Chapter 7
There was a sensible yet strange reason Sam refused to dream. Dreams, as they often did when the dreamer was exceptionally determined, led to achieving them. But for the Stanton family, achieving them led to certain death.
Grandpa Stanton had first taught his doe-eyed granddaughter this hard fact of life in 1950 after building his post-retirement dream home in an up-and-coming suburb, then dying from lung cancer shortly after the final brick was laid.
Sam’s father reiterated the point in 1965 when he bought his dream car—a brand new cherry red, white-top, chrome-accented, 300-horsepower Chevrolet Impala SS, the initials alone a sign from God to purchase the convertible, as they instantly reminded him of his first and only-born: Samantha Stanton. He dropped dead—literally, on the living room floor—before he even put 1,000 miles on it.
Grandma Stanton’s unexpected passing drove the point home, the final nail in the coffin (an apt analogy, considering the family history). Inspired by a neighbor’s newly carpeted living room, Sam’s grandmother, who was affluent in taste but not in money, set the curse in stone in 1966, months after installing her coveted wall-to-wall avocado green shag carpet that coordinated with Sam’s eyes. Despite months of prayers for the modern luxury, God saw fit to decline her request until, refusing His higher wisdom, Grandma Stanton squandered her husband’s death benefits on the plush feet-pleasing novelty. She died of a broken heart mere weeks after losing her son, and before the carpet had yet to be permanently imprinted with the feet of the sofa.
When it came to dreaming, Sam avoided it like the Spanish flu. Hope for nothing, be disappointed in nothing. And the most important part—do not die in the process. That was Sam’s motto to live (and avoid death) by. But Raul Smothers came along and set her dreams in motion.
The words he had spoken over four years ago often slid between her thoughts: “You’re destined for so much more…” She had resented him back then for filling her with hope, and she resented him now for knowing her better than she knew herself.
Raul, with his big, wide grin flashing from across her small, crowded office corner.
Raul, with his crushed velvet elephant bell-bottom-clad butt (which she hadn’t failed to appreciate—she was a hot-blooded young woman, after all!) planted in her scratchy, orange chair.
Raul, with his black cowboy boots defacing her organized, metal desk.
Raul… holding a very confidential sheet of paper that belonged to her and her alone?!
“What happened to your face?” he asked, pointing to his own brown eye that sparkled with flecks of gold… not that Sam would admit to noticing.
Sam blinked herself out of his orbit. “It’s just a small bruise.”
“Some makeup could help with that!” a secretary who had been eavesdropping chirped as she glided past.
As Sam reached over to snatch the paper from him, Raul pulled back just in time to evade her. She didn’t offer a warm hello. Didn’t show an ounce of joyful reunion. In fact, the only expression she showed was anger. She couldn’t believe Raul Smothers had the gall to come to her place of work, put his rear in her chair and his feet on her desk, read her private words, and sit there smiling after letting her down… again. And she would tell him exactly why she was prepared to never speak to him… except for the part of telling him so.
“You never showed up,” she stated emotionlessly.
“Well hello to you too!” Raul held the grin as he stood up, moving around the orange-topped desk, reaching out to hug her. “I can’t believe I’m finally looking at you. In the flesh!”
Sam shuffled back a step. Raised a palm at him.
“There will be no hugs for friends—or should I say ex-friends?—who don’t show up, Raul.” She had selected the word friends carefully, lest he hope for anything more.
“Is this about your dad’s funeral over four years ago? How many times can I apologize for getting the day wrong?” he exclaimed.
His exasperation colored his cheeks. He looked endearing when he was flustered.
“No, this isn’t about my dad, though I still don’t understand how you could mix up a Friday and a Saturday. I mean, how hard is it to buy a calendar? You can find one at any drugstore, you know—” She stopped herself then, not wanting to transform into her mother. “That’s beside the point. I’m upset that you didn’t come yesterday,” she said so matter-of-factly that Raul assumed it had been something he should have known.
Her birthday? No, while he was terrible with dates and numbers, he was certain that wasn’t it. An anniversary, maybe? While he vividly recalled the way Sam looked when he first met her all those years ago, standing awkwardly in the deli line, her unconventional beauty hidden by a hideous brown frock that did nothing for her complexion, he couldn’t recall the exact day they met. Which was to be expected since, as previously noted, he was truly awful at remembering dates.
Having not seen Sam for years, their “meet anniversary” didn’t seem like a logical answer. Nor did it resolve the question of the location for this supposedly vital event he had missed. But the way Sam assumed with such certainty that he should have known whatever yesterday was, it made Raul fear asking.
“I give up. Can you just tell me what exactly I did wrong… this time?” He matched her irritation tone for tone.
“I was in New York at the Women’s Home Journal headquarters for the sit-in yesterday. You were supposed to interview us and help spread the word about the cause. But you didn’t bother to show up or report on it.” Sam rolled her eyes as if this sit-in was major news… and no thanks to Raul, it wasn’t. “I suppose you had a more pressing story to chase.”
“How was I supposed to know about your sit-in? I don’t live in New York or work for the Times anymore. But you’d know that if you ever called.”
“I did call you and left a message with your mother,” Sam insisted. “Last week. With explicit instructions for where to meet and what time. I explained how important this was to me.”
Raul sighed. “My mother’s been dead for over a year, Sam. Which you would also know if you ever called.”
“Oh.” Well, this was uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Raul. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. You know how complicated my relationship was with her.”
Sam would have further asked what happened to his dear mother, who was anything but a dear. Sam had only met her once and hoped to never meet again after the way Lilith Smothers had treated her devoted-to-a-fault son. And since Mrs. Smothers was dead, now she’d never have to.
The woman was so full of toxic bitterness at the world, and cruelly took it out on Raul, that Sam could only assume her body had gone so septic that even licorice root tea couldn’t help save her. But there were too many competing questions swirling in Sam’s frazzled brain for her to continue speculating on what eventually took the old hag out.
“Well, then, who did I leave a message with at your apartment?”
“Beats me.” Raul shrugged. “Probably whoever is renting my old apartment now. But it wasn’t me or the ghost of my mother, Sam.”
“Why on earth didn’t the woman mention she didn’t know you when I left the message?”
“I don’t live there anymore, Sam. How would I know the logic of a crazy lady who likes to take messages for people she doesn’t know? Anyway, now that I’ve exonerated myself of the crime of not showing up yesterday, can I get that hug?” Raul fished, arms stretched out wide.
But Sam’s irritation hadn’t yet thawed. Her gaze flicked to the flapping page that he continued to grip, which he had leisurely picked up off the top of her paper tray. She plucked the sheet from his hand.
