Chapter 23
Sam B just wanted a night of sleep. Just one night where he could catch up on desperately needed shut-eye and ease his deprivation.
But, as a result of Sam A’s meddling, now—at three in the morning—he was awake and tending to a shaking Brenda, who was undergoing the effects of alcohol withdrawal.
The pair of them were on the cold floor of the bathroom, the toilet recently having been graced with vomitus. Sam had his arms around her as she quivered and dripped with sweat, and he stared up at the ceiling through sleepy eyes, silently cursing out God or Time or Fate.
He was so, so tired.
“I… never shoulda done this…” she said, her clammy hands clutching at his arms. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”
Beats me, lady, he thought. But he said: “Shh, it’s gonna be okay. It won’t last forever. You just let me know if you start to feel worse, okay?”
Soft touch, he kept telling himself. Keep the negative thoughts inside.
It felt like he was back at his medical internship, pulling marathon shifts at the hospital until he could barely stand the fatigue. Thinking of this like a job made it marginally more tolerable. This was his patient, not his wife. He just needed to tap into his bedside manner, which people always told him was very pleasant, though it might only have been because he’d been a kid when he first started med school, and patients were looking at him like he was Doogie Howser.
Brenda snuggled into the crook of his arm. “Don’t let go of me, okay?”
“I won’t, Brenda,” Sam reassured her, gently stroking her hair and furiously ignoring the strong urge he was experiencing to just get away from here, to run away from all of this and… God, I wish that were an option.
Well, technically, he supposed it was. But it would mean giving up on ever getting home, and just becoming Bobby Deleon. He wondered what would happen back at the Project if he pulled that one off and Sam A kept on leaping. Was that a workable solution? What would happen to the person in the Waiting Room? Would Mister Perfect even be able to leap with him still around?
He shook his head. He couldn’t really do that, right? That wouldn’t give him what he really needed. He’d be miserable.
But he’d be alive. And the more he thought about Bobby’s destined death, the more scared he got about it. It felt cowardly, but he just had such a horrible feeling about it; that if he was sent to Vietnam, he was going to die. Something had to give.
Brenda stirred in his arms, and crawled on her hands and knees weakly to the toilet bowl, releasing another torrent of bile into it. Sam held back her hair, sighing and wishing he’d managed to get on that damn hippie bus.
When she was done, Sam filled a glass from the basin, and gave it to her. She accepted it with shaking hands and thirstily drank from it. Then she lost her grip on the glass and it fell to the floor, breaking into several sharp pieces.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry Bobby,” she said, flopping back against the wall.
Sam picked up the pieces silently, and threw a towel on the floor to soak up the excess water.
“It’s okay,” he forced out as he took the shards and headed to the kitchen to dispose of them.
Coincidentally, the Imaging Chamber door appeared as he reached the trash can, and Al wandered out, looking worried.
“Ziggy said you were still awake,” he said, studying Sam as he threw the glass pieces in. “It’s three in the morning. Did you find your sex drive, maybe? Have you and Brenda been in bed all night… reconciling?”
Sam shot him a tired-eyed, withering glare.
“Guess that answers that question,” Al said, smirking. “Should have guessed. So what are you doing up this late?”
“I have to make sure Brenda doesn’t die of alcohol withdrawal syndrome,” Sam said joylessly. “So while the prospect of a good night’s sleep is highly appealing to me right about now, I’m stuck tending to her while this thing runs its course.”
Al’s irreverent posture faded. “Damn, that’s too bad. How’s she doing? The shakes can be real tough—I know.”
Sam shrugged, gesturing to the trash can. “Well, she just broke a glass, but there’s been nothing alarming at this point. Just a lot of nausea. I’m trying to keep her fluids up.”
“You’ve been gentle with her, I hope?” Distrust flashed in Al’s eyes—brief, but enough for Sam to notice.
“For your information, yes I have!” Sam snapped, and quickly recomposed himself. He started back towards the bathroom. “Can you check with Ziggy and see if she pulls through okay?”
Al tapped at his handlink as he followed Sam through the house.
“Yeah, she’s gonna live to see another day. But the baby still won’t at this stage, Sam.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Sam mumbled as he entered the bathroom. Brenda was still sitting on the floor, her back against the wall. Her eyes were closed, and face pale in the dim light.
“Brenda?” Sam said, crouching beside her and touching her moist arm. On the contact, her eyes opened.
“Why…” she said quietly.
“Why what?” Sam moved to sit beside her, as Al watched on with concern.
“Why is it so important to you that I dry out…?”
It’s not even about you, Sam thought as he ran a hand down his face.
“You’re my wife and I care about your well-being, honey,” he lied. “And—and the baby.” He winced, hoping he wasn’t opening up another can of worms that would make everything worse. It had seemed like no matter how tactful he tried to be, it always blew up in his face with this woman.
“You really think it hurts the baby?”
Sam took her by the hand. “Look what it’s done to you, Brenda. You think our baby would be immune when it’s a part of you?”
At this, Al grimaced. “Sam, careful.”
I know, Al. but it’s the truth.
Instead of getting angry this time, Brenda began to sob, and pressed her face into Sam’s shoulder.
Sam exchanged a look with Al, before wrapping her in another embrace and letting her cry it out as he pressed his lips together and marinated in his own misery.
After a little while, he realised that Brenda had fallen asleep in his arms, and he gently checked her vitals to make sure she was still stable.
“You’re doing great, Sam,” Al said as he watched on, his voice filled with surprise. “Maybe you don’t have a mean bone in your body, huh?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sam whispered back. “Why don’t you go tell the other guy I’m beating him at his own game, huh? Make sure to wake him up with a loud noise.”
There’s definitely something to be said for spite as a motivator, Sam thought with a private smirk.
Al laughed. “Well, I would, but Beeks has to do her voodoo in the Waiting Room to get the proper signal for him. So maybe later.” He gestured to Sam. “Besides, this is a more pressing matter. Sam A’s already knocked over his goal, and everything else he’s doing is just the cherry on top.”
This made Sam B frown. “Oh. It was that simple for him, huh?”
“Well, maybe,” Al said. “But that just makes you the big cheese for the leap. You’re saving one, maybe two lives. All Sam A did was stop some hippies from going to jail for a while.”
This merely made Sam wonder why their roles hadn’t been reversed from the start. He should have leaped into the commune—it sounded peaceful and simple. Something he could handle. Of course, that would only be logical for a benevolent God. Instead, here he was on the floor next to the toilet, holding on to a sweaty pregnant woman, days before his brutal death.
He could only hope that maybe Sam A had some misfortune coming his way to even things out a little.