroom. He searched through several of Robin’s drawers until he found one that contained pajamas. He set a nightshirt on the bed where Sam sat numbly.

“Here,” he said. “Put this on. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Wilson returned to the living room and surveyed the mess Sam had made of the place. He began to clean. As he worked, he tried to keep his feelings neutral, both his anger and his affection for Sam.

Nick Weeks’ comment about ‘going soft’ on Sam had been on his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he knew part, if not all of it, was true.

When Wilson finished cleaning, he checked the refrigerator. Seeing nothing edible, he went to the grocery store. Before going to bed, he checked on Sam. He heard her breathing lightly and saw that she had piled her clothes at the foot of the bed. He collected them and put them in the washer. He slept on the couch.

Wilson was reading the Sunday
New York Times
and drinking coffee when Sam came to the table the next morning. She was freshly showered and wearing Robin’s robe. Her hair was wet and combed away from her face and a fresh scent of lotion followed her into the kitchen. Wilson noticed that the rug burn looked a deeper red as if she had tried to scrub it away in the shower. The gash was fading.

“Morning,” he said and smiled.

Sam smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“I took a shower,” she said running a hand along her hair. “That helped. I’d been in those clothes all week.”

“How’s your head?”

“Throbbing but not as bad as last night.”

Wilson got up from the table. “Coffee?”

She nodded.

They sat at the table in silence. He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses, but she avoided his gaze.

“Sam.”

She gave him a sideways glance, ashamed to give him her full attention.

“Don’t beat yourself to death over this,” he said. “It’s over now.”

She laughed harshly. “You saw what I looked like last night. I’m a miserable failure. I don’t have a clue how I got this,” she said pointing to the rug burn.

“And your forehead?”

Sam rubbed the area gingerly. “That happened Tuesday with Jonathan.”

She shook her head in disgust. “I missed our deadline and I … I let you down … I’m sorry. Jonathan killed himself right before my eyes. My sister’s dead and April’s in Seattle with his mother. I’m so glad and relieved April’s safe, Wilson, but that woman hates me. She’ll make it practically impossible for me to see her.”

Wilson remembered what he told Nick. She had until noon tomorrow. Sam absentmindedly ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. She took a moment to gather her wits and her strength before she told him about Jonathan. “Before he left my place he must’ve put his keys on the counter but I was too upset to notice,” she said. “I’ll probably never see my daughter again. Nothing would make that woman happier than to keep April from me. She thinks I destroyed our marriage and Jonathan. She told me when we divorced that she wouldn’t let me ruin April’s life, too.”

Sam sighed deeply and sank back against her chair. “She’s probably right. Look at me, I’m a total mess. Maybe April would be better off without me…”

Wilson watched silently as she began to pull at her cuticles. The clock on the living room wall chimed eleven times. “I was going to Washington Tuesday, Wilson. I was halfway to the airport before I turned around.”

“Have you talked to April?”

“I called Wednesday, but his mother hung up when she heard my voice. I tried again yesterday morning, but I couldn’t get a word in before she slammed the receiver down, and not before she said in a hateful voice, ‘drunk again, Samantha?’”

She looked at him with childlike innocence.

“I need April. I want to hold her and tell her I love her. I could be without anyone else for the rest of my life, but not April. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her.”

“To get April back, Sam, you have to make some changes,” he said.

She looked at him, wounded.

Wilson spoke softly, careful not to sound too accusatory. “She didn’t just hang up on you did she? You were flaming drunk when you called her. Slurring and raving and demanding that she let you talk to April. What do you expect her to think of you? You expect her to respect you when you don’t even respect yourself? It’s not up to her to change her attitude, Sam, it’s up to you to change yours. You have to be willing to do some things that won’t be pleasant or easy. Remember what the judge told you.”

Their eyes locked and he measured how she was accepting his words. She seemed open, willing to hear more. He pressed on carefully.

“It’ll be hard, but you have to want to get help for your drinking.”

She gingerly rubbed the burn on her cheek.

“Even that,” he said softly, pointing at her cheek. “You don’t know when or how that happened. It could’ve been worse. What if you hit your head on the corner of that table? No one would’ve been here to help you.”

She took her hand from her face and looked away, defeated by his words. She couldn’t deny that he told her the truth.

“Did you hire me because I’m a drunk and you had pity on me?”

“I hired you because you’re a good reporter.”

She snorted.

“I’m giving you the credit you won’t give yourself,” he said.

His voice was gentle but firm. The smirk fell from her face.

“Did I ever tell you how I lost my job at the
Post
?” she asked, feeling the dread and emptiness that came whenever she thought of that day.

The look in Wilson’s eyes encouraged her to continue.

“Whenever I think of the article I wrote it takes all my strength to bury it again,” she said. “I vaguely remember doing the interview. It was a business profile for a local start-up coffee company. I felt exhausted and I didn’t have much energy when I was doing the interview, but I thought it went well.”

And she told Wilson what happened that fateful day.

After Sam filed her story, she didn’t give it another thought until the business editor called her into her office the day after the article published. The editor avoided Sam’s gaze and she knew something was wrong.

“Have a seat, Sam,” Debbie Wade, the business editor said and pointed to a chair directly in front of her desk.

The blinds were drawn. The room seemed small with the blinds closed, making Sam feel trapped. They were in a high-rise building downtown Denver and Sam knew that the view beyond the window offered a generous vista of mountains and foothills.

“Sam,” Debbie said, “we’ve had a problem with the story you wrote on the coffee company.”

Sam swallowed over the lump in her throat, her mind racing back over that interview, then writing the story.

“Did I misquote someone?” she asked.

Debbie Wade shook her head and spoke matter of factly. “It’s more than that.”

Sam inventoried Debbie’s attire. She wore a dark-tailored blazer and skirt. Though Sam tried hard not to admit, but she had always been jealous of Debbie Wade. She was younger, thinner and certainly much prettier that Sam. Debbie was smart and seemed to know what she wanted in life. Debbie was already an editor of a major metropolitan daily. And what was she? Where was she headed? She wouldn’t let herself think about it.

Sam looked puzzled and didn’t know how to respond to Debbie. Silence hung in the room until Debbie broke it.