Sing it, Sam Page 5

  “What’s up?” I drawl.

  “What the hell is on your head?” he says through a cheeky smile. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him since we shared lunch that day.

  “I’m fully aware I look ridiculous, but Mrs Ferguson thinks I look simply fabulous. I’ve never seen someone have such fun with flowers.”

  “You look like you just got dumped in the garden waste and crawled out for air.”

  I roll my eyes and huff. “Now, now, don’t be mean. I promised her I’d wear it for the rest of the day.”

  Sam tries to sit up in his bed, struggling to move onto his side. He gasps as if he’s just burnt himself.

  Without thinking, I grip both of his shoulders and help him sit. I reach for the spare pillow beside the bed and stuff it behind his back.

  “Thanks,” he says as he exhales and settles into the padding.

  “No problems. You know, if you’re nice to the other residents I might let you wear this crown for a little while this afternoon.” Another piece falls from the headband. A handful of leaves litter Sam’s sheets. I shrug. “Well, that’s if it’s still together.”

  He laughs, but it doesn’t take long for a frown to resurface. It’s as if he’s really thinking hard about something.

  I think about mentioning that I saw his brother at the fundraiser on the weekend, but now doesn’t seem like the time. Besides that, the last occasion he brought up Ben I sensed some tension there.

  He opens his hand which is on the blanket covering his lap, his palm facing upwards. Slowly, he moves it towards me.

  I slip my hand into his. It’s surprising how natural it feels. He tugs me towards him, forcing me to sit on the edge of his bed.

  “Can you stay for a bit?” he asks, staring expectantly into my eyes.

  I glance at the black and white clock above his bed, and then back to him. I have fifteen minutes before I finish and reception closes for the day. I would stay, but I know Kathleen is covering for me until I get back from the activity clean-up.

  “If you give me ten minutes or so. I need to go back to the office. Then I’ll be back.”

  “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. You probably can’t wait to get out of here at the end of the day,” he says, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

  I place my hand over our entwined fingers and give him a reassuring smile. It seems like he finally wants to reach out to me, wants my company, and there’s no way I’m going to ditch him.

  “Like I said, I’ll be back.”

  One corner of his mouth tilts up. “Cool.”

  Standing, I reach for the books on the foot of the bed, then turn them around and display them on his lap.

  “I tell you what. Why don’t you start one of these? Give you something else to think about while you wait for me.”

  He scans over each of the books, and slowly trails his eyes from my waist, over my chest, and eventually up to my face.

  “You’re doing a pretty good job of giving me something else to think about. Don’t worry about that, Janie.”

  When heat prickles at my chest and my nipples perk up, I take it as my cue to get the hell out of there. I can’t be thinking inappropriate thoughts at work. What is my body doing to me? I silently reprimand my boobs all the way back to reception.

  Down, girls.

  ***

  When I return a short time later, Sam is seated farther up the bed. His focus is in between the pages of The Associate by John Grisham. He actually started a book? Is Sam only the opposites boy when it comes to Ben or the people in charge here asking him to do things?

  “You know what I’ve decided?” I tell him and hook my hands on my hips.

  He looks up lays the book flat on his lap. His eyes are watery, as if he’s been struggling to keep them open. His lips stretch slowly into a smile. It looks as if it pains him to do so. “You decided to take that stupid thing off your head. Good choice.”

  I roll my eyes and move a chair closer to his bedside. “Well, yeah. There’s that, but I’ve come up with an idea.”

  “Better than the headpiece, I’m guessing.”

  “Shush,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’ve decided that once you’ve read this book, you can chat to Shirley from room twenty-six about it.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “And why would I do that exactly?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, human contact? Venture out of your cell?” I wait for a reaction but get nothing. “Shirley’s actually very well read. She runs the book club. I hear she’s often the only one in attendance, but we can change that. You can change that, Sam.”

  “I appreciate you trying to change the world, but I prefer humans my own age.”

