I think of Adam as my savior. His name is even the same as the first man on earth. This is according to my mother, the star of the church choir and the blondest of all the Stepford wives in Celebration. Let me just say that I am not an entitled millennial from a wealthy family who ran away from home. The truth is, Adam saved me from a very dysfunctional home. I got out of there a month after graduating high school and have not looked back. Adam was twenty-one and had his own place when I moved in with him. He owns his own business. He comes from a good family.
I don't know what he is doing with me.
Sometimes I feel lonely at night, even with Adam lying beside me. It's not normal to be so disconnected from your family, is it? Then the guilt creeps in and I wonder if it was all my fault. Maybe I was a bad daughter. Maybe I don't deserve Adam, my loyal, caring boyfriend of three years. When these ugly thoughts come, I can feel my heart speed up and a thick fog rises from my chest to my throat. I put my hand over my heart, turn my head to look at Adam in the dark, afraid that he can hear my heart pounding, afraid that the sound will give me away, that he will come to his senses and leave me, but he is fast asleep, snoring softly. Then I wonder what it is, this dense air, this substance that is steadily rising up, threatening to pour out of my mouth. Is it the truth? Is it that I'm really a bad person and one day, sooner or later, everyone, including Adam, will see it? The cat will be out of the bag one day, I just know it. I can't fool him forever. Then, as I lie still next to Adam, listening to his steady, deep breathing, I talk myself out of it. It wasn't my fault. My father is an abusive, sick bastard and my mother didn't give a shit. The only thing I did wrong was not leave sooner. But I'm never entirely convinced of my innocence.
It is July and our air conditioner has been broken for the past twenty-four hours. Our landlord does not seem to understand why we are getting impatient. This cannot be healthy. Adam has taken matters into his own hands and called the air conditioning company himself because that’s what he does.
I huff and look up at the thermostat. It reads eighty-four degrees. I snatch up a folder from the counter and start fanning myself. "This is insane. When did they say the air would be fixed again?" I close my eyes and tilt my head up facing the ceiling, praying for one small glorious gust of cold air to come out of the vent.
"Probably tomorrow. The manager said he would call us back by eight tonight to let us know. I'm sure it'll be fixed soon, hon." Adam smiles, tracing his fingertips along my arm. I look into his deep brown eyes, so calm and sure that everything will be OK. He is so Zen all the time, sometimes it is unnerving.
"I hope so."
He tilts his head and smiles at me. "I know so."
I soften and reach my arms around him, hugging him tight. His damp shirt clings to mine and he smells faintly of sweat and I'm sure I do, too.
He hugs me back, kisses my cheek and then pulls away, starting to walk out of the kitchen. But he stops and whirls around to face me again where I stand by the oven. "Is the oven on?" His eyes are wide.
I raise my eyebrows and look at the stove then back at Adam. "I wanted to make brownies."
"But you're complaining about the heat and that just makes it hotter in here."
I shrug and toss the folder back onto the counter. "I'm going to change," I say.
"You make no sense, Sam."
"I know." I ruffle his hair as I pass by him on my way to the stairs.
Upstairs in our bedroom, I thumb through my dresser for something light and cool to put on. I come across an old pair of shorts from high school and pull them out, tossing them onto the bed. They are bright blue with faint yellow stripes. My mom bought them for me on a back to school shopping trip. That was her way of coping with the misery of living with my father: shopping. Over the years, my father, Dr. Oren Reilly, had increased his drinking, going from a couple beers a night to the harder stuff, his favorite being Jack Daniels. The night that I called Adam—February 24, 2013—my father had downed a bottle of Jack and I had a busted lip. My mother had been hiding in the bedroom, pretending that everything was OK as usual. Fifteen minutes after calling Adam, I was already outside, standing next to the garage, my "get-away" bag (having been packed a week prior) slung over my shoulder when Adam peeled into the driveway, tires squealing. I was miles away from the house before my parents knew that I left. My mother had called me throughout the night and into the next day, begging me to come back home. She promised everything would be different. That's when I lost respect for her. She was a grown woman; if she wanted to be in denial and stay in that hellish existence with my father, that was her choice. But what kind of mother would want her child to live there?
