01.
The Reunion
Sam never said a word from the minute she stepped on the plane in California to when she got out of the door of the little four-door coupe that drove her from the Atlanta Airport. Headphones helped--half the time she wasn't even listening to anything, but it made people uncomfortable to talk to someone who wouldn't talk back.
It wasn't that Sam couldn't talk. She just had nothing to say.
She had two backpacks--one stuffed with clothes, the other with more important items--and she shrugged one onto either shoulder as she looked up at the house in front of her after the car pulled away. It was a one-story ranch style house, isolated from the main road and nearly swallowed up by pine trees, with a sod front lawn and a lawn gnome that sat in a front flower bed with no flowers. Sam thought he looked lonely with his green hat, white beard and dirty face. Sam could definitely identify with being lonely.
It was too warm, even in December, for the heavy coat she was wearing, but she didn't take it off yet; it practically swallowed up her short, waifish figure. She stared at the house for a long time, debating between contacting the gig driver to come pick her up again, or ringing the doorbell. It took her a long time to make that choice.
She rang the bell.
Bing. Bong
.
Shifting the pair of weights on her back, Sam waited. A full minute passed. She hesitated again before pressing the doorbell a second time.
Bing. Bong
.
Now she heard movement--footsteps, muffled behind the heavy door. There was a grinding of the deadbolt sliding back and then the door opened, revealing a man in a pair of jeans, no shirt or shoes, squinting in the morning sunlight. Sam craned her neck to look up at him; he smelled like fabric cleaner and sugar water--soda, she guessed.
He blinked his eyes, then looked at her. "Can I help you?" He had a faint accent but it was still there, more subtle than the cliche twang that Southerners were supposed to have. He was pale, well built but with a faint softness in his belly; his hair was black, thinning, and only half-made like he'd been sleeping, which matched the tired, puffy eyes.
Sam realized she was staring. She licked her lips, swallowed past a sore throat. Her mouth was so dry it hurt to speak. "Are you Phil Johnson?"
"That's me," he said with a quick, familiar manner that said he was used to saying it a lot.
"I..." Sam fumbled with her backpacks and fished her phone out of her pocket. A few flicks of her thumb later and she held it up for him to see a photograph of a photograph; she had the physical copy in her backpack as insurance.
The colors of the photo were washed out, and a bright beam of sunlight had thrown a nimbus across the lens, sending most of the view out of focus, but it was clear enough to see a man and woman together: he sat on a large rock and she was kneeling behind him, her arms over his shoulders; her long black hair was swept up by a strong wind, obscuring some of their features. Their faces were pressed together, and they smiled at the camera while a mountain vista behind them opened into a valley full of dark, tall trees. It was a picture of Esther, her mother, and--
"This is you, right?" she said, extending the phone towards him.
He blinked again, but confusion had overwhelmed his exhaustion. He looked at the phone for a moment, and she saw awareness come over him. "Oh, God." He looked back up at her. "Yes, that's me. And that's... You're
her
, aren't you? You're--"
"Samantha," she said, nodding. "That
was
you. With my mom."
He rubbed his mouth, staring at the picture for a moment. "I haven't seen that picture in a
long
time." He handed her the phone back, patting his pockets as though looking for something. "Do you want to come in?"
"Can I?" She didn't expect him to invite her inside. Her heart started pounding. "Is it... Is that okay?"
"Of course! Please." He stepped to the side and opened the door wider for her, smiling in spite of her unexpected arrival.
Sam threw one look back at the road and then stepped inside, trying to keep her breathing calm even while she was panicking inside. The front living room was a wide space, with several couches that were either new or didn't get a lot of use. A TV was hanging on the wall. The living space connected to a dining area with a table and chairs that seemed to be in the same state as the living room furniture--barely used--given the thin layer of dust on the table. Several rooms and a kitchen completed the layout, but several doors were closed so that she couldn't see into them.
"Nice place," she said. It was functional, serviceable--kind of boring, really.
Philip stepped into what looked like a master bedroom and then into a closet space. He had a big bed, and it was mostly made except for the rumpled sheets and the comforter that was thrown back. "I, ah, didn't expect you to be here quite this early," he said, his voice muffled.
"It's almost 11 o'clock in the morning," she answered. The walls were mostly bare of decor, painted white; the carpet was plush and thick, a drab brown that was functional and unimaginative. The curtains were drawn, which left the space caught between evening and morning light.
He reappeared, now wearing a t-shirt with a motorcycle, a brand name she didn't recognize and a British flag. "Good point. I was up late last night, is all. Do you want to sit down?" He gestured to one of the couches. "And would you like me to take--"
Sam ignored his offer, hefting both packs and setting them down next to her. It was a nice couch: comfortable, plush, plenty of give in the cushions. She leaned back with a sigh, watching him take a seat on a smaller loveseat. "You got my email, right?"
"I did," he said, nodding. "I was surprised to hear from you."
"Yeah. Not everyday you find out you've got a kid, huh?" She forced a smile, but only a small one.
"Yeah. That...