  It’s kind of strange he’s young and in the home. Maybe that’s why he finds it so hard to socialise. “Yeah, less wrinkly and flatulent. I can understand that.”

  He rubs at his eyes and lets out a weary sigh, sinking lower under the sheets. Each slight movement of his upper body and legs draws blood from his face. He doesn’t look well. He tugs at the pillow behind him. I help him take it away, slipping it in the gap between the bed and his table.

  “You like the book, then?” I ask, because it doesn’t feel right to ask him if he’s feeling okay. I know from Paige’s earlier rant that he’s not. It’s obvious he’s in pain.

  “I guess. It’s got a good beginning; I’m just tired. Can’t focus.”

  I pull the cover up closer to his T-shirt-clad chest, and pick up the book. It looks like he’s finished the first chapter. “Chapter two. How about I read out aloud from here?”

  He reaches out his hand and places it on my forearm. His touch is clammy, his grip soft. “Sure,” he whispers.

  When I finish reading one chapter and go to start the next, I look up to find his eyes closed. His breathing has tapered off, and there’s a slight rattle in the back of his throat.

  In sleep, he looks less pained. The crease between his brows isn’t as defined. I take a moment to take in his baby face. Soft-looking lips. Long dark lashes. I reach out to brush his hair from his forehead and then freeze.

  What the hell am I doing? I’m creeping on a sleeping person, about to touch him while he’s out to it.

  “Sleep well, Sam,” I say as I exit the room.

  I take the book home and read from chapter one. If it stops Sam staring at the ceiling, I’ll be happy to read to him whenever I get the chance. Once we’re done with the book, or before, if I think I can swindle it, I will get him out of that room.

  I will.

  As I start the book from the beginning, I wish I knew the first chapter of Sam’s story, and every chapter that led him to that home in the first place.

  Chapter Eight

  Running from my Holden ute, large raindrops attack me until I’m beneath the protection of the dark green awning over the door of the Harvest Café. People with umbrellas litter the footpath, Main Street coming to life with the usual Saturday-morning café hoppers.

  When I head inside I receive warm greetings from the group, at the round table near the window. A coffee awaits me, and a vacant chair. When I cast my eye over the table, most of the other cups are half full. I’m instantly filled with regret.

  “I got you a flat white. Hope that’s okay?” Hannah says.

  “Yes. Perfect. Sorry I’m late,” I say, and grip the back of the seat. “I need something to eat. Does anyone want anything?”

  No one takes me up on the offer, so I dash to the counter and order a slice of Nutella and white chocolate cheesecake. They plate it up for me on the spot, and I return to the group and set about stirring two sugars in my coffee. I don’t bother using an excuse, because I have none. I overslept, plain and simple. I’d even dreamt about my characters, but all they did was stand and stare at each other. They couldn’t even engage in a little chit chat. What hope have I got?

  Rain trickles down the windows that face onto the street, a little piece of calm in the café that’s alive and humming with sounds from
the kitchen and chatty customers.

  “We’ve had a brief chance to catch up. Why don’t you tell us how your writing’s going, Jane?” Janine asks, tucking her personalised pen into the spiral of her matching notebook. “Did you get some good words?”

  The question I’ve been dreading since I woke up in a panic. I should’ve been able to get at least a page or two last night, but after I caught up with The Associate and ventured into my bedroom to get changed, Butch had shredded all my gossip magazines. By the time I’d cooked dinner and cleaned up, I couldn’t focus.

  “I’ve been pretty busy with the new job. Still settling in.” I have writer’s block. I struggle writing my own bloody shopping list. “Haven’t had a chance to really sit down and focus.”

  I’d be so embarrassed if I had to admit how much time I’d wasted on names and stupid towns called Mount TBA.

  “It can be tough starting somewhere new. You like it there, though?” Britt asks, toying with a stray dreadlock.

  “Yeah, the people I work with are really nice, and I enjoy the job. Some of the residents are pretty cool too.” Like Sam.