As I slip on my flip-flops, I hear the doorbell ring and come downstairs. I see Adam making his way to the front door, so I go back into the kitchen to check on the brownies. They are done so I put on my polka dot oven mitts and pull the pan from the oven.
Wondering who is at the door, I peek out from the kitchen and over Adam's shoulder. There is a young woman with red hair standing on our porch. Adam is leaning slightly to the right, his hand resting on the doorframe and I can see the left half of her body clearly.
"Hi, neighbor. I'm just across the street," she says, motioning with her thumb over her shoulder. Adam doesn't respond at first. The woman's wild copper hair points in every direction and her white tank top is soaked with water or sweat so that we can see her neon green bra underneath. Her denim shorts hug her thighs and are so short that the pockets peek out from under the hem. Classy. On her feet are hot pink flip-flops that have seen better days.
She is saying something but I can't hear well enough from the kitchen. I take a few steps toward the doorway to the living room. The woman is smiling at Adam. She says, "So, can I borrow one if you have an extra?"
Adam nods and starts to speak but the woman leans a little to her right and looks at me. I am standing at the edge of the living room holding the pan of brownies. Adam moves slightly to the side and I see her completely. I lock eyes with her then look her up and down. Still looking at her, I say to Adam, "You going to introduce me to your friend?"
"Oh, she just stopped by, she lives across the street and. . ." Adam trails off.
"And I asked to borrow a fan if you can spare one. I'm Kristy." She smiles and looks directly at me, mimicking me, looking me up and down.
A fan? We’re the ones with the broken AC. I turn and walk back into the kitchen. "There might be one in the basement. You’re more than welcome to go look for it," I call out. I can hear the bitchy tone in my voice but I don’t care.
"I'm sorry. Let me go see if I can find it. Come in and have a seat." Why did he invite her in?
"Why not?" Kristy says, shrugging, before choosing the big green chair facing the kitchen.
"Make yourself at home," I call out. What I really mean is, 'get out of my house and stop flirting with my boyfriend' but I don't say it.
"Thanks."
A few minutes later, Adam comes back into the room holding a large white fan. "Here you go," he says to Kristy.
After the redhead leaves, Adam turns to me. "Let's go somewhere for dinner. I have to get out of here. It's too hot."
The hostess seats us at the far corner of the restaurant and as we take our seats in a booth, Adam begins removing his silverware from the napkin. "You were rude to her."
I lean back in my chair and look away.
"Hello, Sam?"
"What?"
Before he can say anything, the server comes over, places two gray tinted glasses of water in front of us and takes our order. When he leaves, Adam sighs and looks at me, his eyebrows raised.
"What do you want me to say?"
Adam shakes his head but says nothing. He looks away and I do the same, staring out the window. We sit in silence until the server is back, setting our hot plates in front of us.
After a few bites, I put my fork down. "This chick comes over dressed like that, starts flirting with you and I'm supposed to be nice to her?"
Adam slams his fork down onto his plate. His brows are knitted tightly together.
"Now you're mad?" I say.
I lean forward, my eyes wide. Adam looks down and begins twisting his napkin in his hands. His forehead is wrinkled and he bites his lip before speaking. "I remember when we first met. You were so happy," he says.
My jaw drops. "I was happy? I was running away from an abusive father and a clueless, plastic mom. I tried to off myself. I was just a ray of sunshine."
Adam sighs. "You know what I mean. We were happy together. You trusted me. I just don't know why you'd be threatened by some random woman who lives across the street."
"That service dog over there." I motion with my head. "He looks just like one I used to have."
"He went out the door. I can't see him."
As we stare out the window of our favorite restaurant, a gust of wind comes through the front door, blowing over a stack of menus from the stand.
"Why does it seem all we do is argue, Sam?"
I shrug. "I used to believe we never would. But, we don't really. Not that much."
Adam frowns and pulled the Peg Board game towards him. He stares at the small wooden triangle with the red, blue and white pegs protruding from the holes. Old coffee stains splatter the surface.
I slide my chair closer to the table. "Not as much as them," I say, pointing to the television in the corner of the ceiling where two presidential candidates are debating.
"Why do you always change the subject?"
I swipe the Peg Board game away from Adam and start playing.
"You know what I did a week after we met? I was out shopping and running errands. When I passed by a jewelry store, something made me go inside. I spent an hour looking at rings and had one picked out for you."
