Only Son (29 page)

Sam had forgotten about them completely—until he read that passage in his father's journal.

He also caught his father in a lie. The story his dad had given him was that he'd called an “old family doctor” to find out about Grandfather Jorgenson's epilepsy. But the journal didn't mention anything about an old family doctor or Sam's grandfather.

That night, his dad had called “P.M.” to ask about the epilepsy:

Sam knew where she was, because in a diary entry four months later, his father would write about meeting her at the Bon Marche. She sold him a shower curtain. Funny, they didn't use that shower curtain with the map of the world on it. His dad never even took it out of the box. It just disappeared; and later, he bought a plain white one and hung it up in the bathroom.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, exactly one week since he'd found the diary, Sam read the last passage. It wasn't like the final chapter of a regular book, where everything comes together, and all the questions are answered. The last page was dated three days ago:

Sam closed the notebook. The rest of it was blank.

 

“What's wrong with you, Jorgenson? Get with the program!”

It was the Monday after Thanksgiving. They were having a scrimmage game, and Sam had dropped three passes. On defense, he'd performed miserably. Coach Geara had already bawled him out in front of the team. Finally, he called Sam to the sideline and sent someone else to take his place in the practice game.

“So what's the problem?” Coach Geara asked, his hands on his hips. He was a big, burly man—covered with hair everywhere except on the top of his head. Sometimes, he took a shower with the team after practice, and the guys joked about his hairy back, his hairy butt, and his hairless head. But everyone liked him—including Sam. He hated disappointing Coach Geara.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, holding his football helmet under his arm. “I think I'm coming down with a cold or something.”

“I'm not just talking about today. The West Seattle game on Saturday, you weren't concentrating at all. I should have benched you after the first quarter. Last couple of weeks, your mind hasn't been on the game, Jorgenson. What's the matter?”

“Nothing's wrong,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'll try harder.”

Coach Geara sighed. “Well, you look tired. That—ah, condition of yours, it's okay? You taking those pills?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a cold or something.”

“Well, if you're sick, you ought to be home in bed. No use infecting the whole team. Shower up and go home. I don't want to see you for a couple of days, Jorgenson. Not until you're well and you have your mind on the game.”

“I'm sorry, coach,” he murmured. Sam took the long, lonely walk to the locker room, showered, then caught a bus for home.

He'd succeeded in pissing off practically everyone. Most of the team was still mad at him for screwing up against West Seattle on Saturday. Now Coach Geara was mad at him too. He'd been avoiding Craig, who, of course, was confused and hurt. He kept asking Sam if anything was wrong. But Sam just wanted to be left alone until he figured out exactly what his father was hiding. There was some awful secret about his mother or how he'd been born. And he felt ashamed, even though he didn't know the secret yet. He couldn't tell Craig what was troubling him. It was easier just to shut out his best friend completely.

But it wasn't easy.

Nor had the last four days been easy at home. His father had gotten an extended weekend, because of Thanksgiving, and Sam couldn't avoid him. But the TV was on most of the time, bowl games and videos. Sam asked to watch a game during Thanksgiving dinner. He didn't want to talk. It was just the two of them, of course—as it had been on every holiday he could remember. Suddenly, this Thanksgiving, it didn't seem right.

He and his father had no other family. They never got any visits or calls from old friends. Sam didn't know anybody who had even met his mother. His dad was the only one.

If Sam couldn't trust his father to tell him the truth, at least he could believe what he read in the diary. In the last four days, he hadn't had a chance to look at it. Riding the bus home from football practice, Sam wondered if his dad had written anything new in his journal during the long holiday weekend.

Sam's hair was still damp from his shower, and he was still wearing his leather, aviator's jacket when he headed straight into his father's bedroom. He dumped his schoolbooks on the bed, then opened the closet door. He reached under the blue V-neck sweater. But the journal was gone. Panicking, he tried the next stack of sweaters, then the next.

Nothing.

He went through the whole closet, the desk and dresser drawers. It was no use. His dad had found a new hiding place for the diary.

Sam couldn't help feeling betrayed and vulnerable. His only connection to the truth was gone. And his father was onto him.

Now he had no other choice. For a week he'd procrastinated. He even had his jacket on. He could take a bus downtown. The department store where
A.M
. worked was only fifteen minutes away.

 

“
BATHS—5th FLOOR
,” said the directory sign by the foot of the escalator.

Sam hadn't been inside this store since that evening his father had been in such a hurry to leave it. That wasn't the first time his dad had mentioned “A.M.” in the diary. Those cryptic initials came up again and again—often linked with “P.M.” He'd written about a lot of people in the journal, but A.M. and P.M. were the only ones he referred to only by their initials. The diary was full of names—except for one very important name:
Anne
. He wrote about his dead father and his dead mother, but not a word for the dead wife.

Maybe she wasn't really dead. Maybe Anne Jorgenson had deserted her husband and baby, taking with her a box full of photos and documents—including their baby's medical records and birth certificate. Then later, she married “P.M.” “
A.M. and P.M.
” Now Anne Jorgenson-Whatever-Her-New-Last-Name-Was worked at the fifth floor of this store.

