Thank you for your condolences on the doom of my advice column. Despite everything that’s happened, this is not the last you’ll see of me. I do not give up that easily, and neither should you.
Do not feel alone—we all struggle with feelings of anxiety or depression at some point, and it should be perfectly acceptable to discuss the messiness of life, no matter what social norms dictate. One of my preferred treatments is ashwagandha, a natural plant-based supplement that contains antidepressant properties as it increases dopamine and serotonin, thus boosting mood. Within a few days of taking it you should notice those dark thoughts shrinking, along with your waistline.
You mentioned equality, a sticky word that clings to my fingertips but remains out of my grasp. I thought I had found it once on a brisk March day two years ago, but it ended up costing me more than this column: my confidence, my reputation, and the love of my life. But as someone, perhaps naïvely, once said, “Choosing silence is choosing death. As long as we padlock our tongues, we will all continue to wear chains, even if some rattle louder than others.”
Unlock your tongue. Bleed if you must. In the end, it’s life or death, freedom or fetters. What else do you have to lose? I may have lost my voice today, but you’ll see—The Man hasn’t silenced me yet.
Farewell… for now.
Sincerely,
Samantha
Chapter 42
When an earthquake happens, you might feel the earth shudder as the tectonic plates shift and move. But the resulting tsunami can take hours, even days, to make its way across the ocean before crashing onto an unsuspecting shore. The earthquake was Samantha Stanton’s exposé on Cook Pharmaceuticals, the tidal wave was the public interest, and Sam’s life as she knew it was that unsuspecting shore.
Within one month of her final advice column hitting May 1972 newsstands, Sam found herself back on top—if on top was a wobbly and uncertain spinning top. Her name had been cleared after she blew the whistle on Thomas Cook’s schemes, and open job positions poured in from every national magazine and big-city newspaper from sea to shining sea. Everyone wanted a piece of Sam.
Including the vengeful Thomas Cook.
Within two months she had already turned down half a dozen interviews about how she had uncovered the truth about the Nosartin case studies. News outlets wanted Sam as their next investigative reporter, but still Sam wasn’t interested. Sam only wanted one thing, and that was getting Samantha Says back. But it seemed like the one thing she wanted was the one thing she couldn’t have.
Despite the minor setback of Women’s House Magazine shutting down for good, life wasn’t all bad. She was settling into a welcoming new level of relationship with Raul that was genuine, comforting, and most importantly, honest.
Sam had gotten home late last night from an evening at the comedy club with Raul watching his new friend Michael Keaton perform. She had walked right past yesterday’s newspaper laying in the driveway, and ambled to the bedroom without checking her phone messages. She had barely given Fido his nighttime muzzle nuzzle before crashing into bed. So when Sam awoke to her mother arriving with freshly baked scones and cream, she barely noticed the coffee brewing or her mother humming or the PhoneMate blinking.
“My goodness, Samantha. Do you ever check this?” Minnie commented, gesturing to the glowing answering machine button. “You do know how to use it, don’t you?”
“I got home late last night and was too tired to check.”
“Oh? You’re weren’t up to something scandalous, I hope.”
“I went to a comedy show with Raul, Mom. That Michael Keaton—he’s destined to be a star someday.”
“Hm, I’ll take your word for it. You know who’s going to be a star? The guy who played Ward Cleaver. What a handsome fellow.”
“From Leave It To Beaver? Mom, he had a stroke and retired from acting earlier this year.”
“Oh, well, anyway, I’ll check your messages for you while you have some breakfast. Sit and eat.”
Sam had already been sitting, and her mouth was already half full of scone and cream.
Minnie secured the earphone to her ear and pressed the play button, with message after message from reporter after reporter.
“Uh, Samantha, you need to listen to these,” Minnie warned.
Sam scooted over to the device and replayed the messages from the beginning, surprised to discover that this time they weren’t the job offers or interview requests that she had gotten used to turning down. This time caller after caller asked her to comment on an article that had come out. The only problem was Sam had no clue what article they were referring to, and after noting their dire tone, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to find out.
The newspaper was still in the yard where she had forgotten it last night. After a mad dash in her nightgown down the driveway and back on this misty morning, her cup of coffee sloshing brown stains all over the pink ruffles, she slammed the door behind her, hoping she hadn’t just given a free peep show. Then she sat down and opened the dew-damp paper, leafing through it until she stopped dead on page 3. Now she knew what all the commotion was all about.
Printed in black and white was Raul Smothers’ name next to Raul’s smiling picture next to her big headline. The article was giving him full credit for breaking the story about the pharmaceutical faux pas.
“Oh, Samantha. That can’t be true. Raul would never take credit for your story. There has to be an explanation for this,” Minnie said. “Why on earth would he do this?”
Sam knew Raul, and Raul was first a reporter, second a human with a heart. Anything for a story, right? Even if it required stealing it from the girl he claimed to love.
“He’s an investigative journalist who is no longer an investigative journalist. He probably did it to get his foot in the door for a job.”
“I thought he was done with all that.”
“So did I, but apparently not. He told me that he had tried taking Thomas Cook down shortly after Dad died, but he gave up the story. Just like every other male, he probably couldn’t stomach letting a woman do the job that he couldn’t get done. God forbid I succeed at something! There he was, Mr. Big-Shot Journalist who couldn’t get the dirt on Cook Pharmaceuticals. Then here I come, a nobody, and break the biggest story of the year. But no, his ego can’t handle that, so he steals the credit for himself.”
Minnie puckered skeptically. “That’s an awful lot of speculation about a man who left his high-paying job in New York to follow you here and work for a children’s show all because he loves you.”