"You never told me that," I say.
Adam nods and pushes his dinner plate to the edge of the table.
"Well, why would you want to marry me?"
He smiles and reaches for my hand. "Because I love you, Sam, believe it or not."
***
I'm still thinking about our conversation the next morning on my way back from the gym. He was going to propose? I'm way too messed up to be marriage material. He should know that, I think. I pull into the driveway and hope Adam isn't home. I am in a weird mood and don't want him to see me like this. I just want to grab a post-workout snack and lie down for a while, slip into oblivion. Walking into the house, I see a pile of mail on the counter. Great, probably more bills, I think. I flip to an envelope with "Mid-Florida Hospital" printed on the outside. Oh, look, here's one now! Because I don't have enough to worry about. I open it and the first thing I see is a number that is way too large and a red stamp: "Past Due." Thirty thousand dollars. I feel nauseous even though I haven't eaten yet. I toss it into the file where the rest of the past due hospital bills go: the tall stainless steel can under the sink with a plastic bag in it. I call it the Bye-Bye File. Adam doesn't know about my debt and he doesn't need to. I am already enough of a burden on him. I wish I could tell him all my secrets. They are jumbled up inside me and I feel like an overstuffed trash bag that cannot hold one more thing without bursting open. But it is all so ugly. I can't let it burst, I can't let him see inside.
I go lie down in bed and the next thing I hear is the front door closing. I look over at the clock and realize I've slept for an hour. When I come downstairs, I see Adam standing at the sink. He turns when he hears my footsteps. In his hand are crumpled pieces of paper and envelopes. Damn. He found them.
"Sam. What are these?" he asks, holding them up.
I know what they are without looking. I cross my arms over my chest. "They're nothing. I'm handling it."
"By throwing them away?"
"It's not your problem. Why were you digging around in the trash?"
"I was getting ready to take it out and one of these fell out." He tosses a few crumpled sheets of paper onto the counter. "These are from three years ago and it is my problem. We share problems, that's how this works."
I sit at the table and cover my face with my hands. "I don't want to think about three years ago." About six months after I left home and came to live with Adam, I had attempted suicide. I felt so guilty for running away from home, leaving my mother alone with that monster. I had stayed in the hospital for two days under close observation and had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation.
Adam sighs and pulls out the chair next to me, sitting down. "Of course you don't. You're better now and we've moved on. But you can't just pretend these don't exist. You told me your insurance paid for it."
I don't know what to say so I sit silently, my face buried in my hands. Who would want to be with someone with all this debt? We are both so young. Why does he stay with me? It makes me so angry, the unfairness of it all. My eyes start to burn. I always cry when I'm angry and this only makes me more upset.
"Sam, I'm not angry. Let me help you with this. I can call them and set up a payment plan, OK?"
I stand up from the table and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Why aren't you angry with me? You really should be. You always have to rescue me."
Adam grabs my hand. "It's my job and I'm happy to do it."
I laugh. Why, I don't know, but I have a sick, burning feeling in the pit of my stomach and I need to push him away. It's for his own good. "Well, aren't you a saint? God, it's so pathetic." I want to take back the words as soon as I say them. He is silent, looking at me with those kind brown eyes. He only looks mildly irritated. I try to decipher the look on his face and then I realize it is pity. That sends me over the edge. "I can't breathe. I'm going outside." I say before opening up the sliding glass door. I walk outside and close it behind me, looking through the glass. Adam hasn't moved. He looks sad, as if he is about to cry. The glass between us may as well be ten feet thick. My chest aches and I have to turn away.
Our neighbor's children are outside playing and their laughter, like little bells, drifts over. I feel cold even though it must be eighty degrees outside. As I sit on the old plastic chair on the porch, I decide to skip work tomorrow and go somewhere. Where, I don't know yet. I just need to get away and think. There are two people inside of me; one who wants to run away and be alone, and one who wants to run inside and wrap my arms around Adam and tell him I'm sorry and that I love him.
The next morning Adam kisses me goodbye, saying, "Don't worry about this. I'll take care of it. I love you." He hugs me and it is almost too much. The guilt, the dense fog is creeping up from my chest again and wants to escape but I push it back down.