Christmas music churned over a speaker. Shoppers brushed past him onto the escalator. They kept bumping against him, knocking him with their umbrellas, bags or gift boxes, and no one said “excuse me.” Sam stepped onto the escalator. He hadn't lied to the coach earlier; he really was coming down with a bad cold or flu. His head ached, and his throat felt scratchy and raw.

Stepping off the escalator at the fifth floor, he noticed tables stacked with bath towels. Over at the register, the saleswoman waited on a customer. Sam didn't recognize her. He'd barely glanced at her that time with his father. He couldn't even remember if she'd been a blonde or brunette.

He approached the counter. The saleslady was busy with another customer, and she had two more women waiting in line. Sam got behind them. He guessed the saleslady was a little younger than his dad—about forty or forty-five years old. It was hard to tell with adults.

Another lady got behind him in line. He glanced at his wristwatch: 5:20. His dad would be home soon, wondering where he was. “
I went looking for my mother
,” he imagined telling him.

Finally, he was at the front of the line.

“Can I help you?” the saleslady asked. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She smiled without really looking at him. She had tiny, dark eyes.

“Um, is your name Anne?” he asked nervously.

“No. I'm Veronica. We don't have anyone named Anne working in this department. Is there something
I
can do for you?” She put her glasses back on.

“Do you sell shower curtains here?”

“We sure do.” She pointed. “There's a whole rack of them on the other side of that post. Why don't you have a look-see? I'll be over just as soon as I take care of these folks here.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder. Now there were two ladies behind him, each with an armload of towels. He looked back at the squinty-eyed saleswoman. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You sure a lady named
Anne
—her last name begins with M, A.M.—you sure she doesn't work here? I know she was here back in September.”

“Well, I've worked here two years. And I'm sorry, but we haven't had anyone named Anne in this department. Maybe it was some other store you saw her.”

“But I know it was this store, and she sold me a shower curtain.” Sam heard the lady behind him clearing her throat.

Now the saleswoman looked annoyed. “Do you have the shower curtain with you? Do you have the receipt?”

“No…”

“Well, bring them in next time, and then I might be able to help you. I'm sorry, but you'll have to step aside and let me help these folks.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam murmured. “Thanks. I'm sorry to bother you.” He turned away and wandered toward the escalator. He wasn't going to cry—no matter how frustrated, scared, and tired he was. People kept bumping into him again, then hurrying along as if he wasn't even there.

He didn't know who A.M. was, who his mother was, and without a birth certificate, he didn't even know who he was. He just knew he felt sick and very lost.

 

“This isn't my room. I didn't know this room was here. What are all these boxes?”

Across the hall from Sam's bedroom, Carl gathered dirty towels for the wash. He never used to pay attention to Sam's sleep-talking. Now he listened, hanging on each word and hoping he'd hear something to explain what was troubling him lately.

What troubled Sam this morning and most of last night was probably the same flu bug going around the office. Carl had called in sick himself to look after him. He'd let Sam sleep past ten, then brought him a tray of toast, juice, two aspirin, a vitamin C tablet, and his epilepsy pill. Afterward, he'd taken Sam's breakfast tray away and told him to go back to sleep.

Now it was one o'clock, and Sam's incoherent mumbling turned into anguished cries. Carl dropped the dirty laundry and hurried into the bedroom. “Hey, Sam…Sam…”

He lay on his stomach, the bedsheets twisted around him. Carl had plugged in the old vaporizer at his bedside, and the dim room smelled of Vicks VapoRub. He sat on the bed and shook Sam awake. “Hey, Sammy. Hey, you're having a bad dream.”

He came to, then pulled away from Carl and sat up. He started coughing. His complexion had a grey tinge to it, and his eyes were bloodshot half slits.

Carl handed him a tumbler of water from the night table. “Sounded like you were having a bad dream.”

Sam nodded over the water glass. “Someone tried to get in the apartment. They were breaking the chain lock.” He coughed again, then gulped down some more water.

“You had some trouble finding your bedroom, too,” Carl said. “At least, you said something to that effect.”

Sam looked at him warily. “I say anything else?”

“Something about a room you didn't know was there and some boxes. Very mysterious.” He felt Sam's forehead. “Pretty warm there, sport. How do you feel?”

“Like five trucks ran over me. My back's killing me.” He fingered his undershirt. “Plus I'm sweating like a pig.”

“Good. Your fever's breaking. Lose the shirt. I'll give you one of mine. All yours are in the wash.” Carl tried to help him pull the damp T-shirt over his head, but Sam drew back.

“I got it, thanks.” He handed the undershirt to him.

Tossing it aside, Carl rolled up his sleeves. “Turn over. I'll rub your back for you.”

“It's okay,” Sam replied, shaking his head.

“Don't be silly. I know it aches.”

With a sigh, Sam rolled over on his stomach. Carl started massaging his shoulders. It felt like his skin was on fire. Sam shuddered gratefully. “Sorry I made you miss work,” he muttered, half his face pressed against the pillow.

“No sweat. But you're on your own tomorrow. Big meeting I can't miss.” Carl worked his fingers down Sam's spine. “So—tell me about your dream.”

“It was stupid, really. I don't even remember.”