  Do I tell them about him? Actually, I’d really like to know what they think.

  “Can I ask you guys something?” I say, looking from face to face.

  “Sure,” Hannah says.

  “Fire away.” Leonie nods.

  “Did you know there are young people living in aged-care facilities?” I ask, looking around to everyone. “Right here in Willow Creek?”

  “Yeah, it’s terrible. I read an article about it online the other day. It’s happening all over the state, all over the country,” Hannah says, her groomed brows pulling together. She takes off her round glasses and cleans them on her black linen shirt.

  “That actually happens?” Leonie asks in a higher-pitched voice.

  “I know. I can’t imagine. There’s this guy, Sam. I’m not quite sure how he’s ended up at the home, but—”

  “Is he cute?” Leonie asks, toying with the assortment of silver rings adorning her fingers.

  Heat floods to my cheeks. Yeah, he’s cute. I almost creepy-touched him in his sleep last night. But should I be talking about residents like that outside of work?

  Then again, he’s not your typical resident.

  “He’s …”

  “You like him,” Janice barks out. “Just admit it.”

  “What? No. It’s not like that. I barely know him.”

  Janice purses her lips. “You may not know it yet, but that look on your face? You like him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, aware of how foolish I sound.

  “Thou doth protest too much,” Hannah says and tuts.

  “Whatever,” I blurt out. “How ’bout we talk about how everyone else’s writing is going?”

  I don’t miss the gooey-eyed looks they all give me before Janice takes the reins of the group, as usual, and talks about her latest writing crisis. Sometimes I wonder if she’s crazy, the way she talks about her characters speaking to her and bombarding her. When she first told me how she wanted one ending but her characters wanted another so she went with that, I thought she was loopy.

  I kind of still do.

  ***

  When I get home, Butch is snuggled up in his bed in the laundry. He doesn’t budge an inch as I walk into the room. Worst guard dog ever. I guess he makes up for his shortcomings by being incredibly cute and great company when he’s not tearing shit apart in a hangry frenzy.

  “I’m home, bud. Shit day out there.” I’d tell him that I’ll take him for a walk tomorrow, but you cannot under any circumstances say the word ‘walk’ around this dog unless you mean it. Otherwise, he will grab the lead in his mouth and incessantly bug the crap out of you until you do.

  He opens his eyes, raises his ginger brows, and stretches his mouth wide with an almighty yawn. I scratch the top of his head and then set about making my bed. Not that anyone ever visits to see it. That’s when I notice the book on my bedside. Sam’s book.

  I succeed in getting him to focus on something other than four walls and then I take it away from him? Genius move, Jane.

  I should drop this off to him. What else is he going to do with his weekend? Besides, I’ll only be stuck inside, thanks to this weather.

  I grab a raw chicken wing from the fridge and feed it to Butch. That should keep him out of mischief until I return.

  ***

  By the time I’ve run from my ute to the front door of the building, my hair is starting to frizz out of control. I wave to the lady on weekend duty, scan my pass and make my way to his room.

  It’s quiet, out of the ordinary from what I’m used to, but Kathleen says the rain always has a calming effect on the residents. There are a lot of retired farmers in here. After decades and decades of fighting drought, the rain seems to give them some peace.

  When I reach his room, Sam is sitting in his wheelchair, facing the glass doors which open into his private courtyard. Droplets cascade down the panes, seemingly mesmerising him.

  “Don’t you just love the rain?” I say and step closer.

  He turns his head towards me. His brow furrows. “Hey.”

  I move over to the double doors and open them, anchoring each one to the walls outside. Fresh air flows into the stale room, causing the bottom half of the sheer white curtains to billow out.

  “I love the smell of it even better,” I say, drawing the cool air deep into my lungs. Earthy tones tease my nostrils as the cool breeze licks at my goose pimpled flesh.

  Sam arches his back as he draws breath, his chest expanding. “Oh yeah,” he growls. “That’s incredible.”

  For a few moments, a calm envelops me with the hypnotic pitter-patter of rain.