I wait until he leaves and call my boss and tell him I have the flu. Then I get dressed and throw my large straw hat and towel in my bag. I'm going to the beach. It always makes me feel clean. It is the only place I can think. It is about an hour drive and I love long drives. They always make me feel powerful, like I am making a decision, taking control of my life. Maybe if I just spend the day there, I will feel better and I can come back and talk to Adam. But I just can't talk to anyone right now. I feel raw, like my chest is wide open for the world to see and everyone can see my ugly, bruised heart and all its dirty secrets.
In the car, I wrap my hair in a scarf, roll down the windows and turn on the radio. I have to keep changing the station because so many of the songs make me want to cry. Finally I find an alternative station that doesn't remind me of anything. I sing along and after a while, the air starts to smell salty. It starts to feel cleaner and lighter. I can already feel the fog in my chest dissipating.
I cross over the causeway, glancing to my left and right, taking in the sparkling blue water, the sunlight dancing on the surface. Cars zoom past me and I realize I am driving slow.
When I get to the beach, I find a spot in front of a set of steps leading down to the sand. I reach into my glove box and grab a few quarters for the parking meter. Sliding quarters in one after the other, I wait until the little faded screen reads “3:00” and then I grab my bag and head for the steps.
It's Wednesday so the beach is almost empty. The only people here are a few older people on their morning walk and a family wearing bright neon baseball caps with "Florida" printed on the top in cursive.
I find a spot about twenty feet from the family and spread my towel on the powdery sand. Tossing my bag to the left, I decide to keep my shorts and tank top on for a while, until the sun warms me a little more. I sit in the middle of the oversized neon striped towel, lean back and close my eyes, feeling the sun's warmth gently pressing onto my eyelids. It's still early and there's a light breeze sweeping over me, giving me goose bumps every few seconds. I shiver and a memory of the hospital room from three years ago pops into my mind. I had goose bumps in that room, too. I had been living with Adam since the night he came and took me away. One night, Adam had been working late and I felt sad and didn't know why. I had convinced myself everything was OK now that I was out of my parents' house. But then I had seen eight missed calls from my mother and a voicemail.
"Samantha, this is your mother. Your father and I are worried about you. He is sorry he hit you. He lost his temper. . .Sam. You can't talk back to him like that, you know how it makes him. Anyway, honey. Look. He has cut back on his drinking. He is getting help. You need to come back home where you belong, not live in sin with that boy. You know that's wrong, Sam. We didn't raise you that way. Call your mother back, Samantha. If you love me at all, you will call me back."
Somehow my phone had ended up broken and Adam had come home to find me lying on the floor, an empty pill bottle next to me. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital, IVs and tubes everywhere, and Adam sitting on the chair next to the bed. Right before the doctors discharged me, he had taken my hand and said, "You're going to be OK. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
After a while, I look around the beach again and two birds catch my eye. I have no idea what kind they are, only that they are small and white. One is slightly larger than the other and they are identical except that the smaller one has a marking on its head that looks like the Nike symbol. I decide the smaller one is female and silently name her Nike. Their movements are both graceful and jerky at the same time. The two peck around in the sand for a while, looking for food, until they bump into each other. Nike is suddenly flustered, her wings twitching and she starts to chase after the other one. The bigger one takes off in flight for a few feet then settles back down again on the sand. He sits still and Nike comes over, continuing the assault. The larger one squawks loudly and Nike stops in her tracks and the two stare each other down for a few seconds. Finally, Nike flits off on her little spindly legs. I watch, fascinated with the drama until finally Nike slowly comes back to her mate. I expect the fighting to start up again but the larger one sits calmly while Nike approaches. Her mate takes a couple steps towards her and begins preening her, gently pecking at her feathers.
My eyes start to burn and I feel a tear escape and roll down my cheek. He never leaves. Adam never leaves. Maybe he knows something I don't. Well I wish I knew it, too. Then it dawns on me: I must be really tough. Look where I came from and somehow I'm still alive. I'm a fighter. That is something. That is really something.
I wipe my face with the edge of my towel and stand up. The birds who were about ten feet away, fly away when they see me. They disappear into the blue sky, becoming tiny white dots until finally I can no longer see them. I look around the beach one more time. The family to my left is still there and the mother looks over at me and smiles. I smile back and throw my bag over my shoulder.