  “Wait, it’s Saturday,” Sam says, his brows pulling together as he studies my face. “Isn’t it?”

  “Correct,” I say, and rock back and forward on my heels.

  “You don’t work Saturdays.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You mind if I sit?”

  He nods. “Sure.”

  The chair legs protest against the linoleum floor as I move closer to him. I sit and hug my handbag to my chest. As I look him over, I notice his eyes aren’t watery, or spidery, and there’s more colour in cheeks. “You look better than you did last night.”

  He takes his time looking me up and down. “Better now, Janie,” he says with a devilish smirk. “You look good in normal clothes.”

  What is it about the Marshall boys dishing out compliments? Their mother certainly taught them well.

  I glance down at my white cropped T-shirt, three-quarter blue jeans, and not-so-white Converse sneakers. “What, these old things?”

  “Yeah.”

  I lift my chin. “Thank you. Anyway, I came to return the book. I took it home to read last night.”

  He frowns. “You had it?”

  “I did. Sorry.” I hand it to him and stand. “I’ll leave it for you to read.” Although I want to pick up where we left off last night, I have to respect that he probably wants to read alone. It’s a bummer because with the FBI in the picture, I was keen to read on.

  He grips my hand and tugs it towards his chest. It sends a shiver from the base of my spine up to my neck.

  “I want you to read it to me,” he says. His voice is hoarse, carrying a certain vulnerability. He seems less pissy than he was a second ago.

  “You do?” I ask, hyperaware that my hand is still tightly within his. He makes small circles with his thumb over my knuckles. My feet root to the floor. Clearly, my heart has made the decision for me. Read with him.

  Stay.

  “I promise I won’t fall asleep,” he says. “Besides, I can’t find my reading glasses.”

  “Come on then,” I say and return to my chair. Sam hands me the book and I open it where the bookmark pokes out.

  As the rain drizzles outside, Sam and I delve further into the world of Kyle McAvoy and the secret he’s hiding. All t
he while, all I can think about is Sam.

  I need to know his story.

  Chapter Nine

  “Helen told me you were in here on the weekend,” Kathleen says as she slides a folder onto the bookshelf. News sure travels fast around here.

  “Oh, yeah. I came in to deliver a book to Sam. Um, I mean Mr Marshall.”

  After an afternoon of reading, Helen came in to take care of some things for Sam—medication, and I’m assuming she helped him shower. I thought it best to leave then. The forlorn look on Sam’s face told me he was torn between wanting me stay and needing to take care of personal stuff. It must suck having to rely on strangers for simple day-to-day stuff like that.

  “Jane, you can call him Sam. It’s fine.”

  “Okay,” I reply, and look over to Sally-Anne at her desk to see if she’s paying attention to our conversation. Her head is turned toward her computer, the blue Facebook page lighting up the screen, so I’m guessing no. It’s like she doesn’t even care that Kathleen could catch her doing personal stuff.

  “I hear he’s in better spirits today,” Kathleen says.

  I can’t stop the wide smile spreading across my face. “That’s great.” Did I have something to do with that?

  “You’re a good egg, Jane. It’s quiet for now. Why don’t you go check in on him?”

  I spring out of my chair, then wonder why I’m so keen to leave my desk. Way to be subtle.

  “Sure. Um, well, as long as that’s okay? I’ll put up the new programs in the dining hall on my way.”

  The walkie-talkie on Kathleen’s hip screeches, startling us both.

  “We’ve got a spill in aisle nine. Over,” a female voice announces.

  “What on earth?” I say, looking at Kathleen for an insight.

  “Oh, forgot to mention that, didn’t I? We’ve had a good run of late, so it hasn’t come up. It’s code. Incontinence is a problem as people age. Some residents just forget, others take their nappies off and we don’t find out until they have an accident. Rather than draw too much attention to it, we call it a spill. Aisle nine is the dining hall. Most accidents, for some reason, happen in there.”